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flowerandblood · 2 years ago

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The Man with the Lost Soul

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: virgnity loss, smut, angst, violence, mention of the suicide, murder attempt, trauma, mourning ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She remembered little of her father's speech, focusing only on the fact that she had a fever and on her little brother's body, cuddled into her, shaking with sobs. She wore a matte, black suede gown with open shoulders, its sleeves reaching all the way to the ground.

She wore no adornments, her hair loose, falling freely down her back. She felt his presence a few paces behind her, separating her from the rest of those gathered, the lords and ladies of the court immersed in disbelief, weepeing loudly in despair as if her mother's fate would ever concern them.

They all knew that her father had kept her locked up for years.

She looked at her King and though she could see his lips moving, tears on his cheeks, but she could not hear or feel anything − all she could think about was what Vhagar had told her that night.

Your father the King wanted me to make it look like she took her own life.

"It was with great regret that I accepted the high priest's decision regarding the fact that a person who takes his own life cannot be buried with honours in the royal tomb. For this reason, therefore, my beloved, poor, suffering-stricken wife will be buried outside the town walls, respecting her remains and her memory, needless to say." He said in a trembling, deep, hoarse voice, as if he really suffered at the thought.

She felt something surge through her heart, a tightness and pain from which she parted her lips in trembling breaths, a single, lonely tear running down her cheek.

When it was all over, her servants braided her hair and put a black, translucent veil over her face. She felt suddenly that she was partially covered from the world, that she was surrounded by the darkness she felt in her heart.

She wondered if this was what Vhagar felt while hiding behind his mask.

She followed her father and brother in a small procession behind a closed coffin covered by a shroud, a monk in front of them singing a slow, mournful chant that echoed in her mind.

She stared at the back of her king-father and thought only of the fact that he had killed her mother and deprived her of an honourable burial, without even waiting for the mighty of the Kingdom or her own family to arrive to bid her a proper farewell.

She watched as the coffin containing her body was lowered into a deep grave dug outside the city walls, heard the sobs of the mourners, but she herself shed no more tears. She looked to the side − behind her father stood his guards, his ghosts, but her ghost, her Vhagar stood by her side, a few steps behind her.

She felt his presence, the presence of death with her whole being.

When it was all over her father pulled her out of her musings by approaching her, pale, wiping his face with his palm, as if he himself could not believe that all this was really happening.

"I know you blame me for this and you have every right to. By separating you, I drove her to the brink of despair, she obviously felt she no longer had a reason to live." He muttered in a trembling voice, not looking at her but somewhere to the side, far away.

She looked at him through the thin material of the veil, feeling only her breathing and the beating of her heart, besides having the impression that she was surrounded by nothing but emptiness.

"I do not blame you, my King. You have done everything in your power. She was mad with despair. You could not help her." She said softly, calmly, her words like pleasant music to his ears. He grunted and cheered up, walking up to her, grasping her face in his hands, placing a long, drawn-out kiss on her forehead.

"My beloved child." He said warmly − she felt a squeeze in her heart and forced herself to smile.

As soon as he passed her the corners of her mouth sank down, her gaze focused on the spot where she saw fresh earth and a small stone monument, all surrounded by flowers.

"My Princess."

She heard his voice and shuddered, only now noticing that there was no one around them anymore, they were completely alone.

"It's time to go back."

She shook her head as she walked closer, placing a hand on the cold tombstone − she had the feeling that everything around her was blurry and foggy, her heart and throat squeezed.

"No. I won't leave her alone this time." She whispered, feeling like just laying down next to her, growing into the ground, being covered in flowers and grass, falling asleep next to her.

"She's free now."

She pressed her lips together, feeling a squeeze in her throat at his words, her nostrils quivering in an anxious breath. She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking at his tear-streaked mask, and thought that they were the same now.

She approached him with the quiet rustling of her gown, the hum of the grass and the singing of birds all around them, their robes blowing in the wind.

She stood in front of him and looked at him, at the man who had betrayed her, at the man who had killed her mother, at the man who had taken away her chance to decide her own life and death.

Every time she thought about it she had to remind herself that it was her father who made him follow her, it was her father who made him report on everything she did, it was her father who ordered him to kill her mother and it was her father who made her want to end her life.

He was just a tool, a blade held by someone else.

She placed her hand on his chest, rose on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mask where a tear had been outlined − despite the material that separated her lips from it, she felt the cold, unpleasant, tart taste of steel.

She heard him swallow loudly, his bright iris looking straight at her in surprise, his pupil dilated wide, his eye almost completely black.

"This is my expression of gratitude for your dedication to the affairs of our family." She whispered with feigned fondness, running her hand over the spot where his cheek would have been, the steel beneath her skin uncomfortably cold and slightly wet due to the moisture it had gathered from the air around them.

She passed him without a word, heading towards the gate. As she walked along the roads of the city, the people living in the townhouses threw field flowers under her feet, called out her mother's name, expressed their love for their Queen.

She trampled their wishes, their gifts, their words with each step, looking ahead, lifting her gaze to the great fortress standing on the hill before her in the distance − it seemed to her now completely black, its towers partially veiled by grey clouds.

A great black coffin, she thought.

She was as dead as her mother.

As she stepped into her chamber she ordered loudly that she wished to take a bath. Vhagar stood at her door watching as her servants filled the tub they had brought moments earlier with warm water, one of them helping her undo the ties of her gown.

"Your Grace…is he…" The girl asked uncertainly, looking at the hooded figure standing on the other side of her chamber.

"Let him look." She said dispassionately, feeling no shame or embarrassment as she was left in just a thin white chemise − her maid swallowed loudly and nodded, curl by curl loosening her hair.

She stepped into the tub and sighed quietly, resting her head against its edge, closing her eyes, saying softly that they could leave.

She heard quiet footsteps, the sound of a door opening and closing, and then there was complete silence.

She lifted her eyelids and saw that he was standing in the same place as before, right at her door, straight, with his arms folded in front of him, looking at her unashamedly, her naked body peeking through from under her wet undershirt.

"Do you draw satisfaction from this sight?" She asked teasingly, twisting in place with a quiet splash of water, its pleasant warmth relaxing her tense muscles, finally no longer shivering from the cold.

He stared at her in silence, his pupil fixed on her face.

"Do not do anything thoughtless under the influence of emotion." He said dryly, his eye wide open, his chest rising slightly with each breath he took. She furrowed her brow at his words, feeling a tightness in her throat.

"I don't understand what you mean, Vhagar." She said coolly and he chuckled under his breath, however it was a laugh from which a cold chill went through her despite the warmth of the water.

"Your father wants to believe your words, which is why he does not yet see what lurks in your gaze. But when he finally notices it, it is not me he will send to you. I will not protect you from what will happen, and your greatest nightmare will come true." He said with a cold tone filled with some kind of superiority and opened the door from her chamber, disappearing behind it with a quiet clatter.

She pressed her lips together at his words, drew in a breath and slid backwards, sinking her entire head under the water − the voices in her head silenced, only an all-consuming hum around her.

She lasted like this for a moment before she felt a tightening in her mouth, her body craving another breath against her will, demanding to live. She rose to the surface, drawing in air loudly, wiping her face of the water droplets with her hands, sighing heavily.

She closed her eyes, thinking of what her mother had said, what she had spoken about since they had lived in this fortress.

The passage in her chamber and the cry of the child.

She opened her eyelids, feeling the sudden, rapid pounding of her heart.

Has Prince Aemond's body been found at last?

She stepped quickly out of the bath with a loud splash of water, quickly putting on a black, matte robe, tying it around her waist, opening the door of her chamber and stepping out into the corridor.

Although her body was shivering from the cold, she had the feeling that her heart was on fire.

She felt his surprise, his quick steps behind her, trying to catch up with her. She ran into her mother's old royal chamber, and as he entered behind her she looked at him with furrowed brows.

"No, Vhagar. Wait outside. It is time for me and my mother." She said coolly. She felt him hesitate, stand still for a moment − he turn his head, impatient, and walked out, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.

She looked around the room, running quickly to the walls, touching them with her hands, trying to discover some roughness or unevenness, something that would tell her there was a hidden door behind them.

She pressed her lips together and ran her hand over her face in impatience, unable to find anything, wondering where the child could be hiding.

She circled the room with her fingers pressed to her lips, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

His face was cut open, he couldn't survive it.

At the time of the attack he was not in his room but in his mother's chamber − her father's soldiers said they attacked him first − his mother threw herself at them to protect him, and then the Prince suddenly disappeared and was not found.

The entire chamber was searched, at first believing her mother that he could indeed have been hiding there, however nothing was found and it was decided that it was a figment of her imagination, the result of her remorse, and that the boy had taken advantage of the inattention of the men when they were wrestling with his mother and had fled.

She looked to the side and froze, licking her lower lip, feeling the cold sweat on her back as she looked at her mother's large bed.

Where did children hide when they were most frightened?

She walked over there slowly and crouched down, peering in from underneath, seeing only the dusty wooden floor. She swallowed loudly and pulled herself in deeper, feeling her body quiver at the thought that maybe she was now in his place, imagining all that must have been going on around him, that he had very little time.

She began to press the various pieces of wood one by one, hoping something would happen, however nothing did. She sighed heavily as she pressed her forehead to the floor, resigned, thinking it was pointless and suddenly she felt something under her hands.

It seemed to her at first that it was simply a piece of wood that had chipped away over the years, but it had a semi-circular shape, and was so small that only her little finger could fit in there.

She tried to lever it up and lift it, but nothing happened. It wasn't until she slipped her finger in deeper that she felt she had pressed on something cold and made of steel, and when she pushed it hard and let go she heard a quiet click − the piece of floor lifted slightly, as if the hinges holding it in place had loosened.

She lifted the flap higher, breathing loudly, feeling the chill emanating from the black stone hole, with a small staircase that a very petite woman or child could fit into.

She clenched her eyes shut, feeling tears of regret and horror running down her cheeks, panicked at the realisation that her mother was not mad, that she had died for nothing.

Was his body there or had he managed to escape?

Where did this passage lead?

She began to crawl down inside with difficulty, seeing only complete darkness in front of her, and then she heard a slam and loud footsteps, someone's large hand grabbed her ankle and aggressively pulled her backwards.

She screamed, terrified, clenching her hands on the wood, her willowy legs trying to kick him but to no avail − after a moment he forcibly dragged her out from under the bed and turned her onto her back, his eye wide open, staring at her in disbelief, she could hear his loud breathing.

He seemed to hesitate.

"What have you done?" He asked in a trembling voice, his hands held her shoulders pressed to the floor so that she could not move, her breathing laboured, looking at him in horror.

"I have discovered a secret passage." She muttered, feeling that she was trembling all over. "My mother said she heard a child crying inside her chamber. I think she heard Prince Aemond."

He was silent for a long time, breathing loudly − she heard him swallow with difficulty and clench his eyes shut, and when he opened them his gaze was different, frantic, dangerous.

"I told you not to do anything thoughtless." He said tiredly and resignedly, coldly, in a way that made her feel a shiver run down her spine.

His hands moved from her wrists to her neck, clamping down on it, instantly cutting off the oxygen supply to her lungs. In an involuntary reflex, she grabbed his wrists, her eyebrows arching in horror and pain, her body beginning to wince in despair.

"You're making me do this." He muttered under his breath apparently trying to drown out the sound of her choking, her mouth desperately trying to catch her breath.

He leaned in suddenly, the cold steel mask pressed against her forehead, a desperate growl of grief and rage escaped his lips, his hands let go of her, her lungs drew in a quick, deep breath.

She tightened her hands on his shoulders, trying to keep him away, but he lay on top of her, pressing her to the floor − she shuddered, a quiet gasp escaping her lips when she felt something hard throbbing between her thighs.

"You are my curse. My ruin." He breathed out; she felt his hips move back and forth, rubbing against her, her body went breathless all over − she felt something pulsate deep inside her, some kind of tickle in her lower abdomen from which she sighed quietly, her heart pounding like mad. "My doom."

He exhaled heavily − she could feel his hot breath gushing into her face through the holes in his mask, his hands from her neck slid down to her thighs, slipping under her thin robe. She shuddered as she felt his leather-gloved fingers tighten on the bare skin of her plump buttocks.

They both let out a loud, ripped breath, her hands slid lower from his chest, pressing his hips closer to her body, the spot between her thighs throbbed hard − she felt some kind of need inside her, for some reason despite her terror she didn't want him to stop.

She wanted him to take everything from her, she wanted him to strip her of her dignity, to punish her for allowing all this to happen.

"− destroy me − leave me with nothing −" She whispered softly; she heard him groan low at her words clenching his eyes, his hands slid down her thighs to the material of his coat − she saw him unbuckle his belt, her fingers helped him untie the bindings of his breeches.

"− fuck − fuck −" He mumbled, both of them breathing loudly in what felt like excitement and desperation, she tightened her hands on his back and whimpered when she felt something begin to push against her flesh between her thighs, trying to force itself inside her.

"− let me inside − don't fight me −" He breathed out, trying to forcibly slide deeper into her − she clenched her eyes shut and cried out, spreading her thighs wide in an attempt to ease the immense discomfort and excruciating pain she felt, one of his hands placed next to her head, the other firmly holding her hip.

He rooted into her with one brutal thrust of his hips and she whined loudly − despite his mask she could see that he was looking at her with a misty gaze, his body in what felt like a natural reflex began to move inside her, his manhood rubbing her again and again at a spot that sent shivers through her.

She panted and sobbed beneath him, feeling with every movement he made that one more thrust from him and he would tear her apart − he was too big, her muscles clenching against him in terror.

She heard his growl of pleasure each time he sank deep into her body again, instead of slowing down he accelerated, his movements beginning to be followed by the quiet click of her moisture.

"− g-gods, forgive me −" She mumbled out panting along with him, feeling with horror that the faster he slammed into her the more pleasurable it became, the tickling between her thighs became unbearable.

They both sighed with pleasure as her hips began to respond to his movements, his length rooting into her with increasing ease, sticky with her moisture − she felt as if her body had adapted to his size.

"− good gods, you are fucking enjoying this −" He scoffed teasingly, the thrusts of his hips sinking him deep inside her again and again. She felt with embarrassment her own wetness running down her buttocks − she tensed so that with each push he rubbed that wonderful spot from which shivers of pleasure ran through her.

It was so wonderful to be so full when she felt so empty, it was so wonderful to shudder with emotion when she thought she would never feel anything again in her life.

"− Vhagar −" She mewled beneath him, her heavy breathing making the moisture condense as vapour on his mask − he groaned low, both of them panting loudly, apparently taking surprising pleasure in this primitive, animal slapping of flesh against flesh.

"− no − not like that − you know my name −" He hissed out, she felt him twitching hard inside her as if the thought of her knowing his identity aroused him even more − she felt her heart pounding like mad, her lips parted wide, her hands slipped under his breeches and tightened on his buttocks.

She knew him.

Gods, she knew him.

"− I − I don't know −" She mumbled between his aggressive, sure thrusts, from which she felt stupefied, felt unbearable tension and heat in her lower abdomen − she had a feeling that a few more of his stabs and something would happen.

"− come on, you can do it − say my name − say my fucking name −" He growled, slamming into her with loud, low groans of pleasure, she could feel him throbbing hard inside her, her walls clenching down on him greedily, sucking him inside.

She shook her head, unable to give him an answer, her mind completely frazzled with pleasure, only whimpers and sobs coming from her mouth, her hips responding involuntarily to his every push, feeling the wonderful tickling between her thighs, in her fingertips, in her lips.

"− I − p-please, oooh, gods, yes, yes, yes −" She cried out loudly tilting her head back, feeling the unfamiliar, overpowering hot pleasure shake her body, her insides began to throb like crazy.

She heard him growl low feeling it, rooting into her with a few more desperate, sloppy thrusts before she felt something warm spill inside her, a loud sigh of relief escaping his lips.

His seed.

She looked sideways at the closed door to the chamber, hearing only their loud, raspy breaths, her body convulsing, her mouth parted wide in disbelief.

What had she done?

They both pulled away from each other − she hissed in discomfort as he slid out of her and rose slowly, quickly tying his breeches. They were both breathing loudly, terrified of what they had done, of what had happened.

She moved away from him, looking at him in disbelief, wondering if he was going to try to strangle her again.

Why did her discovery frighten him so much?

Who was this man?

It seemed to her that he could read the doubt written on her face − he stood up and sighed heavily, buckling the belt of his coat.

"If your father finds out we missed this, he'll kill us all." He said lowly, and she felt some kind of relief that he had done it purely out of fear.

She swallowed loudly, looking at him distrustfully, catching herself with shame that she could still feel him deep inside her, her walls sore from his aggressive, greedy thrusts.

"If you wish, I will inform him of what you have discovered in your presence." He said finally and she turned her face away, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart.

Did she want her father to find out?

If Prince Aemond was still alive, he could return and take the throne for himself.

He could have done what she had secretly dreamed of since she saw her mother's coffin disappear into the black depths.

He could kill the King.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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pharawee · 1 year ago

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I've been seeing some confusion about what it is that Phaya and Tharn have done in their past lives to deserve punishment now - or in what possible way they have wronged others and are now "reaping bad karma".

I've also seen the theory that the venerable Luang Por might be the reincarnation of the naga that wanted to be a monk... which is actually a really touching possibilty because the story about the naga monk does exist. You can find in in the Vinaya (Mv.I.63.1) but here is a condensed version:

... Once a Naga, a powerful serpent who can take the form of a human being, was mistakenly ordained as a monk. Shortly after, when asleep in his hut, the naga returned to the shape of a huge snake. The monk who shared the hut was somewhat alarmed when he woke up to see a great snake sleeping next to him! The Lord Buddha summoned the naga and told him he may not remain as a monk, at which the utterly disconsolate snake began to weep. The snake was given the Five Precepts as the means to attaining a human existence in his next life when he can then be a monk. Then out of compassion for the sad snake, the Lord Buddha said that from then on all candidates for the monkhood be called 'Naga' as a consolation. They are still called 'Naga' to this day.

