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the-weeping-monk · 4 years

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visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 4

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“We have to go to her,” Merlin said, determined.

Morgana merely shook her head. She had just been explaining how Nimue was still alive and had not even finished before Merlin was up and ready to leave. She could feel the anticipation radiating off of him, could see the overwhelming relief in his eyes. But this was something he had to do without her.

“You will go alone,” Morgana said, albeit regretfully. “The dead are calling me. I have avoided them for too long.”

It was true. Ever since she had taken the Widow’s life, the dead had been summoning her, reaching out for her guidance. It had been manageable, at first, but was now so persistent that she could hardly form a coherent thought without being bombarded by the need to do her job.

Her job. She held back an agonized sob. She would never be free to live her own life or make her own choices again.

There is always a choice, a voice in the back of her mind whispered. You chose to kill the Widow.

Morgana hated to admit it, but that tiny seedling of darkness in her mind was right: this was entirely her fault and she was going to have to live with that.

Merlin nodded, once. If anyone could understand what she was going through besides the other Daughters of Death, it would be him—he had been friends with one, after all. The one Morgana had killed.

She took in an unsteady breath.

“Morgana,” he started, his eyes sad, “you don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”

That gave Morgana pause. It was not what she had expected, but it was exactly what she wanted to hear—someone was willing to take her side, guide her through this new life. But then an image of her slicing the Sword of Power through the Widow flashed in front of her eyes, and she was left feeling ashamed for even considering the magician’s proposition. Morgana could not accept Merlin’s help; this was her burden to bear, not his.

The voices in her head grew louder, more demanding. Morgana made herself turn away.

“I’m fine. You do not need to worry about me,” she said.

There was shuffling behind her. She could feel Merlin moving to look out the window. “I do worry about you, though. This burden—”

“Is mine to bear,” Morgana interrupted. “This is who I am now.”

We can’t run from our true nature. Those were the words Morgana had said to Nimue what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Maybe this was what Morgana truly was, what she was always meant to be. And if it was, then she had to stomach this curse alone.

“I need to stop running from this.”

Merlin spoke again, and this time his voice was closer. “Let me help you, young one.”

Morgana squeezed her eyes shut against the torrent of whispering, begging, berating of the dying. She put her hands on either side of her head as if she could physically restrain the voices screaming at her to help them.

“Morgana, just let me ease this pain. Let me help in any way I can.”

She whirled. “I have to do this alone, Merlin. No one can do it for me. I alone made this choice so I alone must dig my grave.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. Morgana would never have a grave, she would never have a mortal death. One stupid mistake had cost her everything.

“Cailleach got in your head. She was the one who made you kill the Widow.” Merlin put a hand on her shoulder. When had he gotten so close? “Stop blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control.”

She turned to him. “But that’s the thing—I wanted to kill her. I was angry and I wanted someone to hurt as I was hurting. I punished her for my pain.”

Merlin didn’t have anything to say to that.

Morgana knew that Merlin had his own daughter, his own life. She couldn’t make it more complicated than it already was, despite everything in her that ached for someone to care for her.

She and Arthur had lost their father when they were young. Arthur would say that it had affected him the most, but he had only lost his father—Morgana had lost her entire life. The church had taken her in, but it wasn’t what she had wanted. She had wanted her dad, had wanted someone to care about her, and tell her everything would be okay.

Arthur had lost his father, but he still had his freedom. He had the opportunity to find someone who could care about him. He could make his own decisions.

Morgana felt like a child again. Her life was no longer her own, and just like before, she was forced to serve a higher purpose. No one cared about her then, and it was too dangerous for anyone to care about her now.

Reluctantly, Morgana shrugged off Merlin’s hand. “I need to leave and you need to find your daughter.”

“Morgana—”

But Morgana would not listen. If she let Merlin talk her into opening up, into letting him into her life . . . it wouldn’t be fair to him or Nimue.

“Good luck, Merlin,” she interrupted, before disappearing into thin air.

. . .

The voices dragged Morgana all across the kingdom, but the most notable place she traveled to was King Cumber’s encampment.

She had appeared in the medical wing—a series of white tents that reeked of death, a scent she had gotten used to throughout the day. Inside one of the tents, there were rows and rows of sick beds.

Morgana stopped at the foot of a dying man’s cot. It was the last cot in the row, separated from the rest by a single sheet. The sheets were coarse and dotted with holes and patches of blood. She made herself look at the body under those sheets, made herself take note of the deep gash in his side that seemed to be infected. His eyelids fluttered with each stilted, shallow breath he took. His braided hair was matted with blood and there were cuts and bruises covering his face.

He must have been in a battle of some sort, Morgana deduced idly, though she hadn’t heard of any fight recently. She wanted to inquire about what had happened but decided against it. It would be cruel to ask the man and then take his life.

Burying her curiosity, Morgana leaned closer to the man and searched for his Cord.

Through Merlin, she had learned that each soul had a tether to the earth, called a Cord. Each Cord that she took fueled her, made her stronger.

It is to restore the natural order of things, he had reasoned. The Daughters aren’t power-hungry; they just serve to balance the world.

But Morgana had shaken her head, had moaned, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, over and over again. Merlin had taken her into his arms and had held her as she cried.

I know, he had murmured, comforting her as best he could. I know.

Blinking past the memory, Morgana found the dying man’s Cord and claimed it for herself. When she pulled on the tether, the results were almost instantaneous. There was a rush of power, unlike anything she had experienced while she had been mortal. It was overwhelming. She wanted more. Her blood sang with the feeling—and then ran cold when she remembered what she had done. What she had been doing for the entire day.

A final sigh left the man’s lips and his body relaxed.

Morgana had cried the first time she had taken a life. She did not cry now. That numb feeling overtook her, and she just . . . stared at the body before her, not really seeing it. The power she had stolen from him ran through her veins, intoxicating her.

In the back of her mind, Morgana knew that what she was doing was wrong, but it was so hard to think of anything else besides the power she felt after she absorbed someone’s Cord.

What was she becoming?

At the end of the hall, the tent flap opened to reveal a burly man with a metal plate attached to his right temple. King Cumber. A woman—Lady Eydis, Morgana assumed—and a soldier followed Cumber into the tent, heading right for Morgana.

But they passed right by her, as if she was not there at all, and stopped at the dead man’s cot.

“You should have told me he was dying,” grumbled Cumber.

The soldier grimaced. “I did, my lord.”

“He’s not dying—he’s dead.” The woman’s nose turned up at the sight. “You didn’t say he was dead.”

The soldier's eyes widened and he froze. “No,” he breathed. He looked like he wanted to move toward his dead comrade but held back at the last moment. His gaze shot to Cumber. “My lord, I swear to you he was alive only moments ago.”

“Who is to verify your story now?” Cumber lamented.

“You must believe me,” the soldier said. “The Fey are still out there, on the beach. We can send soldiers in and finish what we started.”

Eydis stepped toward Cumber, her mouth in a firm line. “Father, we must trust him. If the Fey remain here, then they are a threat to you. The only reason they would stay would be to put Nimue on the throne.”

Cumber’s brows furrowed. “I was under the impression that Uther took her prisoner.”

“He did,” she asserted, “but she escaped. We don’t know where she went, but we have to assume that she found the Fey.”

“Sir?” the soldier spoke up, nervous. When Cumber only raised a brow, he continued. “You should also know that the Red Spear and her raiders aided the Fey in their efforts.”

Anger erupted across Cumber’s face. “How dare she interfere with my plans. She knows how much this means to me. To us.” He paused, expression darkening as he turned to his daughter. “Your sister needs to be put in her place.”

“She is not my sister. Not anymore,” Eydis said with finality. “And if she is working with the Fey, that also makes her traitor.”

Toying with his beard, Cumber murmured, “She must be plotting against me.” He glanced up at Eydis. “We must get that sword before she does.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Eydis said.

“My lord?” the soldier asked. “Should I have the troops deploy to the beach?”

Morgana held her breath, though she knew they wouldn’t be able to hear her even if she screamed.

After a moment of contemplation, Cumber said, “Yes. Send them out and get me that sword.”

No. If the soldier was telling the truth and the Fey were still at the beach, then Morgana had to warn them. And fast.

. . .

Most of the next day consisted of strategizing in the newly-declared war room—a small, hollowed-out crevice in the caverns big enough for a dozen people to convene. Empty crates brought in by the Red Spear’s crew were pushed together to serve as a table. Those that comprised the tight-knit circle of leaders huddled over the maps strewn across the crates.

Voices shouted over each other, echoing off of the walls of the crowded space. No one could agree on anything, let alone listen to anyone besides themselves. Arthur hadn’t had a chance to get a word in since they had begun the meeting.

Six raiders including the Red Spear, and five Fey, with the addition of Arthur, were included in the assembly; Arthur and the Red Spear had thought that it would be advantageous if they showed solidarity between the raiders and the Fey. Emphasis on had.

“We must attack now!” a raider shouted.

“Only if we want to be slaughtered,” contradicted a Fey woman with branches in her hair. “We’re not ready—there are not enough of us to take on two armies at once.”

Another raider slammed her open palms on the table. “Uther won’t attack us if we attack Cumber.”

“No, he will wait to eradicate us until after we’ve dealt with Cumber. That way, he’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone,” a Fey man argued.

Arthur shot the Red Spear a glance over the din. She looked as tired as he felt. They had been at this for hours now, but the exact same ideas were rehashed again and again.

“This isn’t helping,” Kaze muttered at his side.

Arthur looked to the Fey warrior with tired eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

He watched as the Red Spear sighed. Her brow creased and she pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Pym burst into the room, panting.

“Pym?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. Silence descended around the cave, and he was suddenly grateful for the intervention. “What’s wrong?”

Pym shook her head and bent over, hands on her knees. She held up one finger. “Give me a second,” she huffed.

“Pym—” started the Red Spear, no doubt incensed at the interruption.

“It’s Morgana,” Pym breathed. “She’s here.”

Arthur froze, along with the rest of the gathered strategizers. He had been so caught up with saving the Fey and planning to defeat Cumber that he had forgotten his sister.