*by Ajahn Brahm

So if the naga by following the Five Precepts is reborn as a human being he can then be a monk. 🥺🙏

As for Phaya and Tharn's karma - it's not so much that they've done something morally wrong. It's more that by their intentional actions they have wronged Chalothorn and this is what leads to the consequences we've seen. It makes more sense if you don't view karma as a direct result or as punishment/judgement, but rather as a cause and effect that's not really for us to understand.

I also think it's more important here that Chalothorn's continuous intentional actions are the cause of his own downfall (and that of Phaya and Tharn), while the venerable Luang Por states: "Remember, your [Phaya and Tharn's] good deeds and merits will always protect you."

#jane watches stuff #the sign #the sign bl #i'm only a beginner in buddhism and i still have a lot to learn but i thought i'd try and explain #i think what it comes down to is the cultural difference of understanding existence as action and judgement vs cause and effect #but the story of the naga monk is one of my favourites #i first heard about it in pee nak of all things lmao #but i found is super touching

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quitealotofsodapop · 1 year ago

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I jsut had an idea for Slow Boiled Stone Egg au.

Basically, in the base jttw canon story, both Buddha and Guanyin are supposed to be present DURING the fight with Macaque. So you can bet that after a battle like that, Guanyin is going to insist on Wukong getting a checkup, like... he's pregnant for crying out loud and just had to kill his mate. While she is doing that, Gold Star basically comes down to get statements and discovers A) Wukong is a Stone Monkey, B) he pregnant, and C) he very much wants to keep this a secret. Now, Gold Star always liked Wukong. It's why he tried also hard to defend him when the Jade Emperor was all for killing him for his insolence from the get-go. Learning his favorite troublemaker had been a member of his favorite species of extinct primate celestial this time is a big shock to him, and he did so after discovering he had to kill his own mate, who without the magic to keep up a glamour, is now very obviously seen as another Stone Monkey. He's gonna know what that means for Wukong, being ghe msot knowledgeable about Stone Monkeys and their mating habits, and he'll feel a lot of sympathy for him.

I imagine he'll have a talk with the Pilgrims, just letting that they should take it easy on Wukong for a bit after the death of his mate, and offhandedly mentioning the fact Stone Monkeys mate for life. And kindly ask that they follow Wukong's request to keep these facts hidden and secret, and to respect that Wukong is in grieving and likely will not ever truly be able to find romantic love again.

Oh gosh, and Guanyin and Gold Star were likely unaware that Macaque didn't know until the fight was over. Buddha probably did but he has a lot on his cosmic plate rn.

The PIlgrims, the Gods, and even Guanyin herself wanted to step in and stop the fight; but Wukong refused. He demanded that it stay between him and his mate, that he can find a way to calm him down enough to tell him.

In the Jttw Stone Egged au: Wukong is successful.

However, in the Slow Boiled au: he tragically isn't.

Wukong is sobbing, wailing, screaming over the deceased monkey before him. His Pilgrim brothers are so disturbed by what they just seen that they can't even speak. Guanyin is stoney, trying to hide her own tears of sympathy as she tries to approach the monkey to determine his and his unborn's condition. Wukong refuses to move from his spot drapped over his unmoving mate.

Meanwhile, Gold Star stands nearby. A look of dismay, confirmation, and horror upon his face.

I hc that Gold Star has some huge empathy, not only for demons, but for any form of life - as the planet Venus is now scienfically believed to have once had a basis of life similar to what later developed on Earth's pre-Cambrian. The primordial god of Venus had to watch all life on his planet die off, whether due to supernatural or cosmic changes. When he became the Jade Emperor's right-hand man, Gold Star advocates for all life, now matter what - including a little chaos monkey he suspected was a reminder of the far past.

When the Monkey King and the Six Eared Macaque fought and the Macaque died; Gold Star basically witnessed what very well could be the last member of an extinct species kill their mate in self-defence. And upon realising that both monkeys were an extinct species of celestial primate? You might as well have crushed a dodo egg right infront of him.

Stone Monkeys mate for life.

Sun Wukong is an *immortal* Stone Monkey. One that's carrying a Stone egg (!!).

And he has just killed his mate in self-defence.

Gold Star bluntly states the above bullet points to the Pilgrims when asked why he himself is tearing up. All four companions weep with sympathy as the knowledge sets in, Tripitaka in particular blaming himself for banishing Wukong just before the Macaque tried ambushing them. Had the monk maybe have been more trusting of his student then maybe both monkeys could be alive right now.

At some point during the grieving, a mass of chains rise up from the Underworld and pull the six-eared monkey down into the depths, ignoring how the Monkey King screams and digs through the dirt to follow his mate.

The stench of death magic hangs in the air.

Wukong stare blankly at the dirt. His moonlight has been taken into the Underworld. Somewhere he himself is unwelcome.

In the next few years he attempts to bursts through the gates to retrieve his mate, only to recieve word that the Liu'er Mihou is not listed among the dead throughout all the levels of Hell. Wukong cries once more, now bittersweet, that his mate has passed through the Bridge of Naihe into the next life.

Wukong spends the next thousand years waiting.

#slow boiled stone egg au #stone egg talk #character death tw #canonical character death tw #sun wukong #shadowpeach #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #pregnancy tw #lmk gold star #lmk guanyin #jttw au #lmk au #lmk #lego monkie kid #jttw #journey the west #angst tw #death tw

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beginning-writer · 2 months ago

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Wip Thursday! (even though it was suppost to be wednesday!)

Thanks for the tag, @lancedoncrimsonwings! And actualy i'm gonna share a whole chapter from my first fic, which also was a Lancewain, Weeping monk x Green knight fic. (yes, i've been obsessed on them for years, no judment allowed)

I'm tagging @holy3cake again because fanfic appretiation is everything, and @warlocklawyer666 @the-tav3rn-0wner for the game!

It's a pretty average fic, not well-structured and I still didn't know how to write a story properly. I deleted it from Ao3 because I was ashamed of it and of writing fics, and my chronic anxiety only made the situation worse. Today I'm proud to be a fic freak and I admit that to anyone who asks, and of course I laugh and am proud of my origins in this world. And in fact I'm considering reposting it as a "personal monument" on Ao3 again.

The following post is 5,329 words long. Read if you fell like it and please do so without judgment. The personalities aren't entirely accurate, there are medical errors that when I reread them made me wonder if I really knew how broken bones worked, and the narrative switches characters halfway through and then back again.

Chapter 1: Not firendly, but a start.

Three hours.

Had been exactly three hours since Lancelot betrayed the church. Three hours since he killed the trinity and saved a fae child. Three hours since he was brutally bruised to save the life of a reckless boy who hated him. Everyone hated him. This was something he was sure.

It had been three long hours since he abandoned everything he was raised to fight for and believe in since the moment he were considered useful to the church. But… abandoning everything because of a single moment with the Green Knight? No. This was not what happened. In fact, that was so far from what had in on his mind.

Lancelot was not emotional or foolish enough to let his world fall apart just for the sake of a moment. But it was not even for the moment, it was just a sentence. Either way, that was not why he fell. That was not why he let himself fall.

He did this because the Green Knight didn't smell like lies. He was not bad like the horrible demons, that he called his church brothers, that he's living whit since he has ten years old. No. He was good and kind. Even though the former monk was lost, he still considered him as a brother, because of course they are all brothers, but it did not smell like a lie when it came out of his mouth.

The boy, Percival, or Squirrel, as he preferred to be called, were just a small and more inconsequential image of someone he knew as a child at his vision. Maybe a little like the Knight, but much more like someone else.

Lancelot could not let all the atrocities that happened to him happen to another child. The idea that this could ever happen had always made him queasy.

Even though he was denying it, he really did not want, never wanted in fact, to hurt the boy or any other child. But especially never him. He was special, and he knew it from the moment he saw him for the first time. It was impossible to look at him and imagine his body on the brink of death without hurting himself by doing it, and feeling such a bitter taste in his mouth that it made him want to vomit.

The boy could be anything, but like other people he certainly was not.

Oh, how his brother would have loved him. This was a recurring thought in his mind during the ride.

The fight brought serious consequences. By now, the designated person should have read the letter he left. He could never come back. All that left for him was to accept what he had done and take care of the boy who was strangely quiet.

The fight was not bad just for the church. He was not feeling well either. His body was full of blood and had new wounds. But it could have been much more. It could be death. Which somehow did not seem so bad. Because now, death seemed just like an old friend who visited him often. Its cold smell of wet oak was very comforting and very strong too.

His body was aching and collapsing in on itself, but he still tried not to lean too much on the boy. Putting the full weight of your body on him felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, just as everything hurt. Both things had been going on for too long for it to become unbearable.

The guilt, uncertainty and pain finally meeting in your mind making your head pound and making everything worse.

Yeah, death definitely did not seem that bad right now.

The ribs was the most damage. It was worse, but the blood had hardened, limiting blood loss from some of the newly wounds. Due to the broken ribs, his lungs also hurt a lot. Each breath was torture, as if a thousand needles were pricking his lungs every time he tried to breath. The hot air going in and out of his nostrils made his lungs burn.

Apart from the large opening, the shoulder only appeared to be dislocated. The cut was deep, but it did not look like anything he could not fix on his own. Just a few bandages would be enough. If he did not use his arm too much he could recover easily in a few weeks, and even if he had to use it, he would still recover faster than normal people would.

He could handle it. He could handle a lot. Considering he was raised for this.

Percival was quieter than usual. Probably trying to understand what happened a few hours ago. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk to the person responsible for killing everyone he knew and loved, including the one he admired most, the green knight.

The Green Knight. He was the greatest hope of all the fae and an image to be followed by children and teenagers. The figure who brought peace and even without a word said that they could sleep peacefully. And the monk killed him. This was definitely something he could not forget or ignore.

He had not said a word after they left the camp. His thoughts were too confused to form a sentence, and the proof of this was that the monk who had spoken for the first time asking his name. But now the monk, or Lancelot, as he would have to get used to calling him now, did not seem that different from his situation, since he also had not spoken a word since they both said their real names.

It was strange to being so long without talking to someone. Squirrel was used to being the most talkative, the person that others asked to calm down when he talked too much, something that was not very difficult for him to do usually. Squirrel always liked to talk and that was good, it was not a defect, so it did not need to be hidden or resolved.

A lot had happened in a short time. The paladins captured Gawain and tied him to a chair to be tortured, he tried to rescue him, but the knight refused the help because he knew he was on the verge of death, and also for Percival's own safety. While was running out of the camp he was caught and taken to be tortured, and almost was if the former monk hadn't saved him. Lancelot took him out of the torture chair and saved him, but got caught taking him out of the camp, then fought against the trinity so that he would come out alive, abandoning everything he knew and fighting only for him. And above that. He discovered that Lancelot, the Weeping Monk, responsible for the nightmares of many and the deaths of hundreds more, was, in fact, a fae.

Lancelot was not just a fae, he was from a folk who had left British lands centuries ago. No one knew for sure why they left. There were several legends and theories about why this happened, but nothing and no one to confirm it. All they knew was that they had left and taken their secrets with them, and had no plans to return. And if they did, it certainly would not be so soon.

Riding in silence did not seem to be a problem for Lancelot, maybe he even preferred it, but the endless silence was getting on Squirrel's nerves. He didn't want to and had no idea how to talk to the man, recently his ex-enemy, behind him. But the doubt was nagging at his head. "Why?”

Why of so many children, so many good and important people, so many who also deserved to be saved. Why among so many did he choose him? He was just one among the rest in the eyes of the paladins. At least it should be.

Of course, he did not see himself as the other brats at his age. Squirrel was more courageous and determined, ran and fought better too. He spoke without fear. If his only weapon were his voice, then he would gladly use it until the last second.

Particularly, he thought he was better than others were.

Maybe it was it. Maybe Lancelot had seen him the same way Squirrel sees himself, but it was really leaving a question mark in his head. He wanted to ask, but it was not the right time, maybe later. Or maybe he would figure it out on his own, or the man would let it out on his own and he would not have to ask. Anyway, the silence still was uncomfortable and annoying.

Lancelot on the other hand, was just a little uncomfortable with the situation. He never had a fae so close to his nostrils since he was a child and lived with others just like him. The silence was good. He was used to the silence from always traveling alone. It also helped him focus on any noise other than his creaking bones.

One of the good parts of riding alone was know exactly where to spend the night or not. Places that went unnoticed or that no one would imagine anyone could stay in. It was perfect, and his favourites too. No one but Goliath for company. But now he would have to get used to not staying or traveling alone.

Lancelot always trusted his horse, and his horse always trusted him. It didn't take much to direct it, even when its owner was injured. He grabs Goliath's reins and easily guides it off the trail. Within a few minutes of riding, they arrive in a small, narrow, deserted valley.

Squirrel becomes hysterical as soon as the horse begins to move off the trail, resembling a frightened animal.

What if he had saved him only to disembowel him alone and with his own hands? The thought echoes in his mind, making him more tense and frightened, though Lancelot seems too weak for that. But still: "Just because a wolf is calm doesn't mean he's trustworthy. Some dogs are trained to attack only with their owners' permission, or when they are close enough to their victims."

Perhaps he just wanted to gain his trust and of others one, so he could kill them and burn the camp while they slept. Yes, it made sense. The best of the paladins sure were smart enough to do so.

But if this was indeed his plan, why would he kill the trinity for it? Why save him instead of the Green Knight? Wouldn't it make more sense? Or maybe he knew he was close friends with the famous Wolf-Blood Witch, or as the fae knew her, The Fae Queen.

But it was not likely. Unless the paladins also had an interest in Squirrel. Which was not the case.

Lancelot noticed that Squirrel posture had become tenser. He was hysterical and not too hard to notice. Of course it would not be that easy. He didn't think the boy would forgive all the atrocities he committed to him and his people just because he saved him from being tortured. In fact, he didn't think anyone would.

He learned since an early age that the story of 'all fae are brothers, even the lost ones' was just a phrase for the other fae peoples. The Ashes, on the other hand, had taken it very seriously for centuries. Long before they left Britain they believed and followed it strongly. 'A brother is always a brother no matter what happened, and that should not be discussed.' That's what the elders always said.

The Knight said the liar phrase to him. But there was so much truth in his eyes, already bruised from torture, that it didn't seem like a lie. It seemed like such a clear truth that it made him believe that it had come from the depths of his painful broken soul. Not as something to save his own skin from death, but something to say that whenever he wanted to come back, he would have a home and a people waiting for him. And the fact that he hadn't told his secret when he could have only strengthened the thought.

Not all fae were brothers, and he knew it. But it seemed that to the Knight they really were all brothers. Seeing him with his whole body bruised on the verge of death made his heart bleed.

He thought about it when he was alone in his tent. And then a memory came to his mind. The memory that he had a people who loved him and would welcome him if he returned home. A people who were waiting for him to come home even after so many years. A subject so long buried in his mind, but that the Green Knight brought up again. Like the first ray of sunshine after winter.

He should have come back. He should have gone back a long time ago, when he first got the opportunity. But the constant thought of what might happen to him if the paladins caught him running away held him back every time he had the chance.

It was wrong. His people taught him that a brother was a brother no matter what. So he was supposed to be a brother, but he was not. Was not because his fear was always greater than his desire to return.

But he could go back to being a brother now. The knight could no longer be saved, but the kid could. Besides, he always refused to hurt children. He couldn't help the Knight, but the Knight wanted to help him and that was enough.

The least he could do now was to return the boy nicknamed Squirrel back to his people. Or what was left of it. And even though he didn't trust him, Lancelot had still taken him as his responsibility, even if the child didn't know it yet. But he still had to reassure him. A nervous, scared child was definitely the last thing he needed right now.

"It's getting dark. I'm just making sure no one is going to find us at night. I'm still hurting and you still need to sleep.” He says to Squirrel in an awful attempt to reassure him.

"You don't have to explain something so obvious to me. I'm not dumb.” He says in a slightly rude tone, trying to disguise the distrust and fear in his voice.

"I don't think you’re dumb, but your posture became tenser when I led Goliath off the trail." He explains to the youngest, who again looked like an animal frightened by the new information that every movement made was perceived.

"Hmm." That was the only thing he could say.

"I'm not going to disembowel you overnight if that's what you was thinking." He adds, seeing the child's posture relax a little. He really was bad at it. And the little bat was still worried, less, but still worried.

They pass through the small narrow valley, entering the vegetation next to it. Sleeping in the valley would be too easy for anyone to notice. Instead, they go to a clump of trees that was farther into the vegetation, not much, but a little far from the valley. It was good for spending the night without anyone cutting their heads off.

"Goliath, please get down." Lancelot gently orders the horse to stop.

When the horse does as it’s told, Squirrel quickly gets off the horse and walks a bit away from Lancelot, who leaves with a little more difficulty. As soon as he sets his feet on the ground, Lancelot begins to take off Goliath's saddle, feeling the boy's suspicious gaze on his back.

"It’s not completely darkened yet." He observes. "Go get some wood to make a bonfire. But don't go too far, stay close by where I can feel you.” He orders the boy, knowing well how scary it could be coming out of his mouth.

"And why should I obey you as your horse does?" The boy asks. It was a question with an obvious answer. But still, it was a scared and nervous child, he would have to take that into consideration.