Guilt seized his heart.

The Red Spear was the first to regain her senses. “Who’s Morgana?”

Arthur was already moving toward the door, but he looked back over his shoulder to address her when he said, “She’s my sister.”

Pym bit her lip and wrung her hands together. “Arthur, there’s something you need to know.”

His brow furrowed. “Can it wait? I want to make sure Morgana is alright.”

“Yep, yeah, that's what I need to talk to you about.” Pym glanced over his shoulder at the gathered crowd. “Maybe you should just see for yourself.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Okay?” Arthur said, but it came out as a question. He met the Red Spear’s eyes. “Can you handle this?”

The Red Spear gave him a look that said “did we handle it before?” but nodded nonetheless. “Go to her.”

Arthur gave her a grateful nod and followed Pym out of the caverns.

The sun was already descending toward the horizon, painting the waves of the ocean with fire. A few raiders and Fey hung around the beach, but for the most part, it was empty and allowed for Arthur to zero in on a figure in all black.

When Pym saw him staring, she said, “That’s her. She’s . . . changed.”

Arthur didn’t comment, just continued forward. He didn’t want to think of the implications of Pym’s words until absolutely necessary. When they were only a few strides away from Morgana, the woman in question turned to face them.

A black veil covered her features, one she quickly threw back over her head. On the surface, nothing about her—save her dark garb—seemed different. That was, until Arthur saw her eyes.

They held a depthless well of sorrow and pain, and antiquity to them that hadn’t been there before. Grief was etched in the downward curve of her mouth, in the crease of her brow. Where there had been a fiery spirit, there was only devastation.

She’s . . . changed.

“Arthur,” Morgana said, halting his observations.

“Morgana, what happened—”

She didn’t let him finish. “There’s no time. Cumber is sending an army here as we speak; you need to prepare.”

The abrupt news took his breath away and it was only by sheer luck that his heart didn’t stop right then and there.

“No,” he breathed.

They were nowhere near ready for another attack. There were more wounded Fey than those that could fight, and even though there were plenty of raiders who were itching for another battle, Arthur knew their numbers were too few to take on an army.

Arthur shared a worried glance with Pym, whose eyes were wide open in fear. She knew as well as he that if they stayed, it would be a bloodbath and that this time, they would not be the victors.

His eyes snapped to Morgana’s own. “How much time do we have?”

Morgana grimaced. “A couple of hours at most. It should give you enough time to escape.”

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t understand. “Why would they send another army? We killed all of the soldiers who were sent here.”

“Not all of them,” murmured Morgana, regret tinging her voice. “There were two that escaped. Cumber thinks that Nimue and the Red Spear plan to dethrone him.” She placed both hands on Arthur’s shoulders and squeezed. “But none of that matters right now—you need to warn the others.”

Arthur paused. “How could Nimue dethrone him? Doesn’t he know of the bargain she made?”

Morgana pursed her lips, almost as if she was reluctant to tell him. “She escaped, and she’s heading here now.”

Relief flooded through his system in a tidal wave. Nimue was alive; she had escaped Uther and she was alive. She was heading toward the beach and Arthur was going to see her soon and they could be together—

“How do you know this?”

Her expression shuttered. “There’s no time.” Arthur opened his mouth to object, to demand answers, and she amended, “Later, I promise.”

“How am I going to explain this to them if you don’t give me something to work with?”

“Now is not the time, Arthur. You just have to trust me.”

Arthur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But—”

“I promise you I’ll explain everything after you save the Fey.” Her eyes implored him to drop the subject. “Please.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but they were already pressed for time as it was. “Alright.” Arthur nodded. He started back toward the caves with Pym in tow, heart in his throat.

How was he going to explain this to the Red Spear and the rest of their makeshift council? Oh, hey, by the way, my sister just appeared out of the blue and said that Cumber is going to attack us. Please don’t freak out.

When he realized that Morgana wasn’t following him, he stopped and turned back to her. “Won’t you help us?”

Morgana shook her head slightly. “They need your leadership, Arthur. If I was there, it wouldn’t change anything. They need you.”

Arthur couldn’t help the swell of pride inside his chest. Even after everything, his sister still believed in him.

“Besides, there’s something I must do first,” she answered. And then, to Arthur’s bewilderment, she disappeared into thin air.

He whipped to face Pym, who didn’t look nearly as shocked as he felt was appropriate. “What was that?”

“I told you that she changed.”

“I—” Arthur started, then decided that there were more pressing matters than his sister’s newfound abilities. “Nevermind.”

They made their way back into the hollowed-out crevice of the meeting room in silence, both too nervous to say much.

They returned to find the makeshift council much the same as they had left it. Everyone was arguing, back and forth, back and forth over nonsense that didn’t even matter in the light of Morgana’s new information. Maybe bringing this up with the group first was a bad idea—maybe they should go to the Red Spear before opening this up to a dozen differing opinions.

But before Arthur could give voice to his concerns, Pym was already talking.

“Everyone quiet!” she shouted over the din. All at once, every voice in the room ceased in order to listen—which Arthur would admit was an admirable quality had he not been trying to signal to Pym to stop talking. Pym continued, oblivious to his silent pleas. “King Cumber is sending more soldiers here to attack us. We only have a couple of hours.”

Chaos erupted. The raiders stood up so fast from their seats that the crates they used as chairs were knocked over; the Fey were already trying to dominate the debate on how they should move forward. Across the room, the Red Spear’s face was ashen.

Arthur was about to go to her, but she was already moving toward him. When she reached him, the Red Spear shoved him out of the hollow and into the larger part of the cave. Her eyes were wide in apprehension and a little bit of anger, and Arthur rushed to explain for fear that that anger was directed at him.

“I can explain,” he whispered. There was no one within hearing-distance, but Arthur still kept his voice down in case of his words echoing.

The Red Spear narrowed her eyes and matched his tone, though with much more hostility. “Well, I would hope so, considering you just announced to a group of nonfunctional military personnel that we’re going to be attacked by my father in a few short hours.”

Arthur’s mouth was dry as he floundered for words. The Red Spear’s eyebrows rose as she prompted, “Well?”

“Well, Morgana didn’t say much except that a few soldiers escaped from our skirmish and reported back to Cumber. That’s why they’re attacking.” He paused, waiting for the Red Spear’s reaction. When she didn’t speak, just stared, waiting for him to continue, Arthur said, “We have to run. We can’t fight our way out of this.”

“I’m not running. Not again,” she said, her tone icy.

“We don’t have a choice this time. We’re not in any fighting shape.”

The Red Spear closed her eyes. “I can’t admit defeat. He already sees me as weak.”

Arthur didn’t ask who she was referring to, but instead reasoned, “It’s not just you that you have to worry about. Both the raiders and the Fey are counting on you.”

It was a moment before the Red Spear sighed in defeat. She glanced up and met Arthur’s eyes before giving a single nod. “You’re right. We have to run.”

“And I have to stay behind.”

“What?” she snapped. “What do you mean you’re staying behind? What did you mean before when you said that ‘we can’t fight our way out of this’? Are you trying to be a martyr, Arthur, is that what you’re doing?”

Arthur could only blink at her rant. “No, Red, I . . . Nimue is alive, and she’s coming here. If we’re all gone, then she’ll think that we left on those ships.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so close to seeing her again. I have to be there for her.”

The Red Spear could only blink. Finally, she said, “Okay. Fine. But we’re not sending anyone back to check on you, you understand? You’ll have to find your way to us on your own.”

Arthur nodded, solemn, and released a breath. “What should we tell them?”

The Red Spear rolled her shoulders back and said, “Tell them to prepare their belongings. We leave in half an hour.”

. . .

Nimue was not sure what to make of the Monk.

It was something she had overheard the night before that made her question if her assumptions about him had been made in haste.

After collecting firewood, she had stopped at the edge of the clearing, having heard voices. Intrigued, she had paused and observed as the Monk comforted Squirrel. But she quickly realized that the Monk was being a lot more open with the boy, even going as far as to tell him about his past.

The Red Paladins killed my parents and burned my village. Fa—Carden took me under his wing and molded me into a weapon. I never thought to leave, and even if I did, I had nowhere to go.

You could have used your ability to find one of our villages, you know, Squirrel had mumbled.

That had given Nimue pause. His ability? She had heard that the Monk was a good tracker, but she hadn’t attributed it to anything other than practice.

And you think that they would welcome me with open arms? After everything I’ve done? The Monk’s tone had been self-deprecating, but Nimue knew he was right.

The Fey Queen would not welcome him, the warrior who had to keep her people safe would not welcome him. But between the moment she had met him and now, something had changed. There was more to the Monk than she had thought.

The sun was just coming up over the horizon and they had just finished readying themselves to finish their journey.

But something was weighing on her mind, something Squirrel had said about the Monk’s ability. She couldn’t shake the thought away, so after the fire had been put out and Squirrel had been hauled onto the horse, Nimue decided to confront him about it.

“Monk,” she said, addressing him.

His eyes snapped to hers and his jaw worked as if he was deliberating something. Finally, he spoke. “I would rather you call me by my real name.”

“Oh, alright then.” Nimue blinked, a little taken aback. “Lancelot, I want to try something.”

The Monk looked at her warily but didn’t object as she stepped forward. His eyes tracked her until there was only a foot of space between them.

Hesitant, Nimue took his hand in hers, noting how large it was in comparison before quickly dismissing the thought.

She closed her eyes and called out the Hidden. Their power rose within her, and suddenly, she was connected to everything around her. She could feel the life of the soil beneath her feet, could feel the gentle drumming of thousands of heartbeats coming from the animals in the surrounding area.

But Nimue pushed through all of the nuances for something specific, something she was not entirely sure was even there.

And then she felt it: a soft inkling that slowly became an overwhelming sensation. It was coming from right in front of her—from the Monk. His connection to the Hidden matched her own, but unlike hers, it was buried deep within him, recoiling from her prodding.

Nimue pulled back and opened her eyes to find the scars under the Monk’s eyes glowing gold. As the Hidden retreated, the glow faded.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why lie about that?”

The Monk glanced away, his face a careful mask.

“Lie about what?” Squirrel asked from his seat atop the horse. “What’s going on?”

“Your friend here is Fey,” Nimue said without breaking eye-contact with the Monk.

Silence, and then—

“Oh, yeah.”

Nimue whirled. “You knew?”

Squirrel shrunk in the saddle.

“You didn’t think this piece of information would be of interest to me?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” Squirrel crossed his arms, indignant.

Nimue sighed and turned back to Lancelot. “I can understand why Squirrel wouldn’t tell me, but why wouldn’t you?”

“Would it have made a difference?”

Would it have made a difference? Would you have taken pity on me if your Fey had been fighting a man and not a beast?

No, she had said. I suppose not.

This time, Nimue remained silent.

The Monk’s gaze was far away. “I thought you would hate me more than you already do since I’ve hunted and killed my own kind. Isn’t that worse than me being human?”

She wasn’t sure what was worse—fighting a nameless monster or fighting one of your own kind. How could you forgive someone for murdering their own people, those they should have protected? How could you forgive someone for going against everything you stood for?

Nimue did not have an answer, and she wasn’t sure that she ever would.

She did not say anything for a few moments, just analyzed his face, his scars. When she spoke, all she said was, “What clan are you from?”

His voice was quiet when he said, “The Ash People.”

Nimue remembered her mother telling her about how the Red Paladins had wiped out the Ash People long ago. She was not sure if she should comfort him or leave him to rot in silence—after the Paladins had murdered his people, how could he have joined them?

“How old were you, when it happened?” She didn’t know why she needed to know; it wouldn’t absolve him of his crimes. But nevertheless, she wanted an answer.

The Monk deliberated for a few moments, before finally bringing his eyes up to hers. “Old enough.”

Nimue shut her eyes against the blue of his eyes. She wasn’t sure what she expected. It was not like knowing how old he was would change anything, but it might have made things less tense between them if she was given the opportunity to understand.

The crunching of boots against leaves echoed through the forest. Nimue ripped her eyes open and spun around toward the noise. She caught a glimpse of red through the foliage, and she cursed under her breath. She didn’t have her sword, but she had one of the Paladin swords. It would have to do.

Her gaze cut to the Monk, anger rising. “Did you lead them here?”

“I didn’t, I swear.” He looked genuine, but Nimue was only reminded that he was a Paladin himself only a few days before.

She raised her sword to his throat.

. . .

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she snarled, voice low and dangerous.

Lancelot’s gaze flicked to the flashes of red robes through the trees. It would only be a few moments until they were discovered. He had to think fast.

“I can prove myself to you,” he started. “Stay with Percival while I dispatch them.”

“Oh, you’re giving me orders now?”

Lancelot fought to keep his tone controlled. “Just trust me.”

“That’s not happening.”

He worked his jaw, eyes trained on the Paladins heading their way. They would be upon them any second now.

An image of Squirrel’s broken body and lifeless eyes flashed through his mind’s eye. Lancelot could not let that happen. He couldn’t. He would not be able to live with himself if something happened to the boy, not after everything they had been through together.

Lancelot needed to protect the boy, needed to protect Nimue. It was all he could think as he unsheathed his twin blades, moving toward the Paladins as he did so. There were four of them, all with their swords drawn.

“What are you doing?” Nimue hissed.

He didn’t respond and instead focused all of his attention on the Paladins, who were heading toward them. They were no match for Lancelot, but he was wounded and his movements were slow. Even raising his swords required more effort than he cared to admit, though the salve Nimue had applied on his wounds had helped with the pain.

When they were only a few yards apart, Lancelot said, “You don’t have to do this. You can walk away and forget you saw us.”

“Us?” one of the Paladins asked, raising his sword a little higher. His companions looked around discreetly.

Lancelot’s brow furrowed and he looked back to check on Squirrel and Nimue—

Only to find that they were nowhere to be seen.

“We know what you’ve done, Monk.” The raspy drawl of another Paladin brought him back. “Abbott Wicklow wants your head.”

I am sure he does. Lancelot bit back the remark.

“How could you betray your own brothers?” another Paladin spoke up.

A different Paladin said, “Animals don’t have the capacity for reason. Betrayal is in their blood.”

Lancelot clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his sword. This had gone on for too long.

Steeling himself, Lancelot charged forward and felled the first two Paladins by swiping his dual swords in two intersecting arcs in front of him. The Paladins crumpled to the forest floor, and the last two charged him, each taking moving to either side of him. The one to his left raised his sword above his head and slashed down, while the one to his right made a swipe at Lancelot’s ankles. Lancelot parried the Paladin to his left with little more than a thought and nicked the arm of the Paladin to his right with his blade. The man grunted in pain and redoubled his efforts, while his companion ran at Lancelot with a war cry.

But he didn’t make it far—vines erupted from the ground beneath him and twisted around his writhing body. The last Paladin froze in a moment of pure panic and fear, giving Lancelot an opening to stab him straight through the heart. It was a quick death and a mercy he felt obligated to give. They had been his brothers, once, and even if that meant nothing to them, it had meant something to Lancelot.

“You’re welcome.”

Lancelot spun to face Nimue. “I thought you had gone.”

She raised a skeptic brow. “We haven’t moved. We’ve been here the whole time.”

He could only blink. “I’m not sure I understand. You disappeared.”

“I might have a theory about that.” Nimue bit her lip in contemplation as she sorted through her words. “Your ability allows you to find those who don’t wish to be found; I suspect that it can also hide them, too.”

Lancelot’s brow creased. “But this has never happened before.”

“Have you ever needed to use it?” At Lancelot’s silence, she continued. “When I searched for the Hidden within you, a large part of it was buried deep within your subconscious. Like you’ve repressed that part of who you are for your entire life.”

“Oh.” He was not sure what to say. He had had to repress his identity for the majority of his life, so it was no surprise that if he had any other powers besides his tracking ability that they would be repressed, too.

“That’s bloody fantastic!” Squirrel shouted, hopping down from the saddle and rushing toward Lancelot.

Lancelot couldn’t help the upward quirk of his lips.

Nimue opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by a powerful gust of wind that knocked them all back. When they righted themselves, a woman cloaked in black drapery stood in the center of the clearing.

“Morgana?” Nimue asked.

“There isn’t much time.”

#visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)#nimulot #nimulot fic #nimulot fanfiction #Nimue x lancelot #cursed #cursed netflix #nimue x the weeping monk #Lancelot and squirrel #Arthur x the red spear #Arthur x Guinevere #nimue #the weeping monk #squirrel #the-weeping-monk #the-weeping-monk writes

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amidepressedorjusthungry · 4 years

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Some of you haven't read a soft fluffly found family fic with two lost souls who find each other (and adopt a kid) at 3 am in a long time and it shows.

Just saying

#fics #ao3 #cursed netflix #nimulot #everlark #reylo

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dealingdreams · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Cursed (TV 2020) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed) Characters: Nimue (Cursed), The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Pym (Cursed) Additional Tags: soft, Some pining Summary:

It was like drowning. It overwhelmed, terrified her, and excited her, this all-consuming affection she bore for him.

#nimulot #my fics #it shit but was made with love #for Laura

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louisahalewrites · 3 years

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Affinity A Cursed Fanfiction

Rating: M (with a bit of E)

Main Pairing: Nimue/Lancelot

Two children from powerful unions would be born with an affinity for all four natural elements. Once Joined the two would be an unstoppable force, saviors of the Fey.

NOTE: Rated Explicit for very kinky scenes in part two (Water) and three (Earth) (sections will be Marked E) the story as a whole is rated M. Skipping the sex scenes will not change the plot of the story very much. You just wont the whole alpha/omega experience

20Feb2021 Upload:

Prologue: Born In The Dawn

Part One: Fire

Part Two: Water

Next Upload Expected By: 24Feb2021

#explict #fanfiction update #fanfiction #cursed fanfiction #Daniel Sharman fanfiction #nimue x lancelot #nimulot #omegaverse #alpha/beta/omega verse #fic rated m #with some E scenes #louisahalewrites #louisahale #my writing #my photo edits

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romavitae · 4 years

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Hi nimulot shippers !

As you problably noticed, our very recent fandom is growing everyday, and like me you may have searched for some fics to read. As there are a few updates and new fics everyday on ao3, i’m myself struggling to find the time to read everything, but i just wanted to share with you some beautiful fics that i absolutely love.

I may also complete the list regularly if i can, feel free to add your favorites if you want !

Belonging by TownOfHypocrisy

Why does Lancelot and Nimue feel such a strong pull to one another? What is it that the hidden is not telling them, and how are their destinies intertwined?

Accursed Salvation by Thrill_of_hope

The Weeping Monk cannot be redeemed, but Lancelot seeks salvation all the same. Nimue struggles to lead after her last attempts ended in near-death; can she be a leader in her own right, or is she simply a pawn of the Sword? With enemies on every side, what will become of the Fey as the fight for the Sword plays on?

Ash and Sky by Violenne

Both are haunted by terrible powers. She would never betray her people. He's left the only faith he ever knew. She doesn't trust him, he doesn't like her. They prefer the other one dead.

But they might just be the only ones who understand each other.

A continuation of where season 1 leaves off.

Everything I Need by Blackbeak99

What would happen if Lancelot and Percival happen to stumble upon where Nimue fell into the water ?

Drained by judinthegalaxy

The Weeping Monk? Lancelot? If he doesn't know to what name does he has to respond, how is he going to know his place in this world?

For now, he's going to make sure the Squirrel finds his poeple. Or that's what he thought, just before starting to feel something so deep inside him that he does not have another option but to follow what it says.

What happens when that call leads him towards a lake? What he has to do with this woman with whom he feels so strongly connected? What will be her reaction when she wakes up?

#fic rec #cursed netflix #nimulot #nimulot fic rec #nimulot fic recs #nimue x lancelot #nimue x weeping monk #nimue x the weeping monk

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allgirlsareprincesses · 2 years

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A Song of Ash and Sky - A Cursed Fanfic

Chapter 20 - A Love in Ashes

Nimue learns that the situation for the Fey is more dire than ever. Morgana tells the full story of her time as the Widow. And Nimue makes a fateful decision that may save the Fey, but put happiness forever out of her reach.