"Because even though you don't like or trust me, I'm still your only and best chance of survive." He sees the child grit his teeth and asks for it once more. “Go quickly.”

With a loud sigh and a slightly quieter voice, almost sounding like a whisper, he asks to the tallest. "Can I get wood to make a pyre?" His gaze lowered a little too, it was a sentimental question.

"What is a pyre?" But of course a traitor like Lancelot wouldn't know what a pyre is. He would have to explain it to him.

"A pyre is like a bonfire. We do it when someone dies so that the soul passes to the green and doesn't get stuck here on earth. It is also for the occult to take your soul in peace with them, without you having a problem like an unresolved dilemma. That's a pyre. "

He surprisingly understood the quick and slightly scrambled explanation. It was a ritual for the souls of the dead people. The father would have called it witchcraft or satanic ritual. But he was no longer with his father and had to remember that.

"Look..." He starts by turning his gaze to the ground and then to the boy, trying to put the explanation into words. "You can't make a pyre today, too much smoke would attract people to us. But you can do that tomorrow when we're farther away from the camp and closer to your home.” He was hesitant, but he was also being sincere. He was once a child who wanted to perform a ritual for his dead familiars, but unlike Squirrel he had no freedom of choice. And Lancelot didn't want to repeat the experience he had with another child.

"Alright then, we do it tomorrow.” He agrees turning to run and grab some sticks.

After he left. Lancelot analysed his dislocated shoulder. The edges of the opening were covered in dried blood, but the bleeding wasn't too bad. It was controlled. He could solve it himself. It has always done so in fact. He turns to where Goliath's things are and picks up some bandages he was carrying with him.

He wraps a few bands around his ribs and shoulder and squeezes them tightly, just enough to stop the bleeding. As soon as he's done, he puts his arm on the trunk of a tree and forces it back into original place. Letting out only a few small low moans of pain.

It was better to have only a sore shoulder than a dislocated one. He could do things with his arm if it was only sore. With the pain he could use a bow and hunt for something to eat, since he would need both arms to do so. It was not something he couldn't handle.

Settling his shoulder, he puts more bands around it and his chest, holding it tighter in place, just to make sure nothing would move out of place again. The pain was just another old friend he had hugged for a long time, he could do anything whit it, even if it squeezed him tightly.

He picks up the bow and two of the arrows that were on Goliath's bank and goes only a few feet ahead when he sees two adult rabbits a little way away from each other. He put the two arrows into the bow, positioning his arms carefully so that nothing happens to his shoulder or ribs, putting his sore arm on the bow and the best to pull the arrows, using the bow horizontally.

As soon as he fired the first one, the second one would run. With that in mind, he takes a deep breath and releases the first arrow at the same speed as it releases the air from inside his aching lungs, and then traps it again. As the second one starts running, he shoots the second arrow, quickly letting out his breath again. Both rabbits shot in the eye.

"Wow!" Said Squirrel, seeing everything behind him. "Do you shoot two arrows at once?!" He asks him still with surprise on his face.

"I learned when I was younger." He says, picking up the rabbits and taking out the arrows stuck in their eyes.

"That's awesome!" He looks at the wood and then at Lancelot. "Is this enough? There's not a lot of fallen branches here. And the trees looks pretty strong. "

"Yes, that's enough. We just going to roast the rabbits with the fire. It's not very windy around here at dawn. Don't worry about it. He reassures the child. You can leave it there. "

Squirrel looked hesitant but excited. It was rare to see a child scared and excited at the same time. Especially in conditions like that, or when he's around. But again, he was not like other people, and that much was clear.

He was so anxious that he could not speak on his own. Lancelot would have to ask him, or it would get stuck in his throat.

"What is it?"

"I know how to slaughter a rabbit. I can prepare the rabbits and you can make the fire.” He proposes. “Anyway, making fire seems to be your specialty.” But of course he wouldn't say something so innocently without pricking it.

Lancelot thinks for a moment before answering.

"All right." He says, taking a dagger from one of his pants pockets and throwing it to the boy. Completely ignoring the provocation made.

Squirrel picks up the dagger, even though he almost dropped it. Lancelot hands the two rabbits and goes towards the sticks, picking them up from the ground and arranging them to make the fire.

Meanwhile, Squirrel begins to slaughter the first rabbit. First separating the paws from the arms and legs, ripping off the head and tail after. Then make a shallow, straight cut on the animal's back to remove the fur and skin, and then remove the excess apparent fat. Then making a deep cut in the belly to remove the organs, but keeping them in a cloth bag for the case it be needed. Repeating the same process with the second one.

He turns around to deliver the finished rabbits to Lancelot. He is surprised to see him making the fire with his hands. Not only that, but he seemed to be playing with him, as if he were a fussy little friend.

What struck him most was that the fire did not burn his hands. He passed it from side to side and twirled it in both hands, but the fire did not affect him. It looked like a life creature that chose who would and would not burn.

He was so engrossed in the movement that he only realized Lancelot was staring at him when the fire stopped moving.

"Is everything okay?" He asks and Squirrel nod in response. "Are you done?"

"Yes, I'm done. But you seem too entertained to finish your task.” He plays and gets closer to him, and Lancelot huffs amused in response.

"How you’re doing it?"

"Fire does not affect the Ashes Folk people. We can guide it instead.” He pauses. Maybe his words had run out, or maybe that should have been the end of the sentence. But the boy seemed to want to hear more, so he tries to think of something to say. "It's like a fussy little friend playing in our hands." And apparently fails. Letting the fire go on the small pile of wood right after to try to avoid saying anything again.

"It's beautiful. But how do you do that? And why aren't you burned? "

"I can't answer you that."

"Why not?"

He stops staring at him for a few seconds. "God, why can't this boy stop asking questions? And why does he want me to speak if he clearly hates me? Just stop talking to me! It's not that hard.” Lancelot thinks with a bit of anger. But he would still have to answer the boy's endless questions, so he would have to struggle to think of something.

"No one of the Ashes Folk is allowed to speak certain things to people of other folks. In fact, not even to speak to some other peoples are we allowed after we leave Britannia. But I don't think I can tell you that either.” Lancelot tries to explain, speaking with a little difficulty and looking into the fire.

"It’s all right. Gawain told me that the Ash Folk had taken their secrets with them when they left these lands. And that they would probably never return, and their secrets would be buried with them in their graves for the rest of eternity. "

"Your friend was right. We don't really have the planning to go back. But who knows, maybe it will change. "

"Why do you think that's will change now? I mean, it's been so long since you've been gone. "

Lancelot thinks for a moment before forcing himself to speak again. Looking between Squirrel and the fire.

"When we get out of here." He hesitates. "There were people who welcomed us and helped us in the other lands. The only one we've had an alliance with for decades." He try to explains, still thinking of the right way to continue counting without telling something wrong. "We were helped once when we were in a bad situation. They said we didn't have to, but we insisted on reciprocating. There were people here who helped us to escape, and others there who welcomed us and helped keep us alive."

He stopped again, and Squirrel began to wonder why he stopped and hesitated so much when he spoke. It seemed like a bad habit. Or maybe he just thought too much before speaking. But that was not a matter for now. Now he wanted to hear everything Lancelot had to say about his people, since it had been so long since there had been anyone to tell their history.

"If you, under any circumstances, needed help to escape, and a place to stay when you did. We would help, even after all. Without any doubt. "

"Why?" Asks the child, looking directly into Lancelot's eyes with immense hope carved on his face.

The eldest looks away at the ground, unable to look into the boy's face. "Because all fae are brothers. Hatred leads nowhere, resentment much less. Growing up is also about learning to forgive. Carrying a debt of grudge and hatred for centuries wouldn't change anything. It would only make everything worse."

He is silent for a second before speaking what been told to him so many times by the elders when he was a child. "All fae are brothers no matter what and that shouldn't be discussed. No matter the actions, we still all being brothers at the end of the day. Whether you like it or not. "

"It's a very beautiful thing to say. Even more when it came from a traitor mouth. Although I don't think those are your words.” Happiness appear briefly on his face.

He was a child tormented by the war he grew up in, but he was still a child. A hopeful child who did not let circumstances stop him from being happy, even if only for a few moments. And that was special. It was beautiful.

The smell of well-done meat began to waft through Lancelot's nose, warning him that the meat was ready to be eaten. He pulls the two rabbits out of the fire and hands one to Squirrel, who begins clumsily devouring it as soon as he catches it.

He looks at the rabbit in his hands and begins to eat as well, taking it piece by piece and eating slowly and politely. Very different from Squirrel who was almost embarrassed to see the way Lancelot was eating.

It was strange to start a meal without praying in thanksgiving first. That was how the paladins taught him. Whenever he went to eat something, he should thank God for letting him have food in his sinful hands, because he didn't deserve it. But he wasn't with the paladins. Although that's not the reason he didn't.

He knew very well that fae had no need to give thanks before eating, since everything would be repaid after death. He didn't pray because he didn't want to offend the boy in front of him. It was still hard for him to believe that he was beginning to develop a zeal and a small instinct for protection for a fae child. But he'd have to get used to it going forward. In the same way that he would have to get used to not praying before eating, and to the endless questions that would be asked for him.

"When you're done eating, go to sleep." He asks the child more than he commands.

"What about you?"

"I'm not sleepy, don't worry about me."

"Don't think I'm worried about you. Because I'm not.” Again a lie. This was looking more like a bad habit than a form of protection. And that was too bad for a kid like him.

They eat and finish the rest of the meal in silence. Squirrel finishes first and, despite not liking it, obeys what he was to do asked for. As soon as he finishes eating, he lies down in a place near some trees and sleeps.

Lancelot leaned back against a tree and lay awake for the rest of the night, thinking about what he would do the next day. Now he was a fugitive, and he was with a child who, though brave, was extremely reckless with his actions. The fae people had probably gone away to other lands. But a 'probably' is not a 'for sure', so maybe they hadn't boarded yet.

And if they had, as he himself knew, he would always have folk to call people and a place to call home who were waiting for him. Even if the boy didn't like it and wanted to go back to the others, they could locate or track them down and return him to their people. This was not a very difficult task. Not for people who had years of practice.

And looking at the boy, he didn't seem so annoying when he was sleeping. Maybe he could get used to him by his side for a while. While clinging to it would be a mistake, it wouldn't hurt for just a few moments.

But one thing was for sure. His smell was unbearable. Probably because he'd spent a lot of time with him and had never spent so much time with a fae so close before.

He would have to get used to it urgently if he wanted to be with others. He wanted to, but the probability of dying as soon as he arrived was very high, almost like a fact.

But he shouldn't think about it now. He already had a lot of problems, he didn't need to create more. Even though it really was very likely.

Pushing away the bad thoughts, he lifts his head to look at the stars dancing in the navy blue sky above his head. The night was beautiful. If he used a little of his imagination, he could smell a salty sea and beautiful whale sharks swimming among the constellations that shone brightly.

Always as beautiful as it could be. If he found some small white flowers, he could put them in Goliath's mane. Your steed would certainly look a lot prettier with them. Not that it needed to, because Goliath was beautiful by nature.

#cursed netflix #lancelot #weeping monk #lancelot the weeping monk #lancelot du lac #sir lancelot #percival cursed #percival #cursed squirrel #squirrel #cursed fanfic #cursed #first fic #fanfic #love tag games #wip tag game #wip wednesday

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siravalondulac · 1 month ago

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if you have any lore about cerelle or any of your ocs that you want to share i’d love to hear it !!!

omgomgomgomgomg

(here is a post with all my oc's for reference)

let's start with my babygirl cerelle baratheon. a piece of her lore i think i've never mentioned is that she wasn't actually born in king's landing, but rather in deep den (seat of house lydden). that is because, while cersei was pregnant, the court visited casterly rock for a wedding, but on the way back a snow storm forced them to seek refuge in the castle. and then, on the coldest winter night the westerlands had ever experienced, cersei went into labour. no matter how many fires were lit, no matter how well the room was shielded from the outside, the birthing chamber remained freezing cold. so when cerelle was born, weak and half-frozen, the maester said she would not survive the night. cersei almost went mad from it, and so when cerelle did survive, cersei became insanely protective over her, vowing to never let someone take her away.

someone very dear to my heart is benjiamin vypren. he appears in the second book of the series, and acts as the main opponent to cerelle. his mother, elyana vypren (she is a canon character btw), usurped her younger brother and father to take control of her castle and name herself the ruler of house vypren (that did not happen in canon tho), and raised benjiamin to be equally as ruthless as her. when the story starts, he has already inherited the seat. benjiamin is the prince john to cerelle's robin hood, as well as the kylo ren to her rey (this is how he gets his name btw. ben solo -> benjiamin).

henrix is benjiamin's general. he also has red hair. i think, knowing who benjiamin is based on, it should be pretty easy to figure out henrix' inspiration. he also may or may not be gay for benjiamin.

helena terrick MY BABY. she is the heir of house terrick, and even if she doesn't take her responsibilities completely serious, she will make a great job as lady. her mum is from yi-ti and helena adores and respects her mother's culture, even if she was born and raised in westeros. she frequently wears her mother's old dresses, speaks the language, and does everything she can not to let that part of her identity disappear. also, helena is a lesbian and INCREDIBLY gay for cerelle.

humfrey hightower is technically not an oc as he exists in canon. but we know nothing about him besides the fact he exists, so i'm counting him. humfrey is the youngest child of lord hightower by his last wife - whom i like to imagine is a florent for mystery reasons - but he doesn't feel intimidated by anything his elder siblings have acomplished. he spends his time riding in tourneys and flirting with everything in his direct vicinity, so he's doing pretty alright for himself. he also only has two fingers on his left hand! but he doesn't care and neither does anyone else, which i felt was needed for the otherwise ableist society he lives in.

lucion lannister... is interesting. he is cerelle's cousin (they share 1 great-great-grandfather) and was born just one day after her. he is very much based on the weeping monk from cursed, and is such a mysterious character that i don't even want to tell you anything yet. just know that he is deeply connected to the magic of westeros and currently trying to find cerelle.

florian penfenics is literally sleeping beauty. he was cursed 8000 years ago to sleep for all eterntiy because of some messy shit he was involved in that may or may not have had something to do with the long night. then cerelle woke him up and as a gift she is allowed to ask for one wish from him. anything she wants, he will fulfil it. she has not yet done so, but may soon...

then there are rania, zima, and harry. i don't have much lore on them yet, just know that rania will become cerelle's handmaiden, zima is a bracken bastard (and a feminist!) and harry is a twat.

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kingarthurflourofficial · 4 months ago

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January/February Books

how to age disgracefully 5/5 (WHAT a fun and excellent book! i thoroughly enjoyed it and her other books)

the missing treasures of amy ashton 3/5 (a little repetitive? but enjoyable and engaging enough)

the bedquilt and other stories 4/5 (some were fairly stock 19th century pastiche but An American Citizen, about a Black man who moves to France, made me weep and i can tell will stay with me for years)

the authenticity project 2.5/5 (a little more annoying than the first book in this list by the same author but still enjoyable!)

party shoes 5/5 (i love noel streatfield's books!!!!! a thing of beauty and a joy forever!)

iona iverson's rules for commuting 4/5 (it's so good when people write honest and. idk. vulnerable? fiction! when they write what they wanted to write, from start to finish, without cringing automatically away for fear of controversy)

hench 4/5 (EXCELLENT concept. made me really angsty about the state of organized religion for a full week despite not technically being about that at all. except for how it completely is.)

dancing shoes 3/5 (this one was a little sadder than the previous two - it's hard to read something where someone is SO eldest daughterized and there's not really enough comfort to the hurt)

space opera 2/5 (enjoyable enough but a bit predictable as to the beats)

long live evil 5/5 (LOVE an isekai and this was an excellent example. wish i'd waited until the second one came out as it does end on a bit of a cliffhanger)

cold comfort farm 5/5 (became briefly obsessed with this for 4-5 days and watched two adaptations and read a bunch of Takes. sorry but i love a Practical and Cheerful woman Sorting Things Out!)

nicked 5/5 (MEDIEVAL HEIST MEDIEVAL HEIST MEDIEVAL HEIST WITH GAY PRIEST N CONMAN. lovingly and meticulously researched!)

felonious monk 1/5 (opening scene was so promising! devolved so fast into 'breasting boobily down the stairs' territory)

attracting birds to southern gardens 3/5 (a rare non-fiction appears! it's vaguely interesting!)

the knitting witch 3/5 (beautiful illustrations! i have a strong suspicion this was better before it was 'revised for modern audiences'. shades of george macdonald)

the comfortable courtesan 5/5 (thank you so much @berlincorpography for rec'ing these and sending me the first six! also strap in bc i enjoyed these SO MUCH i promptly read the next 20 or so)

Rustik Exile

A Change of Station

Old Enemies, New Problems

Dramatick Rivalry

Domestick Disruptions

The Comfortable Courtesan

Sudden Death

Romantick Stratagems

An Honourable Estate

Invited Everywhere

Felicities Maximized

The Ironmaster's Tale

A Man of Independent Mind

Incalculable Diffusion

Two Weddings & Several Revelations

Favours Exchanged

Mistress in Her Household

Above Rubies

Torches

The Chatelaine

Tricks and Traps

Good Practices

Coming to Terms

The Courtesan and the Clergyman

Revenants

landscape with an invisible hand 4/5 (love an inventive and. dare i say realistic take on an alien invasion. and so TIGHTLY plotted and concepted! what a masterclass in both.)

jane of lantern hill 4/5 (l.m. montgomery still hits! especially if you're into purple prose and anything with a strong sense of place!)

minor mage 5/5 (a t. kingfisher i somehow Hadn't read?! WHAT a gift! and with her usual incisive gift, she puts her finger Directly on what drives mob mentality and how it Changes Things and People)

pond 4/5 (another rec from my paramour! what a gorgeous. heavily gorgeous showcasing of how the mind works and how it comes out in real life sometimes despite your best attempts to tell it we live in a SOCIETY!)

the lawrence brown affair 4/5 (if i'd read this cat sebastian first i'd have been FAR more interested than when i read the robin hood one or whatever it was with the cartoon cover first)

mike 4/5 (my GOD you never thought there could be so much cricket in a book that is ultimately about the mating rituals of Public School Boys but thankfully it's a nice metaphor for the aforementioned so we'll let it stand)

moonstone 4/5 (thank u again babe! i'm glad i kept on despite the. less than stellar descriptions of sex lol. it was such a good depiction of how life feels after a pandemic and also the interiority of growing up gay in a small town precisely BECAUSE we are never given any glimpse of the mc's inner self)

psmith in the city 5/5 (to think i ever was afraid i wouldn't love these characters as much as jeeves and wooster! i think i might actually end up loving them More as odd as it seems)

#reading #personal log

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kamreadsandrecs · 1 month ago

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Title: Nicked

Author: M.T. Anderson

Genre/s: historical

Content/Trigger Warning/s: historically-accurate depictions of death, war, conquest, and disease

Summary (from author's website): The year is 1087, and a pox is sweeping through the Italian city of Bari. When a lowly monk is visited by Saint Nicholas in his dreams, he interprets the vision as a call to serve the sick. But his superiors, and the power brokers they serve, have different plans for the tender-hearted Brother Nicephorus.

Enter Tyun, a charismatic treasure hunter renowned for “liberating” holy relics from their tombs. The seven-hundred-year-old bones of Saint Nicholas are rumored to weep a mysterious liquid that can heal the sick, Tyun says. For the humble price of a small fortune, he will steal the bones and deliver them to Bari, curing the plague and restoring glory to the fallen city. And Nicephorus, the “dreamer,” will be his guide.

What follows is a heist for the ages, as Nicephorus is swept away on strange tides, and alongside even stranger bedfellows, to commit sacrilegious theft. Based on real historical accounts, Nicked is a swashbuckling saga, a medieval novel noir, a holy heist, a meditation on the miraculous, and a monastic meet-cute, filled with wide-eyed wonder at the world that awaits beyond our own borders.

Buy Here: https://bookshop.org/p/books/nicked-m-t-anderson/20734818

Spoiler-Free Review: Well, this was a really charming read! And I can’t think of a better word than that to describe it, all things considered.

A lot of that charm comes from the writing. The language reads as quite modern, which is great given that this is, at its core, a heist novel, and the writing helps maintain the story’s forward motion. But while the language is modern, the descriptions and the characterization all fit in with the setting: the world of the Mediterranean countries in the eleventh century. There is a kind of lushness to it that I really appreciated, especially given the time period and the subject matter.

The nature of the heist is also interesting: a mission to steal the bones of St. Nicholas (yes, the same Saint Nicholas who inspired Santa Claus) from his resting place in Myra, and bring the bones back to the Italian port city of Bari. This is an actual historical event, often euphemistically called “The Translation of the Relics of St. Nicholas of Myra to Bari”, with the term “translation” doing some heavy lifting in that title. At the time, acquiring relics (the body parts and/or items related to a saint) was a big thing for both religious, political, and economic reasons, and many cities hoarded as many as they could find. There were faith-based reasons for doing such a thing, of course: in the novel, for instance, Bari’s people are falling ill with a pox, and it is believed that having the relics of St. Nicholas in the city would help cure the populace - not least because the bones of St. Nicholas were said to exude an ichor that, when used topically or ingested, could cure one of any disease. But there were other, far more secular reasons for taking the relics. Any city that had a relic was usually a place that was visited by pilgrims looking for a miracle, and those pilgrims often spent quite a bit of money along the way and upon arrival at their destination. Relics, therefore, were a powerful economic driver, and could turn an otherwise sleepy backwater trading port into a major tourist destination.

Relics were also not just for making money; they were often also used as a means of gaining and shoring up political power, too. Part of it was economic, certainly: the more relics in the city, the more pilgrims would visit that city, and therefore that city would make more money. But in the medieval period, relics could also be used to signify a city’s political legitimacy, or to project power in a region. If a city holds the relic of an important saint - say, Saint Paul, for instance - then that city might be considered more powerful than another city holding the relics of a less famous saint.

Now, while all of this is clearly secular, faith does indeed figure into this whole thing. Many people really did believe in the power of relics, but they also held those beliefs alongside the much more earthly reasons I’ve already mentioned. One would think that the concerns of the divine are distinct from the concerns of the flesh, but in the medieval period these two were not so distinct - even among the monastic orders, many of whom supposedly isolated themselves from the rest of the world in order to maintain a “purity of spirit”. The relic trade, therefore, illustrated how, even in a supposed age of miracles, the sacred could be, and very frequently was, commodified: made into a tool for wealth and power. This is something that readers will surely recognize still happens today in the form of the American Heresy, the prosperity gospel, and the alt-right.

This duality of and connection between the divine and the secular is also illustrated in the two main characters, Nicephorus and Tyun. Nicephorus is a Benedictine monk, whose dream of Saint Nicholas provides the “spiritual” impetus for the entire heist - this, despite his skepticism regarding the interpretation of his dream by the bishop. Tyun, on the other hand, is a self-labeled relic hunter, whose sales pitch to the governor of Bari makes the heist actually happen. These two are each other’s foils: where Nicephorus is driven to tell the truth even to his own detriment, while Tyun is a con artist who doesn’t hesitate to lie, even when everyone knows he is lying. It is through their interactions over the course of the story that the novel’s themes are given shape.

And those themes are actually quite serious, despite the seeming lightheartedness of the main plot. The novel asks: is faith enough? Throughout the novel this question is asked in a variety of ways: is faith enough to justify a theft? Is faith enough to cure a plague? Is faith enough to make miracles? Despite the existence of a song that seems to imply that believing is sufficient for the creation of miracles (it was from a little movie called The Prince of Egypt, in case anyone needs reminding), this novel chooses to approach the question with a greater dose of nuance than a straightforward black and white answer. This, I think, is a good thing, as the question of faith is always something that individuals need to figure out on their own.

Overall this was a pretty fun read, with a fast-paced heist story built up around a fairly serious theme. The writing is a pleasure to read, the characters are intriguing, and the theme at the novel’s heart is something that is still relevant today, despite the novel being set in the medieval period. Definitely a book for readers willing to be surprised, not just by plot twists, but by the thoughts this read will likely inspire.

Rating: five vials of sacred ichor

#book review #book reviews #nicked #mt anderson #historical #books

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grifff17 · 1 year ago

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Audiodrama Sunday 04/28/24

So much stuff this week! I think this is going to be my longest writeup yet!

@camlannpod what the fuck? Trying to avoid spoilers, but the ending of that episode was wild. The sound design for the last scene was so good. Also “You're good with an axe, right?” was brutal, I audibly said "oof". Only 1 more episode in the season, hopefully they get funding for a second one.

The first episode of @wanderersjournalpod came out this week. This was a promising start to a new show, I'm excited to see where it goes from here. The setting feels very mystical, I can't wait to learn more about the world.

@worldsbeyondpod was so tense. Suvi and Ame had the most awkward conversation in existence. This story has so much nuance, neither of them are clearly in the right, though I feel inclined to take Ame's side due to the "Geas + Alter Memory" double espionage scheme. Meanwhile Ursulon discovers that Orima of the Reaching Green is a short queen and gets a cool horse.

I'm now up to date with @lostterminal. Season 15 was great. I love Nia, and Daphne and Raffi were really interesting new characters. Also, the dragon was terrifying. This show doesn't usually have very much action, so the confrontation with it really stood out. The description of the automatic turret going "click, click" as it locked on to Maddie was so intimidating.

@worldgonewrongpod I loved this episode. The storytelling felt so natural and real, like someone telling me a story about a weird road trip they went on. I think I said this about the last episode too, but this was my favorite episode yet. It also sets up the backstory which was never really explained as to why Jamie and Malik are separated at all.

In @midstpodcast we finally had a nicer episode. No horrible fucked up Weep/Trust stuff happening, just Lark reunited with Zeila and Sherman. However, there's so much tension between these characters. I was surprised that Lark forgave Sherman for selling her out. Something to remember is that Lark and Sherman had been hooking up before everything went to shit, which was mentioned once and I think really changes their relationship.

New @keepitsteadypod! This is the first new episode of this show since I started doing these. This was a really cute episode. For how popular fake dating is as a trope in fandom spaces, you don't see a lot of it in audiodramas.

Fun episode of Mission Rejected this week. It was cool to see Bowden go from "vain actor" to "badass spy" when the stakes ramped up. We don't get to see him take charge very often, it was neat for him to be a competent leader. I wonder if the gang lying to Zelda(who definitely saw through it) and Chet(who probably didn't) is foreshadowing for more of a conflict with the new Secretary of Defense later in the season. Also I loved the squabbling gay couple running an illegal mining operation as the villains of the week.

@breakerwhiskey episode 200 wow. A letter from Harry! We learned that Harry has been listening to most of Whiskey's broadcasts, which recontextualizes a lot of the previous episodes. Also, the end was heartbreaking.

I started season 2 of @longcatmedia's Mockery Manor! I'm 2 episodes in and really like it so far. JJ and Bettie are employed in different parks, JJ is on the run from an organized crime ring, and Bettie became a monk? Also, it's clear that neither Hilda nor Jenkins stole the shipment, neither of them have motive. But I don't know who else would have motive either. Lots of mysteries this season.

Spout Lore had a great planning episode. I'm excited for the "saving Highspear" arc, the Highspear is so cool as a concept. A reverse Tower of Babel, that lets the whole world talk with each other. A literal monument to wizard hubris, which feels destined to fall. However I doubt it will, because, as the players mentioned, it would be really annoying from a storytelling perspective if everyone suddenly spoke different languages. This has actually made me realize I really want a story set shortly after some sort of "fall of the Tower of Babel", where communication is a struggle, but that's just because I think linguistics is cool. Anyways, the buffet talk had me rolling.

What a great week! However, it did not help my queue, which continues to grow instead of get smaller. I'll reach the end of it one day.

#camlann #camlannpod #wanderer's journal #worlds beyond number #twtwtwo #lost terminal #world gone wrong #midst podcast #keep it steady #mission rejected #breaker whiskey #mockery manor #spout lore #spout lore podcast

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everlastingdreams · 2 months ago

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The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : The Lovers Feast

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Story Summary: The day of Festa and Moreii, by many referred to as the 'Lovers Feast', passes once every two years in spring. For the first time you are determined to not be without a companion or flower at the feast. In the time leading up to the anticipated celebration you, one of the healers in the fort of Gramaire, try to live through the events happening before it.

Your friend Lancelot, the former Weeping Monk turned knight of the Fey and the man whom you have growing feelings for, does not approve of the man you have chosen to celebrate the feast with.

A woman who would rather see you trampled by horses, a man whose intentions are unclear and a love that is unrequited. Can the Lovers Feast bring clarity to it all?

Notes: Had this idea a while ago, was finally able to write it fully.

Warnings: Hurt. Pining. Fluff. Soft and sweet. Menstruation CW. Insecurity. Jealousy. Friends to lovers. Violence. Strong Language. Bullying. Romance.

Word count of this fic: 17k+

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Life for you after escaping more than one of the Red Paladins’ cleansings, was finally bettering. It was the Green Knight who had found you wandering the forest alone a few months ago and he had taken you with him to Gramaire where you met his acquaintances and friends. And among these friends there were certain people who stood out among the rest. A young Fey child who happened to be a knight, the Red Spear, and the Weeping Monk. Needless to say, it took quite some time before you trusted this Monk as Gawain did.

Upon arriving in Gramaire, Gawain had questioned you, trying to determine whether or not you possessed a useful skill. The only thing you had acquired was the knowledge for healing and so you became a healer along with Pym, a girl who was also a friend of Gawain. Together you saw all sorts of injuries, especially Red’s crew had some bizarre things happening to them. Then there were the regular common complaints, a cold, the flu… All were welcome to seek your aid. Even the former Weeping Monk, who you learned was named ‘Lancelot’.

You were a quiet person in the beginning, your soul was still healing from all that had been seen and experienced. Rarely you spoke, with Pym in the infirmary this was no problem but alone…

The first time Lancelot walked into the infirmary, with a bleeding gash on the left side of his chest, he said not a word to you. Not one. Not for the entire two hours I took to treat the wound. And neither did you, oddly enough it did not feel uncomfortable. Apart from your hands having shaken a bit, you kept calm in his presence.

The shaking hands lessened the more he sought treatment. It was always the same pattern, he went out to help Gawain and his friends and in the evening he sat on the cot in the infirmary to let you treat his wounds. All of them obtained because he was careless with his own health, throwing himself into danger to help the Green Knight and the others, that was what you had been told by Pym.

“I’ve never had to help him,” Pym had once said, “I’m glad. I don’t really want to.”

It was quite strange that Lancelot never went to Pym for healing, he’d often wait until evening when you were cleaning things up in the infirmary, you reckoned it was because he might prefer the silence over Pym’s babbling.

So there you were again, in the evening, dabbing away the blood from his upper arm to find where it was even coming from. In all this time, and in all the evenings before it, he had never said a word to you. All communication had been quite straightforward, he showed the injuries and you would treat them. Just as you went to grab a fresh rag to use he leaned forward more on the cot. He kept an arm around his abdomen and was growing paler by the minute.

You ignored the rag and went back over to him to feel his forehead. He was sweating, a fever was taking hold. “You should not go out tomorrow. Remain in the fort. I worry you may be growing an infection. I can give you a vial of-”

He was not one to listen to advice on his health. “Just suture my arm.”

With a sigh, you wiped more blood away from the cut and began to suture the stubborn fool’s arm.

His eyes remained fixed on the floor. “Thank you.”

It was not hard to treat him. He usually sat still as a statue when you helped him and as always he was out the door again mere moments after you were done. You watched the door fall shut behind him, wondering how long he would pretend he was alright this time.

Hours later, in the midst of the night, you were awoken by the Green Knight who nearly knocked your door out of it’s hinges. He informed you of how Lancelot had just collapsed on his way to the infirmary, they had to carry him the rest of the way once they found him. Right away you knew it did not look good for the Ash Man. He was not conscious and laying unresponsive on the cot when you arrived in the infirmary. Days and nights filled of trying to lower his fever followed, you made concoction after concoction in the hope that it would fight away the infection one of his wounds must have caused. No, it had not looked good for him at all.

By the third morning, he had regained consciousness but was too weak to sit up. You spoon fed him soup in the time that followed until he got more of his strength back. What followed was… strange. Due to his previous dire condition you had to stay near as much as you could until it was certain that he was indeed out of the dangerous claws of the infection. This meant helping the former Weeping Monk wash, treat all cuts with salve, and ensure he took the medicine you continued to make for him. You washed his torso daily the first days and left him to do the rest, the first times he was easily out of breath from the remaining fever, but as the days passed he got better. He did not make eye-contact on the moments when you had to freshen him up, it was hard to read his response to it. Only when you had touched the damp rag to his neck did he shut his eyes and tilted his head to the side, no wonder with how warm he must have felt from the fever.

Nights you had slept on the other cot in the infirmary to ensure he would be well. On the sixth day you had woken up to him being up on his feet and putting his weapon belts and cloak on. At first you thought you were imagining it, but no, the Ash Man had recovered from the fever. His skin had returned to a healthy color again, the paleness was gone. You were up on your feet in seconds, sleep still held your legs in it’s hold and threatened to send your body to the ground. The pain of a fall never came, his quick reaction to grab hold of your waist had prevented it.

“Careful.” A flash of worry went through his eyes. “It would be unfortunate if our healer broke her neck.”

You were rattled. “You shouldn’t be up…”

A smile crept on his face. “Was that not the whole point of me being in your care? For me to be up on my feet again.”

That smile made you lose the knowledge of words. Never before had you seen him, the former Weeping Monk, smile at you. Blinking, you cast your eyes away from him. All of a sudden he knelt down before you, tilting his head down in submission, a sign of respect he must have learned through his upbringing.

“Thank you.” He lifted his head to look at your face. “For your aid. I would not have survived this without you here to help me.”

Nervously you fidgeted with your sleeve. “There is no need to thank me. I am glad you feel better.”

He stared for a moment, then gave a slow nod. After a strange silence fell between you, he gingerly took hold of your hand and brought it to his lips to brush them to your knuckles very lightly. He stood right after, appearing as nervous as you were. After another nod your way he headed out the door. There you stood, staring flabbergasted at the door of the infirmary he had just walked out of. Wondering if a fever had taken hold of you and made you delirious as well. Had the former Weeping Monk really just kissed the hand of a Fey?

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

An odd dynamic had formed between you over the next two weeks. It started out with little things. A simple ‘Good morning’ from him. Him holding the door open for you when the opportunity presented itself. Just small things that weren��t so small to you, because this was the former Weeping Monk being oddly kind to you. And still… you remained your quiet self while he didn’t seem to mind the comfortable silence shared.

Pym was very quick to notice these little things.