She turned to face the hearth, then knelt. Confused, Nimue craned her neck to see the black-clad figure digging into the ashes at the edge of the fire, barely missing the embers that smoldered there. Rising back to her full height with a fistful of soot, Morgana murmured a few unfamiliar words, then scattered the ashes into the air in a sweeping arc.

The fire vanished and the room was plunged into darkness.

~~~~~~

Sorry for the lack of smut but I do hope you enjoy the angsty set-up for some sexy conflict next chapter! Already working on it!

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talesofthehollow · 1 year

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Yup, we’re still kicking! Well, I’m nothing if not consistent, so here is my moodboard following the story thus far in A Song of Ash & Sky (as w/ last year and year before that). As always, thank you to @allgirlsareprincesses for keeping the Nimulot flame going w/ your riveting words! ❤

Volume 3 was a challenge, I confess... 💦 I got lost in the woods with this one, but sometimes you need that to find your way! 🤔 Notice how the latest slew of chapter heads display an interesting trend... 👀

Merry Xmas & Happy Holidays, everyone! ❤❤❤

#cursed #cursed netflix #nimue #lady of the lake #weeping monk #lancelot #nimue x weeping monk #nimue x lancelot #nimulot #born in the dawn/to pass in the twilight #with water/with fire #fic reccs #ASoA+S #edits #moodboard #claudie!screeches #I hope you like?#happy holidays ❄#merry xmas 🎄

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venomwrites · 4 years

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Do you write Nimulot?

I’ve written one fic for them, it’s here: du Lac or on my writing tumblr here.

Honesty my liking of the pairing has been kind of compromised by the fandom’s poor behavior. I had other ideas but I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with writing them. Especially because I had a very bad experience in a fandom that the reylo group saw a comparison to and it kind of makes me nervous. But that’s the fic I have. Hope you enjoy it!

#nimulot #nimue #the weeping monk #lancelot x nimue #lancelot #cursed netflix #ooc #fics

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pyra-morgana · 3 years

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The Modern Catholic School AU Nimulot Fic no one asked for...

#nimulot #modern au #cursed netflix #nimue #nimue x lancelot #weeping monk #lancelot

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the-weeping-monk · 4 years

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visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 5

prev-next/find on ao3

“There isn’t much time.”

Nimue’s mouth went dry. “I don’t understand, what’s happening?”

“It’s Cumber. He’s sending an army to wipe the Fey out.” Morgana paused, then amended, “Well, another army.”

“‘Another army’? They didn’t leave on the ships?” Nimue wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed, but she was definitely guilty. Had they stayed for her? She had told Arthur to leave, to not look back. She had made her choice for the good of her people—why couldn’t he have just let her go?

But the tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered to her that the Fey had stayed for her. Because they believed in her.

“No,” Morgana said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know it, either, but apparently Cumber sent soldiers to make certain the Fey never left the beach.”

Her stomach dropped. How many casualties? she wanted to ask. How many did we lose?

But Nimue remained silent. She could not ask now or else she might break, and that was not an option. She had to be strong—if not for herself, then for the Fey. Taking a deep breath, she asked instead, “What do we do?”

“I made sure that Arthur led the Fey to safety. By the time Cumber’s soldiers arrive at the beach, they should be long gone.”

“You saw Arthur?” Nimue’s heart stuttered. “How is he? Is he alright?”

Morgana gave a rueful smile and glanced away. “He’s fine, Nimue.”

Nimue couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her. Arthur was alive, alive, alive. She would get to see him and this time, they would never have to be parted again.

“In the meantime, we need to slow Cumber’s army down. If you and Merlin work together—wait.” Morgana paused and looked around the clearing, her gaze briefly stumbling on the Monk. “Where’s Merlin? And what is he doing here?” she demanded, jerking her head toward the ex-Paladin.

Ignoring Morgana’s last question, Nimue asked, “Is Merlin supposed to be here?” She found that she didn’t possess enough energy to pretend to defend the Monk’s reasons for tagging along. She still hadn’t made up her mind about him yet, still hadn’t decided if she could move past what he had done to her people.

To their people, she reminded herself. Because he had not just harmed a race he didn’t understand out of fear or ignorance, no—the Monk had been a part of mass genocide against his own kind.

It made her sick, it made her angry. She didn’t want to feel anything other than hatred toward him, but the previous night had complicated things. His confession had twisted her assumption of him and made Nimue question everything she knew. The Monk was single-handedly blurring her well-constructed lines between good and evil, and she didn’t know what to do.

She never should have let the Monk travel with them. He and Squirrel were already closer than she could have imagined, given the circumstances; the boy had even let him call him by his given name. Squirrel was young, impressionable. What would happen if he and the Monk grew closer if the boy began to look up to the allegedly reformed murderer?

Clenching her teeth, Nimue silently resolved to make sure that never happened, whatever it took.

“Merlin told me that he was going to meet you,” Morgana said, bringing Nimue back to the present.

“Well, obviously something got in his way.” Nimue paused, thinking, and then, “Where did you two go after I . . .” she trailed off, unable to form the words. Her fall was still fresh in her mind, the feeling of Death’s talons gripping her lungs still paralyzing.

Morgana pursed her lips. “We went back to his old tower in Uther’s palace. We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Do you think Uther found him?” Nimue didn’t want to believe it, but it was entirely possible. Even if Merlin had his magic back, he couldn’t defend himself or outright murder the king without risk of being hunted down for generations to come.

“I don’t know what to think anymore, but there isn’t enough time to debate. We have to get to the Fey before Cumber’s army does.”

“What makes you think that we can do anything against an entire army?” Nimue asked, doubtful.

Morgana gave her a flat look. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

Nimue’s brow furrowed. “I’m serious, Morgana. Getting rid of those soldiers in the forest was one thing—fighting off an entire army is another.”

It was true; Nimue had been able to fend off a handful of soldiers, but she knew she was not yet ready to take on an entire army, at least not alone. Maybe if Merlin were there it would be different, but he was nowhere to be found.

“You will have me.”

Nimue startled. It was the first time the Monk had spoken since Morgana had arrived. Nimue almost wished she could say she had forgotten he was there, but it wouldn’t have been true—she felt his presence in the back of her mind, a steady heat burning in her subconscious. Ever since she had had that vision of him in the caverns, something had changed.

No, changed wasn’t the right word, she decided. Something had been discovered, something that had always been there, buried in the shadows of her mind. Fate had led them there, and fate guided them now.

It was only then that she realized what—or, more accurately, who—she was connected with, and she stifled a wave of revulsion.

There must have been some sort of fluke; maybe the presence in the back of her mind was her mother, guiding her to the right decision. After all, it felt good and kind and familiar, and the Monk was none of those things.

It couldn't be the Monk. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

Morgana scoffed. “I still don’t understand what he is doing here.” The question was directed at Nimue but her eyes were on the Monk. “Didn’t he hunt you all down, hell-bent on murdering the Fey?”

The Monk looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Yes,” he breathed, “I did.”

“And you’re fine with that, Nimue? Welcoming him into your good graces after all that he has done?” Morgana shook her head before Nimue had the chance to respond. “Did the water of the lake damage your brain, is that what this is?”

“Morgana,” Nimue said her name like an order. The young Daughter stopped her tangent and gazed at Nimue expectantly. “I am not saying that I’m alright with the . . . situation,” she glanced sidelong at the Monk, whose gaze was resolutely turned away, “but I am asking you to focus on what’s more important at the moment—the Fey.” Nimue closed her eyes in anticipation of what she was about to say. “And if Lancelot is offering his help, then I won’t turn him away.”

For a moment, Nimue was sure Morgana wouldn’t respond, and then—

“He’s Lancelot now?” She guffawed. “I didn’t realize we were humanizing murderers.”

Nimue tried to be patient, she really did, but it wasn’t in her power. She was disgusted with the Monk and frustrated that Morgana was questioning Nimue’s decision to allow him to stay with them. Why couldn’t anything be easy for once?

“I’m not asking you to understand, Morgana,” Nimue said, patience running thin, “so let’s focus and discuss what’s more important right now.”

Morgana bit the inside of her cheek. She was silent for a few agonizing moments before she spoke.

“They Fey could have left tracks—they were in a hurry.”

Nimue let out a small sigh of relief at Morgana’s compliance. “If Cumber’s army is already on its way, then we have to move fast to intercept them. They’ll likely have sent scouts ahead, and I can’t let them get back to the soldiers with wind of where the Fey went.”

“I agree. Head there now—I’ll go find Merlin and have him come to you so he can transport the lot of you to the beach,” Morgana asserted. “Once you get there, make sure to cover any tracks the Fey could have left.”

Nimue nodded. The decision had been made. “Born in the dawn.”

Morgana’s answering smile was grim. Idly, Nimue found she had trouble remembering the last time she had seen her friend smile. “To pass in the twilight.”

The Fey expression was easier than saying goodbye. It meant that there was still a chance of life beyond death, that if something ever happened, Nimue and Morgana would one day reunite.

Nimue blinked and Morgana was gone.

There were a few moments of palpable silence before Nimue turned back to Squirrel and the Monk, determination hardening her gaze. “We have to leave, immediately.”

No objections were made—both Squirrel and the Monk seemed to understand the weight of the situation.

The Monk didn’t spare her a glance as he lifted Squirrel onto the horse and started forward on foot. His limp was more prominent than it had been, though his face was emotionless, dead eyes staring straight ahead. He must have reinjured himself during the fight.

She made herself look away. One minute she hated him, and the next she was sympathizing with him?

But she couldn’t just let him hurt himself further. Whether she liked it or not, their paths were intertwined. As his queen, she had a duty to help him—she owed it to him to give him this. He had saved her and Squirrel, and that counted for something.

Nimue sighed. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this.

“Mo—Lancelot,” she called, tripping over his name. He turned back to her, hand snapping to one of his swords, ready to fight at a moment’s notice despite being heavily injured. “Use the horse. I need a good walk.”

His expression hardened, most likely thinking that she was pitying him. His voice was rough when he muttered out an “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re clearly not.” Nimue walked forward, catching up to him easily and stopping in front of him. “Get on the horse. That’s an order from your queen.” When he didn’t move right away, she tried again. “I thought you said you were loyal to me?”