~“Does he fancy you or something? Can that even happen, with him being… having been a monk and all that?”~

She had said. You had shrugged your shoulders, it was impossible to know what was going through his head. But surely the Ash Man had better options than a woman who could be the only person in a room and still be overlooked or ignored. Because that was you, you kept to the shadows and left others to be in the light. And there was a pretty woman, Gyda, who was vying for his attention for weeks now. She had thrown her arms around him not long after he had stepped out of the infirmary after his close call with death, claiming she had been truly worried. You said not a word of it, knowing full well that she had not visited him even once in the infirmary when he was there. Instead she had spend her time aiming her attention on the Green Knight who had been truly worried for his friend’s health and had no attention to give her. Of course all her effort focused back on the Ash Man the moment it was clear he was better. Her father and mother were spurring her on to marry a good match and what better match was there than a knight?

Two strange weeks had passed, two weeks of growing conversations between you and Lancelot. Two weeks of glares from Gyda whenever she saw him say a word to you. It was confusing to see how he sought out your presence. Did he feel indebted to you for healing him? Was that why he was making an effort to make you participate in more social situations?

It took a while to get used to sitting at a table along with the others, fortunately they made you feel welcome. Two whole weeks of Lancelot trying to help you be more at ease around him and those he considered friends. But there you were, sitting at one of the larger tables in the dining room. Pym sat not far away, Gawain sat opposite of you and Lancelot had sat down at your side the second he had walked in and saw you sitting alone. He was conversing with Gawain about places where flour could still possibly be found. And as they planned their journey to these mills, you often felt Gawain’s eyes dart between you and Lancelot. Why? You didn’t know. Lancelot hadn’t even looked at you since sitting down, he was focused on the conversation, not on you.

You reached out to take a piece of bread from the bowl a little to the side in the midst of the table. The Ash Man reacted ridiculously fast, without stopping the conversation with Gawain he had taken a piece of bread from the bowl and handed it to you. You stared at the bread in your hand, it were those small things that continued to rattle you.

“What?” Lancelot said to Gawain, after he saw the knight stare at him.

Gawain gave him an incredulous look, then gestured to you and him, “I have not seen you so attentive before to anyone else here.”

From the corner of your eyes, you could see the Ash Man go rigid.

It was Arthur who interrupted the growing strange atmosphere at the table, the Manblood put a tankard of water down right beside you. “Good morning, y/n. I noticed you didn’t have any water yet. Here you go.”

The tankard was shoved right under your nose, with a nod and a smile you showed your appreciation.

Arthur sat down next to Gawain. “Well then, what are the plans for today?”

The Manblood was smiling, full of enthusiasm, even as the Ash Man tried to hide how he rolled his eyes.

“We are going to retrieve the flour of the mill in the west,” Gawain answered.

“Good. As long as someone doesn’t get the urge to set the place on fire whilst we’re in it,” Arthur chuckled.

You quietly chewed the bread, eyes darting between the three of them. It was no secret that Lancelot may have once set a mill on fire and almost killed them on purpose, Arthur tended to remind him of it often.

“Do not tempt me,” Lancelot voice was monotone.

You nearly choked on the bread at hearing him say it and started coughing.

His eyes snapped away from Arthur immediately, he almost touched your arm but stopped himself. “Are you alright?”

Arthur stood up and held the tankard of water up for you. “Here. Drink some water.”

It sounded as good advice and after drinking some sips the coughing stopped.

Gawain scolded them over their bickering, “This is what happens when the two of you can’t sit at a table for one meal without acting like ill-mannered children.”

Both men cleared their throat, unable to meet the stern eyes of the Green Knight.

“Ignore what they say, y/n,” Gawain said. “They behave like this until we face the enemy, then they are friendly all of a sudden.”

“Friendly…” Lancelot huffed.

Gawain pointed at him with his spoon. “Don’t start again. Eat your breakfast.” The spoon pointed to Arthur next. “The same goes for you.”

Arthur protested quietly, “I wasn’t saying anything.”

Gawain shook his head, mumbled something under his breath. You chewed the bread a bit more carefully. It was quiet between them for a while, until Gawain spoke to you.

“Looking forward to the feast of Festa and Moreii soon?” he asked.

This feast only occurred once every two years. The last time, after your attendance, you had cried yourself to sleep. It was a feast for all, but among the Fey it was often used as the day when women were gifted flowers from lovers, family and even friends. But in the past few decades it was mostly used as an excuse for interested parties to seek the attention of those they were interested in. Therefore, by many it was called the ‘Lovers Feast’.

You shrugged your shoulders a little, quietly answering, “I don’t know…”

“Surely, you will be there?” Gawain asked.

Lancelot spoke up, looking as confused as Arthur was, “What is this feast?”

Gawain put down his spoon, having finished his soup. “Ah yes, that’s right. You two don’t know about these Fey events, or do you?”

Arthur and Lancelot both shook their heads a little. The Green Knight sighed and proceeded to tell them the story of Festa And Moreii and what this feast was for.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

A week had passed.

Somewhere between the rare smiles and the time he spend in the infirmary with you, it had happened. It was something you had feared would happen. That unpredictable feeling that had caused so much heartbreak in the world already. Love. You were enamored with the former monk turned knight and it was not a feeling you welcomed. It was unrequited, secret and fueling a hope you shouldn’t have had. But it was there and no matter how hard you tried to ignore the feeling it only grew stronger. It did not help that he still sought out your aid in the evenings in the infirmary instead of one of the other healers. Beside you and Pym, two more healers manned the infirmary during the day. The nights were yours to work and Lancelot knew it very well.

After one night a week ago, when he had even helped you fill vials of medicine, you had started to carve a small wooden horse figurine out of a piece of a thick branch. Even painted the figurine black to match his stallion that he spoke of so fondly. It took a whole week to make and you hadn’t told anyone of your secret hobby, the figurine was kept hidden under your bed along with some others you had made. But today you wanted to gift it to him.

With nervous steps you searched the fort for him, the figurine was neatly wrapped into a piece of cloth to let it be a true surprise. And then you spotted him in the courtyard, speaking to Gyda who had put her hand on his upper arm as she laughed melodically over something he must have told her. You did not want to stare but could not look away. For Gyda conversation seemed so effortless and natural, she knew just what to say to keep the conversation going.

After a moment, you turned away and headed back to your room. Unwrapping and putting the figurine on your night table instead. Such foolish hope, a quiet mouse could not compete with a bold feline. A heavy feeling set into your abdomen and you sat on the bed for a while to let it settle down. You hated being in love, your stomach was acting up and you were constantly questioning everything. It was cruel how your own mind could be your worst enemy, how it could whisper all your insecurities into your thoughts over and over again. It felt horrible.

After the feeling in your abdomen got better, you headed out again, this time to the infirmary to drown your thoughts with tasks instead. The sound of laughing children reached your ears, a mere second later a door swung open right into your path. It hit against your temple as you tried to avoid the collision at the last second. The children had no idea the door they had swung open had struck someone, they were quick to run down the hallway and out of sight again. You huffed through the pain, cursing quietly until only a dull pain remained and a mark to your temple that would be there for a while.

You continued your way to the infirmary, greeting Gawain on your way there as you passed him by. Your feet had not a chance to pass the threshold of the infirmary before a hand wrapped itself around your arm. Startled, you smacked the hand away then gasped when realizing who was to blame.

“Who did that?” Intensity burned in Lancelot’s eyes.

He stood so close, so very close. Such handsome features, those small freckles on his neck. Such deep concern his eyes held.

“What?” You blinked.

Briefly the knuckles of his fingers gingerly touched your temple. “This bruise. Who did this to you?”

“A door.”

“A door?”

You felt a bit embarrassed, it must have made you sound like a klutz. “I was walking through the hallway, a door swung open and hit me.”

He did not seem to think you were being truthful. “But you are wounded someplace else.”

“I am not.”

Doubt washed over his face. “I can tell that you are bleeding.”

“What? But I-”

Realization hit you cruelly strong, the pain in your abdomen had not been due to the distress you had felt. This could not get any worse. He could smell it? How humiliating, if you had known you wouldn’t have left your room. It was bound to happen with his heightened senses and with how much more time he spend near. It had only been evenings in the infirmary together until this month.

You took a couple of big steps away, fearing the blood had already stained your clothes for all to see. “I need to go.”

“Wait-”

He tried to stop you but you bolted away to your room to prevent further damage to your self-esteem, leaving him behind in confusion.

Lancelot snapped out of his thoughts a moment later and decided to go after you. He ran into the Green Knight only two hallways further, who stopped him in his path.

“Ah, Lancelot. I was wondering -”

“Have you seen y/n?”

“Every time…” Gawain mumbled under his breath.

The knight was no fool, he had noticed that ever since you had arrived there the Ash Man had went to the infirmary for the smallest cut and always during the times of day when you just happened to be the healer that was present.

Lancelot wisely ignored that remark. “I believe something is wrong. She had a bruise. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary today?”

The knight hummed pensively. “I have not. Have you tried to speak to her?”

“I fear I may have been too forward.”

“You? No…” Gawain’s sarcasm shined through. “Go on. Find our healer. See to it that she is well.”

He walked away, intending to do exactly that, hoping that his nose was wrong.

Blood and a forming bruise… had someone attacked you? How you had run off when he had questioned you about it with concern… he feared to worst.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

You had changed clothes the second you walked into your chamber and were trying to rinse the small blood stain out from your other pair of trousers hoping no one had noticed it. Out of all the people that could have noticed your monthly blood, it had to be him. The handsome Ash Man who you had grown to feel more than just friendship for. It was mortifying. You held your breath when a knock sounded at your door and heard Lancelot call out your name. Oh, no no no…

The last thing you wanted was for him to realize what sort of blood he had noticed on you. You put the trousers back into the bucket of water in a small corner of the room next to the wardrobe.

He knocked again, sounding concerned as he spoke through the door, “Are you alright?”

Think… think… think… there was no time to think. His knocking grew more urgent and you feared he’d break open the door if you did not respond soon. You opened the door, hoping to just keep it open a few inches. He quickly took hold of the edge of the door and made his way inside the room, you stumbled back a little and frowned at his urgency.

His eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. “You changed your clothes.”

When he took a step further into the room, you took one back. His expression changed instantly, he almost looked hurt to see you step back.

“You do not have to fear me,” he said quietly and removed his hand from where he often let it rest on the pommel of his sword, hoping to ease your mind.

“I don’t.” It was the truth.

He was quiet for a moment and stood motionless, showing no intent to leave the room.

It felt uncomfortable because you just knew he was going to ask about the blood scent. “I’m alright. You can leave.”

His brow arched. “Not before you tell me where and how serious your injury is.”

It shouldn’t have come as such a shock that he could be persistent. “It is nothing.”

He shook his head. “I do not believe you.”

You sighed, the on-setting cramps were causing you to be short with him. “Please, leave.”

He was terribly stubborn and stern. “I will. Once you either tell me the truth or let me walk you to the infirmary to see a healer.”

It was getting on your nerves quickly. Not everyone in the castle needed to hear about your monthly blood. You did not need a healer. “It’s none of your concern, Lancelot! I don’t want to talk about this!”

Multiple scenarios rushed through his head. Was someone hurting you? Did you submit yourself to the scourge as he had once done?

You saw his nostrils flare ever so little, so easily missed if one would not pay attention to it. When he took a step in the direction of the place where you had hidden the bucket from sight, you stepped into his path. More suspicion filled his eyes. He moved faster, passing you and ignoring your protests, finding the bucket where your trousers were soaking in the cold water.

The scent of blood was diluted by the water but it was there. It left him highly alarmed. He noticed your other clothes on the bed and went over to them, inspecting them.

You felt so embarrassed. “What are you doing?!?”

There were no tears in your clothes. No visible evidence that someone had tried to damage them.

He approached you fast, taking hold of your arm. You froze entirely when he leaned in and inhaled audibly, your face started to burn.

“What are you doing?” you blurted out again, shocked by the behavior.

There were no other Fey scents over you that could point to a Fey possibly having attacked you.

His eyes darted over your form, still searching, “Has someone hurt you?”

That concern in his eyes almost instantly made you forgive him for being invasive. “No.”

He still seemed to doubt whether or not that was the truth, “I want you to come with me to the infirmary.”

You protested when he took hold of your arm but he still dragged you out of the room. You finally managed to break free when he got you a few steps away from your room. He cursed under his breath and tried to grab hold of your arm again but you swatted his hand away.

“Enough! Leave me be, Lancelot!” you snapped.

He countered, “You need to see a healer!”

You stood your ground. “I don’t! I bleed like this monthly!

It still took him a moment to understand what on earth you were trying to tell him, his past in the clergy was at blame. “Why-”

You saw it click into his mind, realizing just how far he had to think to come to the conclusion.

This was not a matter that was discussed within the clergy. He barely knew anything about it, certainly not the details.

You hugged yourself. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about this. It’s worse enough already that I bled through my trousers and you were the one who noticed that I am bleeding. Gods… you can smell it…”

He could not bring a word out and by the time he finally managed to try and speak an apology you had already returned to your room and locked the door.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

It had been hours. Hours filled with laying in bed and suffering from the foolish humiliation and annoying cramps. You couldn’t stop thinking about how he was just able to smell the blood, it must not have been noticeable to him before or he had noticed because he had become more attentive towards you lately after you helped him when he was ill. Still, you wished he had not noticed this. Once he had told that he often just did not focus on the scents around him because they would become too much, but he must have been alert when it came to you unfortunately. And then he had barged into your room and found the trousers…

No. You did not feel like leaving your room for the rest of the day. Pym would be fine in the infirmary with the other healers for a day while you recovered from the situation. Besides, you doubted you would be much help with the cramps in your abdomen.

Someone knocked on the door of your room and you prayed to the Hidden it wouldn’t be him. Anyone but him. But after a short pause in-between knocks, you heard Lancelot call out your name. When you didn’t hear him walk away from the door after ignoring him, you grumbled and got out of bed to drag your feet to the door. You held the door closed more, still his fingers slithered around the edge of it as he send a pleading look. Sighing, you opened the door for him and just went and climbed right back into bed, feeling too miserable physically to stand for much longer.

He was carrying a small basket in his hands and approached the bed with it, looking rather unsure of himself. “Forgive me for how I reacted earlier.”

“It’s not your fault. I just feel humiliated.”

“Why?”

“Because you could smell the blood.”

“I have caught the scent of blood hundreds of times.” He tried to ease your mind. “The only difference with you is that I paid attention to it only because I was worried. I feared someone had harmed you.”

It was quite nice to hear that he had been genuinely concerned. “I truly did just walk into a door. Some children were playing and pushed a door open haphazardly, it hit me in the head. We can’t all be as graceful as you.”

He blinked slowly, eyes aimed at the floor, a careful smile grew on his lips. “Graceful…” he quietly uttered, as if it was a word no one had ever used to describe him.

It dawned on you that he had considered it a compliment. And it was, for you found him so graceful that it often left you in awe when you stared at him in secret during the times he sparred with his comrades.

He looked at the wall and cleared his throat. “I have asked Pym about this… bleeding.”

Were you imagining things or did he truly just say it?? “You asked Pym?”

He came closer, taking seat on the edge of the bed, the basket on his lap. “She did her best to give me some advice.”

Poor, poor Pym. One of the first true conversations she must have had with him and it was about this matter. She must have felt very strange.

He placed the basked on the night table. “A vial for the pain and some fruit I know-… I hope you like.”

You stared at the basket in disbelief. He had gone through this much effort? A quick glance in the basket told you that he had put more than your favorite fruit in there, there were some sweet baked goods and berries. The whole basket smelled so good. “Thank you. You didn’t have to go through so much trouble for me.”

He ignored that comment, his attention fell on the small wooden horse figurine that still stood on the night table as well. Too tempted not to, he picked it up to look at it better. “Did you make this?”

“Yes. It’s silly, I know-”

“Impressive.” He turned it over, intrigued by the small details.

“What?” You glanced up at him.

“How long did it take you to make this?” he wondered out loud.

Nights it took you. “Some hours.”

You saw him keep turning it between his fingers to look at it from all angles, seemingly enamored by the small wooden figurine. “You can have it, if you want it.”

His eyes widened slightly by the offer. “I could not possibly-”

It slipped out, “I made it for you after you helped me fill those vials in the infirmary.”

His gaze fell on you, studying your eyes as if he could not believe you had truly made it for him. You thought it was rather endearing and smiled, letting your eyes fix on the sheet under your hand instead.

He stared a little longer, cleared his throat. “Horses are such loyal creatures.”

“They are.”

Once more he cleared his throat, scratching his chin. He didn’t put the figurine back down, but didn’t say he wanted it either, you wished he would say it. A cramp welled up and it felt like someone was standing on your lower back. You groaned in pain, turning over to face the wall and curling up to fight it. He instantly reached out and touched your arm.

“It hurts.”

“Your abdomen?”

“My back.”

You didn’t expect him to reach down and touch your back and froze in response. He rubbed over your back gingerly, hoping it would bring some comfort.

“Here?”

“It’s lower.”

His hand took it as an instruction, he touched just where the pain was radiating to and oddly you felt your body relax because of it. The tension that you had felt was starting to lessen and it helped make the cramps less painful. His warm hands were soothing the pain. Silently you wondered if he was one of the feys who the Hidden granted a healing ability to.

“Could you-” you stopped yourself, realizing what you were about to ask the man who had been a monk for most of his life until he joined the Fey.

But he had heard. “What do you need of me?”

You shook your head. “I cannot ask it of you.”

He hushed that concern, “You heal me when I am wounded or ailing, allow me to do the same for you. Ask.”

It came out very quietly, “Could you keep doing what you’re doing?”

He fell silent for a few seconds, his hand had stopped tending to your back. Had you crossed the line and made a fool of yourself?

Slowly, he started again. “Does it help?”

You nodded in relief.

“Tell me when to stop.” He rubbed your back gently.

Minutes went and passed, but you did not tell him to stop and he quietly rubbed your back, soothing the pain. As time passed he seemed to grow less reserved towards the task. He gave you the vial to drink and you drank half of it, keeping the other half for later if it was needed.

He brought the sheets over your body, still gently rubbing over your back. His hand had gotten warmer from the friction and it was stilling the pain before the vial could even work. But the vial’s effect took not long to begin, your eyelids grew heavy and closed under his encouragement. You were sound asleep soon after.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

That night, a week ago, not only had he taken the figurine with him to keep. When you had woken up you had found your stained trousers washed and dried on top of your dresser. It had left you speechless, for him to do such personal things…

When you had felt awkward about the matter, he had simply said he was used to washing blood out of clothes. To him, being in contact with blood was as normal as breathing. But not a word had been said between you about how he had rubbed your back to sooth your pain, neither of you had dared to breach the topic. It was a delicate matter, surely an infringement on the vow he had upheld for so long. You thought of apologizing for it, hoping it had not caused him to feel remorse, but you were too timid to even mention anything of the vow to him. Perhaps it was for the better that you pretended that that night had not occurred, it would be better to stop hoping that your feelings could be reciprocated. Sparing yourself the heartbreak was a merciful choice.

He still often walked into the infirmary in the evenings, having grown somewhat more careful with injuries he sustained after barely having survived that infection. This night was no different, he walked in with a cut near his wrist that was the result of him training young Percival with a sword. Some stitches. Some salve. Some medicine for the pain he would often refuse to take. It was a standard evening.

“The boy is getting quicker.” You gave a sympathetic smile.

He stared for a blink, then looked down at the work you had done for his wrist. “Indeed. This is the second time he was too fast for me to evade.”

“He learns well. Must be because of his talented tutor.”

You were done with bandaging the cut and noticed him looking up at you, eyes filled with a certain intrigue. With his other hand he was gripping the edge of the cot he was sitting on, something he often did when he was nervous.

The Ash Man was not the only one seeking aid it seemed. A man, Burk, walked into the infirmary and the air filled itself with the scent of ale. Burk was known for his drunken shenanigans.

“You wouldn’t have one of those little vials that dulls a headache, would ya?” The man slurred, gesturing to the shelves of medicine on the other side of the room. He didn’t even appear to notice Lancelot in the room at all.

You quietly sighed, already guessing that he needed the vial for the coming morning. But medicine was hard to come by in these times, the Green Knight had ordered for it to not be given without there be a true need for it. And bottleache was not a good reason to use up one of the vials of medicine.

Your voice was quite as a mouse, “I’m sorry.” You went to stand in front of the shelves. “I cannot give them for bottleache. Ordered by the Green Knight.”

Burk wasn’t happy to hear it at all. “To hell with the Green Knight!” He hiccuped a few times. “Out of the way!”

He gave you a rough shove to the side, your balance was lost. You yelped when landing on your hands and knees, your palm took most of the fall and you felt the pain shoot up your wrist. Your mind was still busy processing what had happened when chaos erupted in the room. It felt like you had barely turned to look and in that time the Ash Man had drawn his sword and pinned the drunkard against the wall. The tip of the sword rested against the man’s chest.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot spoke to you.

It was humiliating and you felt yourself withdraw in your shell. A nod was all you could manage as your eyes refused to lift from the floor.

He put some pressure on the sword. “Apologize to her!”

Burk looked absolutely terrified. The tip of the sword was making a hole in his jacket. “I’m sorry!”

Lancelot looked back at you, at how your gaze stayed on the floor, he moved the sword away from the man.

“Do not come near her again!” he barked the warning before letting go of Burk. The man scrambled away from him and ran out of the room.

The instant silence that fell was suffocating. You never felt so inclined to speak before, but when the Ash Man turned to you, the words hooked themselves in your throat. Even he appeared indecisive on what to do. He stepped closer, you went rigid. Lancelot followed your gaze and realized you were looking at the sword in his hand, he quickly sheathed it and reached a hand out for you to take. With wide eyes you glanced up at him, tentatively placing your hand in his as if you were reaching into fire. It was as warm as that night and far more gentle than one would expect of someone who was raised to fight.

His eyes scanned your form. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, he stood so close that you could feel his breath on your face and it was scrambling your thoughts. It was too hard to make eye-contact, his closeness was causing your heart to quicken and you hoped he would not notice.

Your voice was but a whisper, “I’m alright.”

He was holding on to your elbow. “I will ensure that he does not bother you again.”

“You’re not going to…” you let the rest fade out.

He guessed the question. “No, I will not kill him. But I shall speak of this to him when he is sober.”

When he let go of your elbow and brushed his hand along your arm a few times it was hard to hide your flustered state. He withdrew it and folded both hands behind his back as if to scold and restrain himself for it.

The door of the infirmary swung open again, Gyda stepped inside, her eyes darting between you and Lancelot who took a step back upon noticing her.

“Oh? Lancelot.” She stepped close, wasting no time to put a hand on his upper arm to form a physical connection. “I heard you were in the infirmary again tonight. Nothing bad I hope?”

He had kept his hands behind his back until she asked this, then he showed her his bandaged wrist. “Only a cut.”

She gasped rather dramatically and took hold of his wrist with both her hands. “Gods, my dear Lancelot, it must hurt.”

He seemed frozen in place. “The salve our healer applied helps numb the pain.”

She feigned a smile at you. “Our healer is very kind to tend to your wounds so late in the evening.”

You were starting to dislike her attitude, there were insinuations hidden under her words and they were laced with venom. “I tend to everyone who needs help, no matter the time.”

Lancelot awkwardly cleared his throat, you wondered what he was thinking and if he could feel that Gyda was ingenuine towards you.

“Forgive me, Lancelot.” She feigned a small pout. “May I speak to the healer alone for a moment? I came to discuss some womanly matters with her.”

He pulled his hand back when she let it go and gave an inclination of the head. “Of course. It is late indeed, I shall retreat to my quarters. Goodnight, Gyda.”

She gave him her sweetest smile and wished him a good night as well. That smile fell when he had his back turned to her to wish you a goodnight too. It was no surprise that the second he was out of the infirmary and had closed the door behind him she dropped the facade.

Her complaint fell instantly, “He comes here almost every evening.”

You pretended to clean some bowls up. “He obtains new injuries daily when out protecting our people.”

She strolled around the place, picking up a bowl of herbs to sniff it and scrunch her nose at the smell.

The silence felt filled with uncomfortable tension. “You came here to see me. What is troubling you?”

“You are.”

You swiftly turned to face her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know what game you are playing, healer.” Gyda got closer. “And it won’t work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Acting innocent now?” She scoffed arrogantly. “Last week you pretended to be in pain just to steal his time away. I heard about your little act, using your monthly blood to get his attention. Disgusting.”

It was appalling how she spoke now. Was she so thirsting for his attention that she’d resort to this behavior? She had set her sights on him and stole his attention away every moment that he did not spend taking care of his duties as a knight, but even that did not seem enough for her.

You got defensive. “It was no act-”

There was no convincing her otherwise. “You played the wounded little bird because you know Lancelot would never spend his time with you otherwise. He only feels like he owes you for saving him when he was ill.”

It hit harder than you were prepared for. Stubbornly you kept quiet.

She folded her arms in front of her chest. “He is merely being polite. Soon he will see that he does not owe you a thing and he will forget all about you.”

You kept your chin up, refusing to let her see that she was voicing your fears out loud. “Is that all you came here for?”

She disliked the lack of a stronger reaction, her tone got cold, an icy warning. “Careful, healer. You do not want me as an enemy.”

“And one will certainly not want someone such as you as a friend either.”

She huffed and on her way to the door she knocked over a bowl of herbs on purpose, sending the contents all over the floor, then slammed the door shut behind her.

You breathed out, feeling sick to your stomach from the distress she had caused. Whilst cleaning up the spilled herbs that had mixed flower petals between them, you thought of the nearing feast. The last thing you wanted was to feel the way you did two years ago. Lonely, on a night when love was celebrated and chased. And you would certainly feel worse when seeing Gyda with Lancelot at the feast this year. It was time to seek someone that would accompany you to the feast, this would not be as it went two years ago.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

The next morning, Gawain asked you to come with him to the stables. He worried Gringolet may have been ill, but it did not take you long to figure out that all the horse wanted was a carrot before he’d eat something else, knowing very well his rider would spoil him to death if he appeared ill. Gawain quietly scolded Gringolet, that didn’t last long, everyone knew how much he adored and spoiled his horse.

“Found yourself a partner for the feast, yet?” he suddenly asked you.

“Not yet.”

The knight saw the pout on your lips. “I am certain you will. You never know what the day will bring, you may already have someone’s attention.”

You did not share the optimism. “I doubt that, Gawain.”

Marcus, the stablehand who was restocking hay nearby, suddenly piped up, “You should come with me to the feast.”

“I could not possibly…” you muttered awkwardly.

His smile stayed bright. “Why not?”

Indeed. Why not? The perfect chance was presenting itself and Marcus seemed nice.

Marcus was very persuasive. “Give me a ‘yes’ and I’ll search the most beautiful flower to give you at the feast.”

You looked at Gawain, who shifted his weight on his feet, his hands on his hips.

“For now…” Marcus held up his hand, urging for you to stand and wait. Marcus hurried out of the stable and returned with a dandelion, he gave it to you. “This is what I can already offer.”

The effort he showed was rather sweet, and you couldn’t even recall the last time someone gave a flower to you.

“A dandelion?” Gawain’s brow arched.

You dared to swat his elbow for his rudeness. “I think it is sweet.”

The knight wanted to say more but held his tongue, Marcus ignored the look he was giving him.

“Will you go to the feast with me?” Marcus asked very politely.

Gawain quickly turned to you. “Perhaps you should wait a bit longer, someone else may still-”

“Who?” you confronted in a whisper. “I see no one else lining up for me.”

Gawain fell silent, looking like he wanted to say something else but refused to.

The prospect of being able to enjoy the feast was too tempting to decline the offer. “I would love to, Marcus.”

Marcus was happy that his offer was accepted. You were glad that this time you wouldn’t be alone at the feast. Gawain stood silent, his thoughts on the matter remained a mystery. You spoke for quite a while with Marcus, learning that he liked to play the lute and he even offered to play some for you some time.

Gawain had been in the stables, spending his time tending to Gringolet. He interrupted your conversation with Marcus. “Who is manning the infirmary now?”

You answered him, “I am-… oh…”

Gawain gave you a look. You quickly said goodbye to Marcus and hoped not to find a dead person in the infirmary after you had been gone for over an hour without someone else there to help those who needed aid.

You hurried to the infirmary and found Lancelot waiting inside. It was not his usual time to visit the infirmary and of course it was cause for concern. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was in the stables to help Gringolet.”

“I do not mind waiting.” His gaze fell on the flower in your hand. “Is the dandelion for one of the salves you are skilled in making?”

Was that a compliment? It sure felt that way. “No. I uh… it’s a gift I received.”

You went and put the dandelion in an empty flask and put it on one of shelves.

A frown creased his forehead, he was silent for a moment, then asked, “Who gave you a flower?”

“Marcus did.”

There was a twitch in his jaw. “Marcus? The stablehand?”

You picked up on the condescending tone. “Yes. The ‘stablehand’”.

He began to walk around the infirmary, looking at every bowl and vial on the shelves, looking everywhere but at you.

“Did you need my help?” you asked. Something felt different between you, he felt distant.

He stopped at a shelf, picked a vial up and looked at it disinterested before putting it back. “Did you help Marcus?”

What an odd question. “No. I have not seen him in the infirmary yet.” You got closer to him. “I am certain you did not come here to speak of Marcus. So tell me what ails you.”

His answer was delayed. “Would you have something for a pained head?”

You scanned his head for visible injuries. “It depends on what is at blame for the pain.”

He gave half a smile. “Only my thoughts.”

The vial for that was on the shelf behind him, you stepped forward closely passed him. When he turned and followed your movement to look, his arm brushed against yours. His close proximity made you nervous quickly, you wished it did not.

Quickly you handed him the vial. “This should help. Drink half of it now and the rest of it when you go to sleep.”

He turned the vial over between his fingers. “Thank you. You always know precisely what I need.”

“Not always.” You forced your eyes to the floor. “It is not simple to read you.”

He opened the vial. “And yet you make the effort to try.”

As he lifted the vial to his lips, you made the foolish mistake to lift your gaze to his face and were entranced by how his lips touched the vial. He drank half of it, then closed the vial again and let his eyes drop on your staring ones. For a second you could have been fooled into believing he noticed the truth in them.

You left his side rather hastily. “Forgive me. I have a lot of work I must finish. These salves must be ready.”

He knew when he was being politely dismissed. “Do you wish for my help?”

The answer came quick, “No, thank you.”

As he walked to the door he halted to look at the dandelion. “Do you like this kind of flower?”

That had sounded rather curious. You turned to face him again, seeing a look in his eyes you could not place. “I do. Many animals like to eat them, rabbits, bears… They are good for salves and medicine. We can even cook them or use them in tea. Did you know the whole flower is edible? Even raw, just wash it and you can eat it.”

A smile broke out on his face at the rambling over the flower you fired at him.

You realized he might have been asking if you liked the appearance of the flower rather than it’s many uses. “Oh… did you mean to ask if I find them pretty?”

He looked at the floor, still smiling and blurted out, “You are charming.”

Nervously you fidgeted with your sleeve, unable to meet his eyes after how warm his voice had sounded. A silence fell into the room, it carried a certain tension that made your heart leap in your chest.

“I should go…” He walked to the door, opening it. “Thank you for your help. I do truly appreciate the effort and the sacrifices you make to aid me.”

You clicked your tongue. “It’s the duty of a healer.”

He tilted his head, eyes locking on yours. “I believe it is the heart of a good soul.”

Your chest warmed at his words, at the warm timbre he used. The whole room felt smaller, he felt closer than he was, you took in a deep breath.

“Perhaps I shall see you later.” He took a step out the door.

“Planning on getting injured again?” you quipped.

A chuckled escaped him. “I do not have to plan it. Misfortune has a way of finding me.”

Your smile fell a little at that, it had carried an undertone that scratched away at the layer of stoicism he tried to keep on himself. He was out the door before you could think of what to reply to that statement. You knew he hid behind his bravery often, but the statement now and the way he had tried to feign a small smile had twisted like a knife in your stomach. Hopefully he would feel comfortable enough to come to you when the world’s hardships became too much for him to bear.

You noticed something on the floor, a small flower petal belonging to a flower you did not use in the infirmary. Had it fallen from your clothes, or perhaps his? You picked it up, the scent of it was rather nice and made you wonder what a whole flower of it would smell like. Maybe you could ask him about it later, with his heightened sense of smell he surely would know what flower it belonged to or at least find another of it’s kind.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

Two days had passed and every single day Marcus had made an effort to spend time with you. He was flirtatious from the start, countless compliments and countless light touches. It was no surprise that he entered the infirmary again to seek your company. As you worked to mix salves and medicine, he stood by your side and talked about his life. According to himself, his skill for playing the lute was known, you were yet to hear it for yourself.

“I forgot my lute in the stables.” He rubbed your upper arm a few times, then left his hand there. “I have been working on a song just for you.”

Your eyes snapped to him. “For me?”

Suddenly he reached out and caressed your cheek. “My lute can never sound as good as your voice does, but I hope the song will please you.”

Your feet were rooted to the spot, your thoughts too slow to realize what was about to happen. He kissed you, cupping your neck and he was not shy about it at all.

Was this what you wanted too? So quickly? He pulled you closer by the waist and you broke your mouth away by tilting your head to the side.

“Marcus… uhm…”

He was kissing your cheek and jaw, mumbling some sweet nothings in your ear. The sound of footsteps and a very loud knock on the already open door was why he stopped. You took some steps back when seeing who had walked in on this.

Lancelot had stepped into the infirmary, not bothering to wait seeing that the door was open. A strange tension build itself into the room instantly, you risked one look at Lancelot’s face and it made your eyes fix on the floor. His whole stance was different, stern and distant.

“Marcus.” His voice was sharp and heavy as he spoke the name, he then seemed to control it more, “The Green Knight is expecting you.”

Marcus frowned, protesting, “But-”

“Now. Marcus,” his tone grew sharper. “He has summoned you.”

Marcus knew that going against a knight of the Fey was unwise, even though this knight’s attitude was angering him. “Fine.”

Your eyes darted between him and Lancelot, sensing the dislike they seemed to have for each other. Marcus was quick to lean in and steal a kiss from your cheek, leaving you flustered by the boldness and this right in front of Lancelot. Lancelot set not a foot aside as Marcus approached him to head for the door, Marcus begrudgingly had to slip through the small space between the Ash Man and the wall. Lancelot shut the door the second Marcus was out of the infirmary, his whole body tense as if he was heading into a battle. He walked into the infirmary, his stern expression turned to downcast. He was quieter, even quieter than normal for him.

You feared he was sicker than he would admit to, slowly you crossed the distance towards him. “Lancelot?”

He looked at you from the corner of his eyes but was avoiding eye-contact. When you touched his forehead to feel for a fever he stilled completely, he had not expected the action. There was no fever to be felt, his skin was warm but not out of the normal range, you pulled your hand back and he looked at you with an emotion you could not identify.

“I am not ill.” His voice was quiet, soft and lacked the strength it usually had, “Would you come with me to see to Goliath for a moment?”

Your stomach sank at the sound of him, he felt more and more distant. “Of course. What do you fear is bothering him?”

His answer was delayed, “There is a mark on his flank.”