This seemed to get his attention. “Yes, my lady.”

Nimue blinked. “I’m not your lady.”

The Monk gave her a quizzical look before his mask fell back into place once more. “What should I call you then?”

Nimue hesitated. “Not ‘my lady’.”

Maybe it was the light or the adrenaline from earlier warping her perception of reality, but Nimue could have sworn the Monk’s lips had quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.

The Monk did as he was commanded and climbed atop his horse behind Squirrel, who had been noticeably silent throughout the entire exchange. When the boy caught her staring, he merely raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Nimue didn’t know what that was meant to convey, and she didn’t ask, and instead started forward along the path once more. They could have stayed in their little camp until Merlin found them, but Nimue knew she wouldn’t have been able to sit still, not with Fey lives on the line. She had to move, had to do something.

But even as they walked, the silence of the woods was too all-consuming and she was bombarded by intruding thoughts.

What if Cumber’s army discovered the Fey? Would Arthur be alright, was he struggling to lead the Fey? What about Pym and Kaze? Nimue hadn’t even thought to ask Morgana about them.

She had to distract herself.

“So,” she found herself saying, “how do you think you did it?”

The Monk knew what she was referring to and didn’t ask for clarification. “I’m not sure.”

Nimue frowned, though he couldn’t see it; she was still staring resolutely ahead. “You cloaked all of us with your magic; that must have taken a lot of concentration. Are you sure that you weren’t thinking of anything specific?”

She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the shake of his head. His eyes were on the horizon, but when he felt her staring at him, he met her gaze. Nimue whipped her head back to face the front as if she had been burned.

After the awkwardness had passed, she began again. “When I was first learning how to wield my magic, it responded to my emotions. Was it like that for you, do you think?”

The Monk was silent for a moment before he spoke, deliberating. “All I knew was that I had to protect Percival. And you,” he said.

“And you said that you’ve never done this before? Not once, not even on accident?”

The Monk shook his head once. “I never had a reason to protect anyone before,” he said simply.

When she had asked him the first time, the Monk’s brows had pinched together in confusion. But this has never happened before.

Have you ever needed to use it? she had asked, though she felt she already knew the answer.

The Monk had stayed silent, proving her suspicions correct.

Now that she had a verbal admission, it wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was odd to hear all the same. Nimue hadn’t found herself wondering what the Monk’s life had been like with the Paladins—considering he was a Fey hiding in plain sight—but now she began to imagine. And she hated what her mind came up with, hated the sympathy rising within her. Hated that she could quite possibly relate to his situation more than anyone else could.

Nimue still remembered what it felt like to be hated for what she could do.

No! Stop, please! Fear had crept up her throat. Please stop! No, stop!

Peri had not listened to her pleas. That’s the mark of the dark gods. Then, Is that what you did, demon? Used your magic to make Wallo look at you? She sounded incredulous. Do you think he’d ever be with you?

Leave me alone! Nimue had cried, the fear within her spiraling out of control. Would they kill her, would they cut her open and leave her to rot? Would her mother ever find her body?

She had been panting, her heart had raced out of control.

The next thing she heard had been Peri’s screams.

Let go of her, Nimue! Wallo had demanded, frightened eyes beseeching. Nimue!

It had not taken long before Wallo and his friend had cut Peri loose, but once they did, they had scampered away into the forest, fleeing for their lives. Nimue had instilled that fear in them.

But instead of saying any of this, instead of telling him that she understood, all she could breathe out was a soft “oh.”

Despite the fact that Nimue was only assuming his experience had been as bad as hers, she couldn’t help her hatred for him ebbing away. She didn’t trust him—didn’t even like him—but it eased her conscience knowing that for all the pain he had caused the Fey, he suffered just as much hiding who he was from his supposed brothers.

“Uh, Nimue?” Squirrel asked, nervous.

Nimue glanced back at the boy. “Yes?”

Squirrel didn’t respond. He merely pointed up at the blue, midday sky.

Except the sky wasn’t blue. Instead, dark, ominous clouds began to gather overhead, blocking out their view of the sun.

Thunder rumbled.

Nimue’s stomach sank. This wasn’t good.

. . .

To say that Merlin was having a rough day would be a monumental understatement.

Just as he had been about to leave to find Nimue, royal guards led by Uther himself had crashed through Merlin’s door.

Merlin had started up out of his seat where he had been preparing a rucksack, eyebrows shooting up. He had distinctly remembered locking the door in the event his rooms were ever searched, though he hadn’t expected anyone to break down his door in order to get in—Uther knew he didn’t have anything important in his chambers besides empty wine bottles.

Two soldiers stumbled through the door, and three others followed behind. When they saw Merlin, they stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide.

Merlin reached for the Sword of Power and stood to face the soldiers, who still hadn’t moved from where they were frozen in the middle of the room. Had he been given more time, he would have hidden the sword, but it was too late now—the soldiers had seen it, and if Merlin didn’t dispose of them, they would report their findings back to Uther. And under no circumstance could Merlin ever let the sword fall into the boy-king’s hands.

“Your majesty?” one of the soldiers asked, hand on his sword as if he were unsure whether to draw the blade or not.

Merlin’s brow creased as he looked beyond the soldiers and into the darkness of the stairwell. Footsteps scuffed against stone, followed by a crisp voice.

“What is it?” Uther snapped, coming into view before stopping abruptly, eyes disbelieving. He blinked, and then his face grew deathly pale. “Merlin?” his voice came out as a whisper.

Merlin should have been angry, should have been vengeful. Uther had had him killed, he had wanted him dead. But maybe Merlin should have been there for him more. Maybe he should’ve been more supportive of Uther’s ventures.

He should’ve done so many things differently.

Try as he might, Merlin couldn’t help but feel responsible for Uther and who he had become. The magician had known the boy-king for his entire life, had watched as he grew up, had celebrated each of his accomplishments as if they were his own.

He hadn’t meant to get attached, but then again, Merlin had a habit of caring far too much.

“Did you expect I would be easy to kill?” Merlin asked, tone carefully reserved.

Uther flinched. Fear and a tinge of regret laced his tone as he demanded, “How?”

“How about you tell me why you tried to kill me?” Merlin’s voice was even and controlled.

The soldiers between them shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two men. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, poised to attack Merlin with one word from their king.

A broken sound came out of Uther’s throat, and after a few moments of concern, Merlin realized that it was supposed to be a laugh. His eyes were crazed and red and he looked like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days.

Merlin’s eyes softened imperceptibly. “Uther, I—”

“What is that?” Uther demanded, eyes focused on the Sword of Power clenched in Merlin’s hand. “Is that what We think it is?”

Merlin tried again. “Uther—"

But the boy-king wouldn’t let him finish. “I feel it calling to me.” His eyes darted up to meet Merlin’s own. “Give it to me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Uther’s eyes flashed. “Hand it over and be absolved of your crimes.”

Merlin would have chuckled had he not been overcome with regret. He didn’t want to be Uther’s enemy, but if it was between Nimue and Uther, Merlin would choose Nimue every time.

“I’m sorry, Uther.”

“You lie,” Uther spat the words like they were poison.

You are the king of lies.

He needed to get out of this situation, and fast. Thinking quickly, Merlin began to concentrate on willing a storm to gather overhead. If he could conjure lighting again, as he had on the stone bridge, it would give him a good enough distraction as he made his escape.

Merlin looked away. “I meant what I said, before,” he started. He could feel Uther’s eyes on him, on the sword in his hand. “I am proud of you, Uther.” He raised his eyes to the boy-king, only to find Uther shaking his head fiercely.

And then—

“I trusted you!” Uther shouted, hurt and rage pouring forth, the dam inside him splintering. “How could you do this to me?”

Merlin didn’t want to remind the already unstable king that he had been the one to try and murder Merlin and not the other way around, so he remained silent.

“Have you anything to say for yourself, old man?” Uther’s hands were clenched at his sides and his cheeks were red with bottled fury.

Merlin felt the crackle of energy at his fingertips, ready for use. As much as he wanted to mend things with Uther, he couldn’t waste any more time.

“All I have to say is goodbye,” Merlin said, willing his staff into his hand.

Uther’s eyes shot wide. “No—stop him!” he commanded his guards.

But they were too late; Merlin was already calling down a strike of lighting. By the time the soldiers reached him, Merlin was gone in a flash of blinding electricity, and the soldiers were left smoking in their armor.

. . .

Lancelot had met many powerful Fey, but none as powerful as the one who stood before him—or the one that had appeared in front of them by way of a lightning bolt.

Instinctually, Lancelot dismounted Goliath, gritting his teeth against the ache in his bones. Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and Lancelot knew better than to underestimate him, despite rumors—evidently false rumors—going around that he had lost his magic. Better to be on his toes if Merlin decided he didn’t favor Lancelot’s presence than stuck on the back of a horse.

Squirrel shot him a look of worry, but Lancelot just shook his head. He was fine—he had to be.

Nimue seemed to trust Merlin. That should have been all Lancelot needed to know, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t trust the sorcerer, didn’t trust how he and Nimue were so close despite numerous obstacles in the way of them ever meeting. Lancelot knew he was missing a vital piece of information, but he doubted he would get it from Nimue; he would have to figure it out on his own.

“Merlin,” Nimue breathed, rushing up to the sorcerer in question and throwing her arms around him.

As the skies cleared and returned to their normal color, Merlin wrapped the young queen in his arms and held her. The two sorcerers stood there, not speaking, simply holding the other as if their lives depended on it. Moments passed and Merlin finally pulled back just enough to inspect Nimue’s face, eyes darting between her own and assessing her for any damage.

The act brought a memory to the forefront of Lancelot's mind, one where his father had done the same thing to him as Merlin was doing with Nimue.

Lancelot had been just a boy when he had gone scouring the woods, desperate for the taste of adventure. But he had been young and foolish and had gotten lost. He had been forced to traverse the dangerous woods alone at night, but, after painstakingly retracing his steps, he had eventually found his way back home. His mother had cried and his father had taken his tiny face between his large hands and had inspected him for injury.

Those memories were usually buried deep in his subconscious, but Lancelot found that the more he let go of his life with the Paladins, the more connected he was with his past life—and his real family.

Nimue gripped Merlin’s hands with her own. “I’m sorry that I worried you, but I’m alright.” At his uncertain look, she added, “I promise.”

Merlin dropped his hands from her face and stepped back. “I swear to you I will get my revenge.”

“And I thank you for that, but right now, we have more important things to worry about.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed as Nimue explained their plight. When she was finished, he leaned on his staff for support, head bowed slightly.

“Morgana said that the Fey would be long gone, but I still think we should make sure they didn’t leave any tracks,” Nimue said.

Merlin’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he attempted to smile. “A good plan.”

Nimue waited in silence as if expecting more of a reaction.

“It’s just . . . I’m so proud of you, Nimue,” Merlin spoke, voice shaky. There was pain in his eyes. “I need you to know that.”

Nimue’s answering smile was sheepish. “I couldn’t have done all of this without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” Merlin contradicted without hesitation, “and for the most part, you did. I just helped you open your mind to the Hidden.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

The corners of Merlin’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “And you give me far too much.”

“Nimue,” Squirrel piped up, “we should go. The Fey could be in danger.”

Merlin blinked, gaze going to Squirrel and Lancelot as if he had just noticed they were there. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of the former Monk but he didn’t comment, which Lancelot took as a good sign. He wouldn’t be murdered today—at least not by Merlin.

Nimue took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right—we have to move. Merlin, do you think you can transport all of us to the beach?”

“It would be an honor.” The sorcerer moved to stand in the middle of their small group. He eyed the Monk warily before he said, “You all need to have physical contact with me in order for this to work.”

“Will you be able to transport Goliath, too?” Squirrel asked.

Merlin’s brow creased. “Who?”

“Lancelot’s horse,” the boy said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lancelot shot Squirrel a grateful look, and Squirrel smiled in return.

A frown pulled at Merlin’s lips. “I can try, though it’s been . . . a while since I’ve done this.”

Satisfied, Squirrel reached down from his position atop Goliath and put his hand on Merlin’s forearm. Nimue was next, resting her hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and Lancelot followed her lead, burying his fear of losing his limb.

“Ready?” Merlin asked, looking to Nimue for confirmation.

Nimue glanced at Squirrel before meeting Lancelot’s eyes. The ex-Paladin gave her a subtle nod, to which she said, “Alright. We’re ready.”

Clouds gathered overhead and thunder rumbled, preceding a clap of thunder so electrifying it shook the ground beneath them. Fire shot straight through Lancelot’s veins, so much so that he thought he might burn up. He shut his eyes against the blinding light and opened them to find himself on a deserted beach.

The light died down; only sparks remained, zapping between the Fey as they separated.

“Is everyone alright?” Merlin asked, glancing around at the small group.

Squirrel’s eyes were wide and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, but a brilliant smile was stretched across his face. “That was insane!”

His lips quirked upward of their own accord as he helped the boy off of the horse. Squirrel had seen a lot for someone his age, but he still found ways to appreciate the little joys in life.

Lancelot was not a good person, but he wanted to be. If not for himself, then for Squirrel. He wanted to be someone the boy could look up to—someone like the Green Knight. He wanted to teach him how to properly hold a sword and how to appreciate the beauty around him.

Lancelot found his gaze straying to Nimue. She was discussing plans animatedly with Merlin, but Lancelot didn’t hear a word she said. He just . . . watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her nose scrunched up as she thought hard about something.

Yes, Lancelot wanted to teach Squirrel about the beautiful things in life, too.

“Nimue?” a voice called behind them.

Lancelot whipped around, swords already out of their sheaths as he positioned himself in front of Squirrel.

But instead of one of Cumber’s soldiers, a man with dark skin and wide eyes faced them, sword in hand. A sword that was quickly abandoned to the sand as he ran straight toward Nimue.

The Fey Queen met him halfway, a smile lighting up her face. Something inside Lancelot felt funny at the sight, but he couldn’t place what.

“Arthur,” Nimue murmured against the man as they hugged each other close. “I wasn’t sure when I would see you again.”

The man—Arthur—pressed Nimue impossibly closer. Lancelot felt like he was looking into a private moment, one not meant for his eyes. He resisted the urge to turn away.

“I thought I had lost you,” Arthur said. He stepped back from the embrace and looked Nimue over. His eyes narrowed in concern. “What happened? Your dress . . . it’s all torn.”

Nimue pressed a hand to her chest, to her side. Lancelot hadn’t paid much mind to the cuts in her dress, but now that Arthur had pointed them out, he stilled. Those weren’t just tears in the seams, as he had previously thought. No, those cuts were from arrows.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Nimue said. “I promise.”

Arthur nodded. He looked behind Nimue to Merlin, who he gave a terse nod to, and then to Squirrel, where a small smile touched his mouth. And then his gaze met Lancelot’s own, and the former Monk knew everything was about to go very, very wrong.

Arthur’s bright eyes and happy persona darkened immediately. His voice was low, dangerous as he spat, “What is he doing here?”

#visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)#vasats #vasats fic #nimulot #nimulot fic #nimulot fanfiction #Nimue x lancelot #nimue x the weeping monk #cursed #cursed netflix #Lancelot and squirrel #Arthur x the red spear #Arthur x Guinevere #nimue #the weeping monk #squirrel #the-weeping-monk #the-weeping-monk writes

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everlastingdreams · 2 years

Text

Weeping Monk x Reader : Reign Of The Heart Chapter 20

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Story Summary: As the first in line to the throne of Riviel, your Father King Cador requests that you go to Uther's Castle to convince Uther to support the church's mission to extinguish the fey. You do not share the same views as your father when it comes to the fey, but still you do what he asks of you.On your journey to Uther's castle you were asked to go and visit Father Carden to see for yourself how the mission is going. As you and your company prepare to continue your journey to the castle, Father Carden insists on sending some of his men along to ensure you arrive at the castle safely.What you did not expect was that he not only send some of his Red Paladins, but also his Weeping Monk along.

Chapter Summary: At an inn Lancelot overhears two Vracan knights speak about you and the king. You ride into the night to try and find Lancelot.

Notes: Made the gif to give you an idea of what that thing looks like that happens in this chapter. Have to keep the summary vague on this one. If you read this until the end, then you will understand why next chapter will have warnings. Let me know what you think. Comments are the reason I still write tbh

Warnings: Feels, angst and sexual intimidation.

Word count: 6899 words

Chapter: 20/??? A bunch ?

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Lancelot rode out of Riviel, through the forest until he reached a small village. He guided Goliath towards an inn he had once stayed at when he was still with the Red Paladins. He had lived a life of solitude, but after spending all this time in your castle he found himself searching for a place where he could be alone without truly being alone. The sound of others speaking to each other in the inn a welcome white noise for him.

He cared little for the drunken conversations around him as he sat in the corner of the dimly lit place. The innkeeper had recognised him and without speaking a word to him he had brought him a bowl of soup. The innkeeper had never asked any questions, a wise choice.

He had thanked the man for the soup, it was the first and only thing he had ever said to him.

Lancelot stared down at the soup in front of him, his fingers restlessly moving over the others until he forced himself to close his hand. Hunger was the last thing he felt, the thought of eating unthinkable to him now.

He felt empty and void of any physical sensation, he had felt like this before for years until he had met you.

And just as he had gained it by being near you, he had lost it by leaving.

Shutting his eyes, he repressed the memory of your tears, the ones he had caused.

The soup turned cold as his thoughts carried him away from the present.

You had begged him to stay, he had heard your voice break in your desperate plea and almost had he acted on the desire that had grown inside of him with each passing moment he had spend with you.

He burried his face in his hands as he steadied his breathing.

Part of him wished he could go back to blocking out everything he felt, part of him wished for nothing more then to feel it all again. As strong and as true as it had felt.

Every second of joy.

Every touch.

Everything.

Nothing had ever felt so real to him before. All his senses responded so strongly to you that it awoke everything inside of him that he had once believed to be lost.

And you had managed to deliver a crushing blow to his soul when you had asked him if he would just abandon the boy as well, only to tell him that the boy adored him.

Percival...

The words of the boy were engraved in his memories forever. The boy believed that the both of them would one day be known across the lands as knights.

Only now did he believe your words, the boy had nearly spelled it out to him in the gardens and he had been too angered and distracted by the king's actions to realise it.

The king had made him give up the only people he had cared for and who had cared for him.

Anger and despair boiled together inside of him a dangerous mixture he had always struggled with.

He flexed his fingers, restlessly seeking a way to dispose of what he was feeling. Once he would have sought salvation of this with the leather of the whip.

Never again.

Never again would he use the ways of the Church to handle his struggles. Not after you had embraced him so carefully like you feared you would break him and told him you did not want him to be in pain. He knew what you had left unspoken, you had seen his scars and knew where they came from.

You had reacted without judgement and even though he never spoke of the self-flagellation he felt heard by you.

Again he closed his hand and brushed his other over his face. His thoughts were maddening now, he had thought he would be able to clear his head of you once he had left but the opposite appeared to be happening.

Then he heard a name being spoken by two men at a table not far from him, a name he wished he had never heard of.

Virion.

He looked over at the table and saw two men drink their ale, his eyes fell on the crest on their armor. Sir Ekon and Sir Ihon wore the same armor, these were knights of the king...

He had not seen them before, yet he still kept out of their sights. They could recognise him, he still had his reputation. And now that he was no longer in Riviel, he knew he was no longer under it's protection . His attention was pulled to their conversation when they started to talk about you. "I've heard our king is having trouble wooing the queen. Rumor has it she acts more enamored with one of her knights then she does with the king." The knight with the thick beard made little effort to keep his voice down. The other one laughed in response, the large scar below his eye became even more prominent. One of your knights ? Lancelot's thoughts were racing. Had such rumors truly spread inside of the castle ? Did people really suspect such a thing ? The conversation pulled his attention again.

The scarred knight snorted a laugh “Virion must feel insulted. His queen preferring a knight over him.”

The bearded knight leaned over the table as if he wished to tell a secret “Not just a knight. The queen prefers the bloody Weeping Monk.”