You went to the shelves stocked with medicines. “I will inspect it. Let me grab some salve just in case. I have some with yarrow and marigold here somewhere…”

He came closer as well, then leaned past you, brushing with his chest against the back of your arm as he took one of the bowls from the shelf and showed it to you. “This one has yarrow in it, I can tell by the pungent scent it has.”

You could still feel him stand against you a little, feel the warmth radiating of off him. “It’s that one.”

He took a few steps back, perhaps aware of how close he had been standing. “I will carry it. Are you ready to see to him or do you need something else?”

You remembered the flower petal you had found, but decided against asking him about it now. “I-… no.”

His gaze was alert right away. “What is it? I can see there is something you wished to say.”

“It’s silly and it can wait. This is more important-”

“Please.”

You went to the bowl on the shelf where you had put the petal in and handed him the bowl to look. “I found this petal in the infirmary. It has such a lovely color and I was wondering if you knew what sort of flower it came from.”

He swallowed audibly, staring at the small petal presented to him. “I do not recognize it.”

“Not even by scent?”

He shook his head, put the bowl back where you had taken it from the shelf and headed for the door. “Coming?”

Stranger and stranger he behaved, distant while close. Were you losing his friendship? Had Gyda pulled him far enough in her web? Quietly you decided to follow him to the stables, holding hope that this was just temporary.

In the stables, you were cooing to Goliath lovingly and ignoring how the Ash Man seemed to stare. The mark on Goliath’s flank was nothing more than a very old scar that had long since healed. But Lancelot was not the only Fey knight who was overly worried over their horse and you found it quite endearing. To put his mind at ease, you did apply some salve to the scar. He came to stand beside you, arm and back of his hand brushing against your side from the close proximity. You felt your heart in your throat and tried to focus on Goliath, hating how you still held the hope that Lancelot would share the same feelings that you had for him.

He held the bowl of salve. “Thank you for taking a moment of your time to examine him.”

Your voice was very quiet, “He seems fine to me. And this old scar will not go away, but it is no reason to worry.”

“Perhaps I am too fixated on his health.”

“I suppose it is normal to be worried about

someone you are attached to.”

A pause. “Yes.”

A few silent seconds passed, then you took a step away and turned to leave. Lancelot had moved as well and you accidentally collided into his chest. He was quick to support you by the elbow to ensure you stayed on your feet.

You got the feeling that he had moved with the intent of stepping in your path to keep you there longer. “I’m sorry. Uhm… was there anything else you needed?”

He blinked twice and appeared to be thinking, then his gaze lowered to the ground and he let go of your elbow. A strange tension filled the space between you, you forced yourself to keep breathing normally and not overthink it. When you tried to step away again, he finally spoke.

“I don’t like to see you with that man.”

“What?”

“With Marcus.”

“Why?”

“He has only just arrived here. We do not know him well.”

“We can learn to know him. Once, I did not know you either.”

He looked off to the side for a moment. An uncomfortable feeling hanged in the air.

“He seems nice,” you told him.

His eyes stole a glance, but there was a slight upward tilt to his head, a straightening of his back that told he wasn’t pleased to hear it.

“Is there something bad that he did that I should know of?” you asked.

He thought for a moment. “No. There have been no complaints.”

“Good.”

He stood very still for a while, feeling the judgment in Goliath’s eyes. He would reward him for this small inconvenience. Or the stallion might consider walking over his foot by ‘accident’ again.

“He has asked me to go with him to the feast tomorrow evening,” you told him.

He tensed. “And will you?”

The cold breeze in the stables went through your clothes. You hugged yourself to stay warm. “I said I would. I do not want to be without a companion at this feast again. I’m sick of the pitying looks.”

His gaze fixed on Goliath as he began go pet the horse, seeming distracted.

You couldn’t help but ask, “And you… I assume Gyda has asked you already?”

“She has.”

Of course she had, she must have asked him days ago.

He sighed quietly. “But I do not know if I will attend. These celebrations are not what I am used to. I do not understand these Fey customs.”

You frowned. “How so?”

“Living among the Fey… everything is the opposite of what I was taught. And this feast is one I would have never been allowed to take part of.”

“I think…” You started but fell silent, maybe he would not like to hear your opinion on the matter.

He was clearly waiting for you to continue.

It felt like such a risky thing to say. “I think it would be good for you to take part of this feast. It’s your heritage too…”

He stepped away, this was still a delicate topic with him but you got the feeling that he was giving thought to your opinion. You wiped your hands on the rag you had carried along, getting rid of the salve on them. The day was colder than you had expected it to be, your teeth threatened to chatter.

He saw you shiver. “The horse figurine you made for me, is it meant to resemble Goliath?”

“Yes. I know how much you adore him.”

He was quiet for a moment, then stepped forward and took off his cloak to drape it over your shoulders. “Come. I shall walk you back to the fort.”

The cloak was warm and smelled like him, the sense of comfort it brought was otherworldly. This cloak was as close to his embrace you would possibly get. He walked you to the entrance of the fort. You were still a few feet away when halting and turning towards him to reluctantly hand him the cloak back.

You would miss it’s warmth and the sense of his presence it gave. “Thank you.”

He fidgeted with it for a second, then put it back on. With a respectful tilt of the head he acknowledged the expression of gratitude and watched as you headed into the warmth of the fort again.

Marcus was outside as well, having seen who’s cloak was over your shoulders and realized why the Green Knight had no idea why he thought he had summoned him.

He marched over to Lancelot and got his attention by stopping only a few steps away and confronting him. “Ser Lancelot!”

Lancelot had already caught the Sky Folk scent that irritated him and sighed at the sound of Marcus’s voice. “What is it, Marcus?”

Marcus seethed at him, “Who do you think you are? Does your title make you think you can just get away with this?”

He turned, severely disliking the tone aimed at him. “Pardon?”

Marcus pointed at him accusingly. “I know the Green Knight did not summon me! You were lying, you deceiving rat!”

He turned away, not willing to converse or argue with this man. He wanted nothing to do with him.

But Marcus was foolish enough to voice his thoughts out loud. “If it weren’t for you, I would have wetted my cock with her already!”

Lancelot had halted, Marcus was unable to see the storm in the Ash Man’s eyes that was about to descend upon his head.

He had never felt such white hot fury in him so sudden. By the time his mind caught up with him again, he had struck Marcus.

There was nothing graceful in the fight of fists that ensued between them. It drew the attention of others who were all too apprehensive to interfere in a fight that involved the former Weeping Monk. Not once a sword was drawn, fists flew to each other, trying to place the blow that would send the opponent to the ground.

It was Arthur who got between them, practically dragging Lancelot away as he had gotten the upper hand. Blood dripped from the Ash Man’s nose, the hood of his cloak hanged haphazardly over his head. Marcus had a bruised eye and jaw, bloodied nose and busted lip.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Arthur demanded to know, giving Lancelot a light push with his hand to signal that he needed to stay away from Marcus.

“The Asher is a madman!” Marcus spoke accusingly. “He just attacked me!”

“You’re an impudent swine!” Lancelot spat back.

Arthur knew the atmosphere between them was too heated, too dangerous to linger in to search for the truth. “Alright. Let’s go, Lancelot.”

He was fuming, Arthur patted him on the arm to urge him to walk along.

“A war for a heart cannot be fought by fists,” Arthur told him quietly.

He did not dare look at the Manblood. “I do not know what you speak of.”

Arthur pushed the matter, “Did you put your cloak on her so she would be warm, or so she would smell like you instead of Marcus?”

He reacted cold. “I am not an animal trying to mark territory.”

“Then stop behaving like it,” Arthur boldly told him.

The Ash Man gave a glare and walked away from him. Too angry to continue this sort of discussion with the nosy Arthur.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

It was past noon when Gawain entered the infirmary with Percival. He was holding on to the boy’s jacket, preventing him from running off if he’d be tempted to. It was no secret that Percival did not like a visit to a healer, he was fearful towards needles even though he would never admit it. You let him sit on one of the cots, he had fallen and scuffed his knee. Gawain had noticed it because the young knight’s trouser leg had a blood stain on it and brought Percival to the infirmary to get the dirt and gravel cleaned out of his knee before it got infected.

“The feast is tomorrow.” Percival tried to distract himself as you cleaned his knee. “And there will be ale.”

Gawain crossed his arms over his chest. “There will be ale indeed. But not for you, boy.”

Percival was appalled at the news. “What? Why not?!”

That started a minute long argument between them that Gawain barely won by standing by his choice on the matter. Percival grumbled quietly through his teeth.

The boy put his attention back on you. “Are you going to the feast?”

“I am.”

There was an audible excitement in his voice now, “With Lancelot?”

You shook your head. “No. I am going with someone else.”

“Why don’t you go to the feast with Lancelot?”

“He would not want to.”

“That’s not true,” Percival said as if it was a blatant lie you had told him.

Gawain walked over and swatted the boy’s shoulder lightly. “Boy. Stop distracting our healer before she sews your nose to your foot.”

It made Percival think of something else. “Has Lancelot been here for his nose yet?”

You frowned a little, eyes still fixed on the task. “What is wrong with his nose?”

Gawain tried, “Perciv-”

“He fought with Marcus the stablehand.”

Your eyes widened. Had he really just said that? The look on Gawain’s face told you it was true. “What happened?!?”

The knight gave a disapproving look at Percival who sheepishly smiled. “From what I heard Marcus said something that Lancelot did not like to hear.”

You feared the worst. “Gods… is Marcus alright?”

Gawain put your mind at ease. “Pym saw to him. He’s alive, but his nose is broken.”

The timing could not have been more unfortunate for Lancelot to knock and quickly walk into the infirmary. He was looking at Percival with concern and only then noticed the discreet telling look Gawain was trying to give him to warn him that you knew what had transpired. Lancelot could already guess by the fierce glare he was getting from you and swallowed hard.

You smeared some salve on Percival’s knee and waited for a moment as it dried before rolling Percival’s trouser leg back down. “There you go. Better?”

Percival felt the soothing coolness of the salve numb the pain. “Lots.”

Lancelot went to stand closely beside Gawain, as if to seek some form of protection against the glares you send his way. That plan failed miserably when Percival got up from the cot and Gawain steered Percival out of the infirmary while giving Lancelot a sympathetic look.

You waited until they were out of the infirmary and closed the door behind them, then marched right over to him. “You have some nerve to show your face here after what you did!”

He, the former notorious Weeping Monk, took some steps back when seeing the fury burn into your eyes. “I…”

“Is it true you attacked Marcus?”

His expression turned near stoic. “He lacks manners.”

Was that his reasoning?!? “And you don’t?!”

He looked like he was about to cower, tilting his head down but keeping his eyes on yours.

You shook your head, disappointed in his behavior. “Do not come to the infirmary to receive my help with the injuries you sustained from attacking my suitor!”

His eyes fell away. “Your suitor…”

“Yes. The only one I had! And this will have scared him off! Marcus knows you are my friend and he will not want anything to do with me after this.” You tried not to let the tears show but it was no use, your lip quivered. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be the one without a flower on the Lovers Feast? I had a chance this time to experience what the others have and now that’s gone.”

He appeared genuinely remorseful, even shocked at the sight of your tears. “I am sorry.”

You hugged yourself. “What lead to this, Lancelot?”

“Something he said.” He had to admit to what caused him to lose control over his composure.

“Did he deserve to have his nose broken for ‘something he said’?”

“Yes.” He was firm on that answer. “He deserved it for how he spoke. I apologize for how this upsets you, but not for giving Marcus what he deserved.”

The conviction he showed alarmed you. “What exactly did he say?”

Lancelot looked away, showing high reluctance to speak of it. It only alarmed you even more.

“Lancelot! What did he say?” your voice rose, demanding to learn the truth.

He paced around for a moment, frustrated. “It will only upset you.”

“I still want to know. I want to know why you thought that breaking his nose was a proper response!”

The silence that fell lasted a while, the frustration in his eyes was gone as they fixed on the floor. His expression downcast in a way you had not seen before.

“What he said… I cannot speak it,” he quietly admitted. The heaviness in his words told he was truthful. “He spoke of you as nothing more than a subject to use for his carnal urges.”

A pit formed in your stomach. “What did he say?…”

He shook his head. “I cannot…”

You believed him. If he could not repeat what Marcus had said, then it must have been anything but proper. And Marcus had said it to him, where others could have easily overheard. You thought he was a proper person, a sweet person, but his true intentions had come to light and it was hard not to feel humiliated and betrayed. The Lovers Feast would become a dreaded event again this year.

You took a seat, managed to stay composed for a few seconds but broke down into quiet tears after-all. He stood motionless, silently shocked by seeing you weep. Then approached and knelt down beside you, not knowing what to say or do to help.

You wiped some tears away, voice trembling, “I want to be left alone.”

He spoke your name so gently and tried to take hold of your hand. “I wish I did not have to bring you this news. He is not worth the tears shed for him.”

The stablehand had a reputation, chasing all women he caught in his sight. He had hoped Marcus’ intentions were good, but the man had ruined that hope.

A drop of blood was running down his nose, your sorrow turned to concern for him. Quickly you wiped your tears away then got up and grabbed a clean piece of cloth, getting it damp in one of the washbasins. He seemed unaware of the blood, confused as to why you were suddenly darting around the place in such hurry. He was still kneeling and staring when you stopped in front of him and put your fingers under his chin to make him look up at you. Carefully you wiped the blood away and inspected his nose to see if it had been broken or cracked as well. Slowly his fingers curled around your lower arm, taking a light hold. He tilted his head back, letting the hold slide to your wrist. The marks beneath his eyes heightened their beauty to a greater level, he was truly born to bear them.

You could barely think, your voice was no higher than a whisper, “I don’t think your nose is broken.”

A small smile bravely curved his lips. “You are helping me, even after I fought your suitor?”

“Don’t make a habit of it.” You gave a warning look. “I’ll have to forgive you for it this time considering you did it because he was speaking vulgar about me.”

“How could I not defend the honour of the woman who saved my life?”

“You do not owe me for that.”

The fear that he only spend time around you because he felt obligated was still present. Perhaps he even felt pity for how withdrawn you could be.

“I disagree.” he stated and rose from the ground.

You stumbled back clumsily a little or risked him bumping into you from how close he was. Whenever he was in close proximity, your heart began to race and your palms sweated. It was fortunate he did not have a heightened sense of hearing as well or you would have been in trouble.

“I must go. There are still tasks I must handle before tonight.” He was looking at you, undoubtedly seeing how you struggled to find something to look at instead of him.

Breathing normal was the hardest to do. “Of course.”

He went to pass you, but stopped at your side and took hold of your upper arm for a moment to pull you close. “Remember, he is not worth a single one of your tears.”

You could only nod.

There was a deepening in his voice, “Thank you for helping Percival. He does not enjoy a visit to a healer, but you always make him feel at ease.”

Your heart went faster and faster, until he let go of your arm and walked out of the infirmary. At this rate it would be hard to get him out of your thoughts.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

When evening neared, you headed to your room to get ready for the feast. You had not spoken to Marcus since that morning and were left to wonder whether or not he would still show up as your companion for the evening. A strong part of you hoped that Lancelot had struck him hard enough to forget about that agreement, but you doubted you’d be that lucky.

That feeling of dread was forgotten when you entered your room and the most appealing scent hit your nose. Purple flowers were on your bed and the night table, petals of the same flower were placed here and there. The very same kind of petal that you had found in the infirmary. Stunned, you walked into the room, loving how it smelled now. The flowers were beautiful.

There were only two people who could have done this and you doubted it was Marcus. No, only one had known that you were curious about what flower that petal had belonged to. Had Lancelot truly done this? Was it to cheer you up? It certainly had succeeded in that endeavour. You picked up a flower to smell, feeling your heart flutter with a hope you tried to suppress. The former Weeping Monk, leaving flowers in your room because he had seen how upset you were. It made you determined to go to the feast and enjoy yourself, dance at the music and eat the baked goods. Lancelot was right, Marcus was not worth the tears.

You did your hair and put on the dress you had picked out at a market weeks ago to wear. Even if Lancelot would attend with Gyda, you would not give Gyda what she wanted, you deserved to celebrate as much as everyone else. After an hour, you were ready. The music was already traveling into the castle, but it was the knock on your door that forced your heart to quicken. Was it him?

That hope was gone when you opened the door to a face you had hoped not to see. “Marcus…”

Marcus had multiple bruises on his face and a speck of dried blood still under his now crooked nose. “Whoa… you look stunning.”

“I do.” You stood up straight. “But I will not be going to the feast with you at my side.”

“What-” Realization set into his eyes. “I don’t know what the Ash Man told you, but he is lying.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I don’t believe he is.”

Marcus was clearly irritated to be called out on it, showing that he had hoped you would side with him. But you knew Lancelot, knew he would not lie about such a thing and certainly not react the way he had if it weren’t true.

You were so disappointed in Marcus’ behavior. “You only wanted to take me to the feast because you hoped to bed me.”

He was shockingly blunt about the truth now, “It is the Lovers Feast. It’s only fitting.”

You slapped him, the flat of your hand loudly collided with his cheek, shocking even yourself with the reaction given to him for it.

Marcus touched his cheek, having stumbled a step back from the force of the hit. He responded with words of venom, like an angry threatened snake wanting to strike. “No wonder you find yourself alone on this feast. Even your knight cannot bring himself to make the sacrifice to accompany you. Gyda’s been telling everyone he is her companion for the evening. Whilst you are alone.”

Your rejection brought forth who he truly was, a cruel bastard. It was perhaps fortunate that you learned this before you’d grow more closer to him.