The other leaned closer in disbelief “Father Carden's monk ???”

“The same one. Apparently he butchered a bunch of Trinity Guards before escaping with a Fey child.” The bearded knight let out a chuckle, as if it was highly amusing to him “Even the folk in the castle believe he came to Riviel for her.”

“Our king against one of the most notorious fighters of the land. Do you truly believe she prefers the knight over the king ?” The question came quickly.

“Where there is smoke, there is fire.” The knight voiced his opinion, then shrugged his shoulders "But it doesn't matter if she fancies the knight or the king. When the king marries her, he will officially become a ruler of Riviel. And we both know that our king will not bow to a queen. Not even queen y/n." The other knight thought for a moment before asking "You think he'll rid himself of the queen if she does not fall to his feet ?"

The bearded knight lowered his voice, knowing it was dangerous to speak of this so close to Riviel "Ay. Either she falls for him or he will see no use in her. Well...perhaps he'll still use her for an heir to please the kingdoms. But you know what happens when the king feels threatened. It's a miracle that weeping knight is still alive. Virion must truly want her to choose him. That pride of his..." Lancelot had heard enough, these knights were talking about you as if you were not even a person. As if you were disposable to the king.

He stood from his table and made his way out of he inn.

What if the king did not truly love you ? What if he only wanted to possess you and once you were married he would be as cruel to you as he was to everyone else ?

In time he would have accepted that the king was your husband if he treated you well and loved you, but not if this was all a facade to gain power over you and your kingdom.

Now he had left you to face this possibility alone. The king had brought Sir Giorgio to his knees in a sparring match, not even the younger knight stood a chance against the king's skill should it be necessary. He was doubtful that the old knight stood a chance against him.

He fumbled with Goliath's reins as he made his decission.

If he returned he would have some explaining to do.

If he did not, he would live the rest of his life fearing for your future.

His eyes trailed to the two horses that stood at the hitching post not far from Goliath, it wasn't hard to see that they belonged to the Vracan knights inside. The Vracan crest was carved into the leather of the saddles.

He drew his sword as he approached the horses, letting the steel cut through the reins attached to the post in one quick motion. Then he caused them to run off, leaving the knights inside without the means to travel. If those bastards wanted to get to Riviel, they could do it by foot.

Then he mounted Goliath, his mind was made.

He could not prevent this marriage, he could not stop you from falling for the king.

But he could and would stop the king if he proved a threat to your life.

Perhaps the boy had been right and he would be know across the lands, but not as a knight, but as a kingslayer.

The Weeping Monk.

Notorious Fey killer.

What would one more title be ?

OOOoooOOOOOooOooOOOooOOo

The wind was cold and constant as you sat inside the stables.

He was gone...

So quick and so painfully sudden.

Like a storm had past by, leaving you in ruins while everything else had withstood it.

How could you go back inside the castle when every vein inside your body was calling for him.

It was foolish to think that he might return, foolish to wait so long in the cold stable as the night only darkened. It was still hours before the sun would rise and every second felt like an eternity.

When you heard quick and light footsteps you wiped the tears away that had fallen before someone could see.

Your youngest knight entered the stables looking confused when his eyes fell on your face.

Percival said nothing but you knew the boy had figured out that you had cried.

“Y/n... I can't find Lancelot.” The boy stopped not far from you, his voice soft as if he could tell that you were not doing well.

“He...he...uhm...” You sputtered the words, how could you tell him that the man he adored had left ?

Percival was not slow, he saw the pain in your eyes and how you failed to speak now.

It was not the first time the boy had seen someone like this, the last time had been when his father had to tell him that his mother had died.

The young knight kept a brave face as he spoke “He must be busy with something.”

You gave a weak nod, trying to control your emotions in front of him. You hid how your lip quivered by wiping your hand over your mouth as you spoke “I think so.”

The boy was much more perceptive then you or Lancelot could ever know and he stepped to stand in front of you “It's going to be alright. We put out the fires and the people are safe. Lancelot defeated most of the people attacking the castle when he came to save us.”

You removed your hand from your mouth and looked at the boy “We are lucky to have him.”

Percival nodded and blinked fast a couple of times when he felt his own eyes start to betray him, he knew Lancelot was no longer in or near the castle. It was all over your face that his friend had left. The young knight knew his queen was suffering and he acted braver and stronger then he felt in that moment.

“Did you know that fire can't touch Lancelot ?” Percival was still processing the news, he knew little about the Ash Folk and any information Lancelot had wished to share was exciting to him.

“What ?” He had never told you this before.

“He's Ash Folk.” The boy stated it as if you were slow and as if he had not learned this fact himself only an hour or two ago.

You began to wonder how Virion had faced the flames to save you and gotten out unscathed. And then you recalled how Lancelot had reacted when you had told him... Surely Virion would not lie about such a thing ? But then again, there was a strange feud between him and Lancelot.

“Percival...do you know how I was able to survive the fire ?” You danced around it, hoping to find the truth in all of this.

The boy looked at you as if you were an idiot “Lancelot told me that he saved you.”

“Lancelot ?...” You breathed in disbelief, had Virion truly lied ?

“Where do you think he went ?” The boy finally faltered at keeping a brave exterior.

You knelt before the boy, grasping his shoulders “I don't know. But I am going to find him. I need you to do something for me.”

“What do you need me to do ?” Percival was willing to plot with you.

“Go to Gwen, tell her what I am telling you now. Tell her I need her to go to my chambers. She has done this before. And if anyone asks where I am, tell them I am in my chambers with Gwen. Should someone enter my room and not find me there...” You fished for a plausible excuse.

“I'll keep them busy.” The boy suggested with a grin.

You cupped the boy's cheek “Clever knight.”

He made another one of his overely dramatic bows, drawing a smile from you.

“Now, go ! Gwen will understand, she has made excuses for me before when I wanted a moment away from court.” You confessed to the boy.

Percival gave a nod and hurried out of the stables.

You walked to one of the horses in the stable. Never had you rode alone and never in the dark. But the thought that you might never see him again was far worse then your fear of breaking your neck. It was foolish but you mounted your horse without taking something like a weapon with you. All you had was the dagger that rested close to your heart. You rode in the darkness of the night, not even knowing where to start searching for him. The air was cold and passed through your clothing with ease, you were not dressed for a nightly ride in the forest. You gripped the reins in your hands tightly as you rode through the forest, hating how the place made you paranoid. It made you remember the old tales about monsters hiding in the dark. For a moment you halted your horse and swallowed hard. You were cold and scared, and none of it was as bad as the thought that you might never see him again. You wondered why you bothered to try and stop yourself from crying now, no one was there to see it. Some tears rolled down from your eyes, you wiped them away with your hand. This was not the time to give up, crying costed time you could afford to lose.

An hour had passed and then you heard it, the steady pace of hooves hitting the ground coming from the opposite direction.

The darkness made it near impossible to see him or his black horse. He rode through the dark forest with ease as if the sun lighted his path ahead only for him to see. He had caught your scent only seconds ago as the wind carried it to him, guiding him to you. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw you riding alone in the dark, had you truly defeated your fear just to search for him ? "Lancelot..." You spoke his name as if he was standing next to you. Silent yet loud enough for him to still hear. He slowed Goliath's pace, coming to a halt not far from you. Then he dismounted, showing that he was not going to ride off again. And you dismounted when you saw him walk towards you, he stopped at a distance for a second.

He had rode into many battles, but nothing could prepare him for this moment. He expected to face your anger, he did disobey you. You started to walk over to him, a mixture of emotions coursing through you.

Disbelief, sadness, anger... He stopped in his tracks when he saw the look in your eyes. It was only when you were almost where he was that one emotion got the upper hand and washed away all others. Relief. Lancelot was about to take a step back when he noticed that you showed no intention to stop walking. He flinched when he saw your hand move towards him, a reflex he had obtained from being struck by Father so many times when he had faced his anger and disappointment.

But your hand landed on his upper arm and you pulled him to you. Your arms wrapped around him, no longer caring if it was appropriate to do so or not. No one was here to see it anyway. You were willing to risk it all to convince him to return with you to Riviel. Even if it meant clinging to him like he was the only steady thing in an earthquake. He had expected your anger, not this.

Anger he could handle, he was used to it. But you showing this reaction upon seeing him again made him feel terrible. He would have preferred your anger over your sorrow any day. He wrapped his arms around your form, pulling you in even closer then you already were. Lancelot felt how cold you were, making him believe that you must have been in this cold since he had left.

You were afraid to allow the hope that this embrace brought you, fearing it was false hope once more. At least he was not pushing you away or rejecting your touch this time.

You had searched for him in the darkness of the cold night, alone... It both warmed his heart and tore at it that you had done so. He quietly rubbed a hand over your back, hoping to pass some of his warmth on to you. The king had no intention to play fair, by tormenting those close to you he was indirectly hurting you as well. You wouldn't be in his arms, feeling cold as winter if the king had not been such a rotten person. Now that Lancelot had returned to you, he would not be pushed away again. Not out of Riviel. Not out of the castle and not away from you. "I feared I would never see you again..." You whispered against his chest, voice breaking. His hand went to the back of your head, craddling it as the words threatened to spill from his lips.

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

The words coursed through his being as he felt your heaving breaths, felt how you quietly began to cry in his arms. You remained like that for a while, letting the night envelop the both of you in it's darkness.

Your sobs lessened when you felt his fingers make their way into the back of your hair, moving against your scalp in such a gentle way that it soothed you.

He let his head rest against the side of yours as he waited for you to calm down enough to talk.

When you came close to letting out an appreciative sound aimed at his soothing touch, you knew it was time to break away.

Your rose your gaze to meet his own, the look shared between you a conversation in itself.

But you needed to have a spoken one, that much was clear.