Marcus saw the shock in your eyes, the hurt he wished to cause visible in them. “He pities you, you know? That’s what others say when they see him give his time to you. You healed him, saved his life, he knows he owes you for that. It’s nothing more than a knight looking upon you with sympathy, too cowardly to show the true pity he feels. He wouldn’t have looked your way if he hadn’t been forced to in the infirmary whilst burning with fever.”

You took a step back, feeling the fury blend with pain. “Get out.”

“You-”

Your voice drowned out his words, furious like the lash of a whip, “Get out of my room!”

Marcus furiously left your room, slamming the door shut behind him so hard it caused it to open again from the force. Only a few seconds you were able to keep your composure, then a sob fell. He had thrown your biggest fear in your face again. Were others truly thinking it too? There had to be some truth to it if so. Lancelot felt indebted to you for the help you had given him and once that debt was settled he would have no reason to be a friend.

You were still wiping your tears away when Gawain walked past your door, stopped and walked into the room upon seeing what state you were in.

“Dare I ask why our dearest healer is weeping?”

You tried to at least give half a smile, it did not work. “I spoke to Marcus.”

Gawain sighed, giving a sympathetic look whilst he approached you. “You’re not letting that fool keep you from enjoying this night. Come.” He made you hook your arm around his, determined to get you to the feast. “Away with those tears. Even without a companion, you can enjoy the ale and sweet baked goods. And I doubt you will be the only one lacking a partner, find yourself someone who believes they are alone as well and ask them to dance. You’re a brave one, keep your head up and remember that nearly everyone at this feast will love to see the one who healed them when they were ailing.”

Hearing him be so encouraging helped, you let him walk you out of the room. “Thank you, Gawain. I needed to hear that. Marcus had spoken cruelly to me and it made me lose the will to go to the feast.”

He strolled with you down the hallways towards the courtyard where the feast was held. “Forget him. He’s not worth the headache he would have given you.”

“And who, if I may ask, will be your companion for the evening?” you wondered out loud.

“I asked Pym.”

“Truly?”

“She was Nimue’s closest friend and therefor I want to ensure that whoever takes her to this feast has nothing but the best intentions for her.”

Sorrow filled his eyes for a hallway after talking of his dear friend Nimue. You tried to cheer him up before the two of you stepped into the courtyard. The atmosphere alone was enough to help him feel better. Lanterns were hanged up and smaller ones were placed all around. Flowers decorated the place and music filled the air. There was a crowd already, some dancing, some enjoying the ale.

You released his arm and steered him to Pym who was snacking on the small treats that were provided. “Go on, Green Knight. And good luck.”

He chuckled a little and gave a respectful bow. “Come to us if you seek company. Alright?”

The whole courtyard was so beautifully decorated that you grew quiet. “Thank you for getting me out of my room.”

Gawain was clearly pleased that you were there to celebrate with the rest. He gave another bow and then went over to Pym. You noticed Gyda at the table behind you where ale was being served. She noticed you too and instantly glared. Trying not to roll your eyes, you looked away and to the dancing crowd. Perhaps Gawain was right and there were others without someone to accompany them. As your eyes trailed over the crowd, they landed on only one person. Lancelot. He stood speaking to Red Spear and Arthur and looked more handsome than you had ever seen him, not one stain of blood was on his attire, fresh new attire that complimented him so well.

You were at the table with the ale within seconds, tempted to drink some of it to silence your racing heartbeats. Unfortunately Gyda was only a few steps away and closed in when she saw you.

She looked in Lancelot’s direction, a growing pout on her lips that vanished when she looked and glared at you. “You’re selfish.”

Your eyes snapped to her. “I beg your pardon?”

It set her off. “You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met. Instead of letting Lancelot choose for his own happiness, you allow him to keep feeling indebted to you! All you did was feed him medicine when he was sick, you only did your duty as a healer. So tell him he owes you nothing!”

Wide wide eyes you stared at her. It only infuriated her more that you were too speechless to react to her rant.

Her voice was laced with venom, every word sharp as a blade, “I tried to convince him that he does not owe you, but he’s far too considerate to believe it. You’re so selfish that the only way you could get a companion for this feast was because of the obligation they feel.”

You hated the accusations, first Marcus and now her again. “I have no companion-”

She put her tankard of ale loudly down on the table right next to you and filled up another for herself. As she walked away, she glared again.

The stress this evening had caused weight on your stomach. Something inside had broken, no matter how hard you tried misfortune kept ruthlessly ruining it. You wanted a moment away from the feast, or risked bursting into tears in the midst of it.

You turned to leave the table and saw Lancelot head your direction, one look behind you told that Gyda was looking his way with anticipation, she was waiting for him and you were in his path. He had a flower in his hand and was nervously turning it between his fingertips. She had to be happy, she had vied for his attention for weeks now and this flower exchange was just what she had wanted. And it was the worst thing for your heart to have to witness, so your gaze fixed itself on the ground hoping to spare your heart the suffering. He was close and you would not stand in the way of his happiness as Gyda accused you of.

“Sorry,” you uttered quietly and stepped aside, making room for him to pass.

But he did not pass, no, his brow furrowed as his body turned to follow your movement. Your gaze snapped up to his face when feeling him take hold of your hand. For a moment he said nothing, his gaze falling on the dress you wore and slowly traveling back up to your eyes. You felt the stares aimed your way and the glares Gyda was sending, it was all becoming too much.

Lancelot said not a word as he knelt down before you, holding your hand in his own and presenting you the flower in his other. The very same kind of flower like the petal, like the ones in your room. Had he… wanted to give you one of these that day? Is that why that petal… no… it was just another foolish hope.

Lancelot gazed up at you, the nearby lanterns casting a warm light upon his face. “Will you celebrate this night with me?”

You froze. All that had been said by Marcus and Gyda rushed back into your mind. This was pity for the tears you had shed… an obligation he felt to you for saving his life. This was not what he truly wanted. No wonder Gyda was furious. The stares of the crowd became too much to bear, your heart was going too fast, it felt hard to breath. Did they all pity you?

When nausea twisted your stomach, you pulled your hand free from his and stumbled away. Uttering what should have been an apology, but you fell over your words whilst hurrying away.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

You rushed to the infirmary, hoping to still have some of that vial that would help calm your panic down and ease the heaviness in your stomach. In your haste, a bowl was knocked over but you did find the vial and took some sips from it right away. Dizzy, you sat down on one of the cots to wait for the vial to do it’s work. Peace was not granted to you, Gyda stepped into the infirmary and must have followed you there.

She did not sound fully sober. “Because of you I face this humiliation. You filthy trollop.”

This wasn’t helping you calm down at all. “I did nothing to you, Gyda.”

She stepped closer, again showing her true nature by picking up one of the bowls from the shelves and letting it fall from her hand on purpose. Right after, she took a small sip of ale and looked pleased with herself.

You rolled your eyes and stood up from the cot, tired of her idiocy. “I had no idea that he was going to approach me this evening. I thought he was there with you.”

It infuriated her further. “He would have been if you weren’t such a selfish wench! I told you he felt obligated! You should have never shown your face tonight!”

You had enough of her. This night was already ruined. “You keep throwing yourself at him and yet he is not at your side tonight. Perhaps I am not to blame, maybe he sees you for who you really are and not to facade you deceive others with.”

She retorted by throwing the contents of her tankard of ale onto your dress, ruining it. As quick as she had done it, just as quick did you lash out and punch her. She let out a scream whilst stumbling back and touching her face.

The ruckus had drawn the attention of others outside, Gawain stepped into the room and stopped Gyda before she could attack you. Lancelot followed in his footsteps and of course she hoped to use this to her advantage.

“The healer hit me!” She shouted, quickly moving towards Lancelot to grab hold of his jerkin.

He plucked her hands from him, his eyes scanning the room and falling on your dress ruined by ale. “She defended herself.”

Gyda looked at him appalled. “What? She is a madwoman!”

His eyes grew cold when staring down to her face. “We heard you.”

The broken bowl on the floor, the ruined dress, the accusations and insults. He had heard it all transpire outside the door with Gawain.

Lancelot took hold of her elbow and steered her to Gawain. “Go. You do not seek healing, you seek to harm.”

“But Lancelot…” She tried to resist when Gawain took her by the arm and led her to the door. “You do not have to do all this for her, I told you before, you do not owe her anything!”

“And I told you that it has nothing to do with it!” he snarled in anger. “I despise those who find joy in tormenting others.”

With a nod towards Gawain, he signaled to the knight to take Gyda out of the infirmary. Gawain did and closed the door behind them, determined to bring peace back to the evening.

You looked at Lancelot, seeing how he tried not to show how bothered he felt by the situation. “I am sorry.”

“What for? You were defending yourself.” He looked down at the broken bowl near the door again. “Did she do this on purpose?”

“She did.”

He came closer to you, suddenly taking hold of your hand to inspect your knuckles to see if there was damage to them, there was some broken skin on two knuckles. You winced when he accidentally touched them with his thumb.

He headed for the shelves. “Where is the salve you often use on me?”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to-”

With a scolding look he asked again, “Where?”

“Second shelf. On the left.”

After finding the salve he returned with it, taking your hand in his to carefully apply some of it to your knuckles. “You blackened her eye.”

“She ruined my dress.”

Stunned by the response, he tried to bite back a smile. “Is that a fair exchange?”

“It is to me.”

He clicked his tongue. “Well… it was a beautiful dress. “I must admit, I am impressed with the strength in your strikes. First Marcus, now Gyda.”

You frowned at him. “How do you know I slapped Marcus?”

“I did not add that red mark to his cheek that I saw. That one was fresh from this evening.” Interest gleamed in his eyes. “Our sweet healer bares her teeth to defend herself.”

He grew more and more intrigued. Your secret talent for crafting figurines, this fierceness, the fearless attitude towards him. Yes, he was intrigued indeed.

You watched how gentle he was when touching your hands, so light and careful as if he was handling something he feared to break. The last time he had held your hand, you had left him on his knees in front of everyone and now he was here helping. “I am sorry for leaving the way I did. I didn’t even thank you for the flowers you left in my room.”

He glanced up into your eyes.

Quietly you spoke, “I know you were the one who left them there…”

“Do you like them?” He wrapped a bandage around your hand to cover the salve and let it do it’s work.

“I do.” You could sense him grow quieter, the reaction to him earlier must have hurt him after-all. “It was very sweet of you to do, to cheer me up after the whole Marcus-situation.”

Quietly he put a knot into the bandage to secure it. The small smile he had worn was gone, the distance in his eyes grew more visible. “Will you go back to the feast?”

You looked down at the stained dress. “My dress is ruined.”

“You could change,” he suggested.

Was it your imagination or did he sound hopeful? “I thought you were going to give her that flower.”

“What?” He blinked. “Why?”

The reason was obvious. “Because she has been vying for your attention for weeks.”

His reply was rather firm, “I have not vied for hers.”

That was… true. You had never actually seen him approach her first. Just them together and always her going over to him.

He sought the truth in all this. “Do you truly believe what she said? That I act out of an obligation I feel towards you?”

You withdrew your hand and took a step back. “I do not want to be selfish, I don’t want you to feel as if you must repay me for healing you. I just did my duty.”

He moved his cloak a little aside and there sat the flower he had offered you safely behind the sheath of his sword, he took it between his fingers and placed it down on the cot right next to you. “I thought…”

You saw an emotion in his eyes that twisted a knife in your chest. “Lancelot?”

His gaze did not lift from the floor. “Everything I did for you was because I chose to do it. I wanted to see you happy. Obligation was never part of that.”

“But then…” Shaking your head, you stepped away from him and created some distance. “I just do not understand why someone like you would ask me to celebrate the feast together.”

A frown creased his forehead. “‘Someone like me’… did you refuse me because I once was a monk?”

He sounded as if he was misunderstanding, searching fault in himself. You couldn’t believe it.

“What? No! Of course not.”

“Then why did you reject me tonight?”

“Why did you ask?”

It greatly confused him. “Why should I not?”

Tension weighed down in your stomach. “It just doesn’t make sense to me that you would ask me…”

“Why?” he demanded to know.

“Because you’re perfect!” your thoughts spilled free. Quieter you told him again, “You’re perfect…”

You wanted nothing more than to leave, feeling the loaded atmosphere rise in the room. He was staring and you felt more vulnerable than ever before. Your eyes couldn’t lie anymore, today had taken it’s toll.

“How could you ever want me?” You shook your head and felt your eyes go watery. “If the gods somehow were on my side and you would be mine one day, I would to spend the rest of my life wondering if I am actually truly worthy of you.” Tears that escaped blurred your vision. “Because you’re everything I’ve always wanted… and nothing frightens me more than to be rejected by the one who can truly break my heart.”

Intense silence came from his side, shock plastered on his face along with what you feared to be pity. You did not want him to pity you, this was embarrassing enough.

“I’m going to go now…” your voice was much quieter, all it’s power had been used up on voicing out loud what you now regretted.

Humiliation was overtaking your courage and you did not want him to witness the change. As you were about to pass him to reach the door, he stepped into your path and blocked it. You took a step back, not expecting his action.

“How can you treat yourself so cruelly?” he sounded in disbelief.

“What?” you breathed.

“‘Worthy’? " he appeared upset, shocked by the mere notion. “You have saved more lives than one can count and you believe yourself to be unworthy of someone such as I who for years has done nothing but murder our kind?”

“Lancelot-”

He shook his head, tone firm, “It is I who is unworthy. The only matter that has stopped me from pursuing you is my past, I would taint your reputation. You are grace and kindness, everything I believed did not exist in this world until I met you. There is no one as noble as you.”

Your eyes widened. Had he truly been thinking of pursuing you? “What…?”

He closed the distance, intensity burned in his eyes. “I have loved you since the evenings you spend sitting next to my cot when I was on the verge of death. You promised me you would not leave my side, you sat by me and watched over me. I remember it, I never told you that I did, but I do.”

He had been so consumed by the fever. You didn’t think he remembered that you had sat at his side for so long, the soothing words you had spoken…

“You remember that?” you whispered, then realized what he had just confessed to. “You love me?!?”

Slowly he nodded, swallowing hard. Never before had you seen him so worried for your reaction to him.

“Romantically?” you whispered in disbelief.

He was wise enough not to speak of love around a woman if what he meant was just appreciation and friendship.

Gingerly he fished for your hand and took hold of it. “Yes.”

The door flying open caused both of you to part away. In walked Pym and Gawain supporting a drunk Arthur with a bloody knee.

Lancelot turned to Arthur with concern. “What happened?”

Pym sighed. “He fell over someone’s foot while trying to dance.”

“We’ll handle it.” Gawain said. He must have seen how close the two of you had been standing before the abrupt interruption.

You worried. “Are you sure-”

“They are.” Lancelot wrapped his hand around yours and steered you with him out of the infirmary, giving Gawain a discreet nod of acknowledgment.

He stopped walking and turned to you after shutting the door behind him. Before he could speak, Arthur was cursing inside the infirmary from the pain he must have felt.

“Manbloods…” he sighed annoyed and took you further away from the door.

He remembered too late that he had left behind the flower in the infirmary, a blunder he truly regretted.

He picked his words carefully, “I know how much this feast means to you. If you allow it, I will accompany you.”

You touched your ruined dress. “I would need to stop by my room first.”

It was as if he had completely forgotten the state your dress was in, his gaze dropped down to it. He cleared his throat. “Oh.”

“Want to come along and help me choose a dress to wear?”

It had slipped out of your mouth and your mind caught up only a second later. Your eyes widened at him. Why on earth had you just asked him that?

He stared for a moment. “Of course.”

Of course? A former monk felt comfortable to do this? The interest in his eyes said it all.

Timidly you walked next to him, to your room. That whole walk you were fidgeting with your sleeves. He often walked so close his arm bumped into you.

Once inside the room, you searched your wardrobe for another dress to wear. You fished three out and put them down on the bed to search for more. One had caught his interest, he lifted another one off of it to pick it up.

“This one?” he looked towards you.

“Not proper for the occasion I think.”

“Why?”

Hearing him so curious made you smile. “It’s quite open for an evening at the side of a former monk.”

He frowned a little until he saw you place your hand on your chest to explain where it was quite open. Then he cleared his throat, still holding on to the dress as he looked to the floor. He held the dress out for you to take. “Perhaps… let a former monk see it for himself and share his opinion on the matter?”

You gasped at the daring request he had made and playfully smacked his upper arm. “My goodness, Lancelot!”

The playful tap had not deterred him, the brief physical contact lured him in. He carelessly tossed the dress on top of the others and grabbed hold of your elbow to get you closer. “I believe I need to seek your aid tonight.”

Your voice was wavering under his gaze, the playfulness in his own was like music to your ears, “What ails you?”

“A yearning heart.”

“And you believe I can help with that?”

“I know you hold the cure.”

Gingerly he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over it slowly. “My healer...”

Your gazes were intertwined until his fell on your lips and he touched his thumb to the corner of it. There was hesitation in him, a visible fear of blundering or crossing a line you were not ready to cross yet.

“Please, Lancelot, if you think of kissing me…” You gave him your most inviting look. “Do it.”

There was an instant change in his eyes. His lips descended on yours, kissing you with every fiery bit of passion he possessed within him. Pulling you close and tight, hand on your hair to keep you close and trapped to his lips. As if he wanted to erase the memory of another on your lips. Stilling all thoughts and feeding your mind thrilling ones instead. A startled sound trying to flee your lips was silenced effortlessly by him. There was no question about it anymore, everything he had done for you was not out of obligation, it was because he loved you.

The idea to head back to the courtyard was quickly forgotten and replaced by the desire to spend the Lovers Feast as it was always intended to be.

Between lovers.

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#cursed netflix #weeping monk #weeping monk x reader #cursed #lancelot x reader #the weeping monk #weeping monk x you #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #lancelot

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