"I know you are a man of actions rather than words, but I need you to talk to me. What went through your mind when you decided to leave ? Why ? Why did this happen ?" You pleaded with him. You were trying so hard to understand... You searched his eyes trying to understand why this had happened, all you saw was the remnants of a storm that had passed within his. The pain you had felt when he had left you there in the stables was crippling and you could not tell him, not without him eventually figuring out why the bond between you was so different.

Lancelot needed you to understand that he would never bow to a man like the king, he wanted you to accept that. Only then could he go back. And somehow being here in the forest alone with you almost made him feel like he could speak with you more openly. "You know the king and I have not been friendly." He carefully breached the subject. You gave a nod and waited for him to speak again. He wasted no time to get straight to the point "I will not follow his commands. Not now and not when he is your husband." You stared at him, mouth slightly agape "I understand...I think..." He tilted his head, his voice solid and unwavering "He might be king, but I will only serve you." "I do not expect you to 'serve' me Lancelot, I wanted you to stay in Riviel so you would be-" You sighed and fell silent. He urged you to continue "Y/n?" "I wanted you to be safe. And knighting you was one way to have an excuse to ensure that." Your eyes did not meet his when you spoke the truth. "You needed someone to lead your knights..." He recalled the reason you had given him. You began to fumble with your fingers as you spoke the complete truth to him "I did. But that wasn't the only reason for me to ask you to stay in Riviel. I saw something of myself in you. Both of us having to live a life that our fathers have chosen for us." Lancelot fell silent at the comparison, were you telling him that you had always wanted to save him from the life he was forced to lead since childhood ? "You gave me a chance in your kingdom to start anew. While you yourself are still..." He stopped before he would speak perhaps a false truth. Were you trapped ? Were you stuck in this bethrotal to the king or had your opinion changed and was this a choice you made willingly ? "While I am what ?" You frowned, waiting for him to elaborate. He looked you in the eyes as he spoke his mind "If I had the chance to start a different path, than so should you. I know you will do what you must to keep your kingdom safe, I just hope..." he struggled for a beat "I hope it does not come at the cost of your own happiness. You deserve to be happy." For a moment you were speechless, you knew he was protective of you but not how deeply he cared for your happiness. Even in the dark of the night, the blue of his eyes sparkled like the water of the fountains in the moonlight. But there was a reason he was telling you this after his abrupt departure from the stables, and you believed it had to do with your impending marriage to Virion. "You don't believe my marriage will be a happy one..." You finally began to understand why he had left. He did not want to see you live an unhappy life. Lancelot had not expected you to figure out his train of thought "I understand why you have to marry him. You must keep your kingdom safe. But I cannot pretend that I approve of this union. I do not trust him." You nodded in understanding, you could not force him to like Virion "I can't force you to like him.”

Lancelot gave a short nod, it was perhaps the only thing you couldn't ask of him.

You had noticed how his eyes had hardened the second you mentioned your marriage “Do you truly dislike Virion so much that you would forsake me ?" Something flashed in his eyes at your question, something akin of remorse. He had truly let the king get under his skin to the point where he left you and the boy. "I regret what I have done. I never truly wanted to leave the boy or you. I just..." A heavy breath fell from him. You reached out a hand and placed it on his own "You reacted impulsively ?" He turned his hand until he held your fingers lightly with his own “Yes." There was a sheepish remorseful look in his eyes. "Do you want to come back home with me ?" You dared to ask the question that you had wanted to ask the second you found him again. Home. Lancelot tilted his head down, letting his hood hide his expression and the relieved smile that threatened to show.

He had found a home and almost abandoned it all because of that king.

You were impatient for the answer, anxiety rising in you with each passing second without an answer. "Do you want to see me beg ? Queens don't beg." You hid your fear under your pride. "I recall different." His reply came quick as a whip.

He dared it.

He dared to jest about how you had begged him to stay when you were in the stables. Your eyes widened slightly, mouth agape. Then you slapped his chest with the back of your hand. "Are you seriously trying to jest about that ?! You're unbelievable !" You tried to be angry but he looked at you like a guilt-ridden child and after a second a soft laugh escaped you. "I won't beg again." You said with a pinch of broken pride and arrogance. "You are the queen. Command me then." He said it without thinking, a daring look in his eyes. Your eyes narrowed, was he truly challenging you to use your authority as a queen on him ? Not long ago he had said he did not even see you as his queen.

You felt strangely nervous, you had not really used your authority on him since you had travelled through the forest together to get to Uther's castle. But you refused to let it show, you were the queen, you should know how to do this even with Lancelot. "Get on your horse and come back to Riviel, Sir Lancelot." Your voice dripped with authority But the authority in your voice sounded more seductive then commanding. It was not intentional, and you weren't truly aware of it. But he certainly heard the difference. A strange sensation passed through his body, a tingling feeling that krept up to his neck. One that made his heart run off with him and his breath quicken. It took him almost too long to scramble his thoughts back together and answer "As you wish, Your Highness." You gave an acknowledging nod, his voice was audibly deeper then it had been moments ago. And for the slightest second it sounded so alluring that you would let his voice lead you through the darkest forest if it would lead you to him and only him. You forbade yourself to think of it like this again, allowing these sorts of thoughts would only make things more difficult for you. You turned a little in your horses direction, signalling for him that it was time to head back to the castle. He blinked once slowly, a silent answer to you before he stepped back to go to Goliath. A few moments later you rode beside him back to the castle, relieved that you had not lost him tonight

OooooOooOOooOOooOooOo

Sir Ihon stood at a distance, the king had asked to keep an eye on your Weeping Knight. And he had done exactly that when he saw the knight ride off in the night. But not even Ihon had anticipated to see you try and find your knight in the dark of the night.

He had seen how you had embraced your Knight Commander, giving him the perfect leverage to use to his advantage.

If Virion knew of this nightly embrace...

He returned to his horse when he saw the two of you leave again together.

He knew enough.

OOooOooOOOOooOOOoOOo

Back in the stables, Lancelot removed Goliath's saddle. Allowing his horse to walk freely in the stables without it. An unspoken signal to you that he did not intend to be 'impulsive' again.

You watched him put the saddle on a stack of hay, an unanswered question still going through your mind.

And he had known you long enough to realise you were holding back to speak.

He turned to you, not letting you leave this stable without sharing what was bothering you “There is something you wish to speak of. I can feel it.”

The conversation with the boy was still fresh in your mind.

“Percival told me that it was you who saved me from the flames...” You felt horrible not knowing the truth.

Was it Virion or was the boy right and had it been Lancelot ?

“You believe it to be the king ?” There was no judgement in his voice.

“I don't know what to believe anymore...” You sounded guilt-ridden.

Lancelot knew you had not been spared from the king's mind games, you were doubting your own thoughts as well now.

He said nothing as he rolled up his sleeve, he stepped away from you and headed to the torch that rested in the iron sconce on the wall.

You followed him and saw him reach for the torch. No. Not the torch...he reached for the flame.

“No, don't !” You stepped forward instantly, reaching out to stop him before he could hurt himself.

But his reflexes were quick and he took hold of your wrist with his other hand, stopping your attempt.

You tried to pry your wrist from his hold, your eyes on the flame of the torch that threatened to lick his skin “Lancelot !”

Then you were rooted to the spot when you saw the flame disintegrate into small burning flakes of ash that seemed to dance around his skin before it could touch him.

In mere seconds the markings beneath his eyes began to change, where they had once resembled the color of ashes they now resembled a living fire. As if a red flame burned inside his markings, highlighting the seas of his eyes further.

“Oh my–....” The words died in your throat as you saw it happen, the sight of it caught your breath.

His attention shifted from the flame to your face, never had he let anyone see this part of him. Not since the day Father had stolen him from his kind all those years ago.

Your attention was on his markings, on the fire that burned within them so beautifully.

He waited for a reaction, for you to say something, anything as he showed this part of himself to you.

Without thinking your raised the hand he did not hold up to his face and let your fingertips touch the skin near the fire beneath his eye “Beautiful...”

Not what he had expected you to say.

Not at all.

It fell from your lips before you could stop and think, unable to stop the truth from being spoken.

He looked breathtakingly beautiful in the dimly lit stable now as he shared this with you.

Lancelot struggled to breath normally to the point where he took a sharp breath through his mouth to get it under control.

When you moved your fingers away from his face you felt him release his grip on your wrist, slowly you moved your freed hand along his lower arm towards the hand he held in the flame. Testing if he was going to stop you before you would reach the flame. Lancelot understood your intention and moved his hand away from the flame, he took the hand you had been moving along his arm in his, lacing his fingers with yours before going near the flame of the torch again.

Just before the flame could touch your intertwined hands he stopped to see if you were afraid or if you trusted him with this.

You looked him in the eyes and squeezed his hand with yours.

You trusted him.

His eyes went back to your entangled hands and he raised them into the flame, hearing how you let out the slightest gasp.

The burning ashes moved around your entangled hands, never once burning you. The flame's warmth was not burning hot, it was a comfortable warm feeling.

A glorious smile formed on your lips as you watched it happen, never had you thought that fire could be so alluring.

“You saved me...you saved me from the fire.” It was a whisper falling from you, the truth finally showing itself.

His eyes settled on yours, seeing how you kept looking at the flame “I did.”

“What happens if I let go off your hand ?” Your voice was filled with sweet delight.

He tightened his grip on your hands upon hearing the curiousity in your voice “Don't.”

“Because the flame will burn me ?” It sounded like you had figured out the answer on your own.

He nodded once, blinking slowly again to answer your question.

It crossed his mind that he could hold your hands in the flame together like this for hours, it was not exhausting him, on the contrary.

You stretched some of your fingers as he held on to your hand, watching the burning ashes move with each movement of your fingers.

He watched it happen, his eyes softening at the sight of you finding a form of joy in what he had been taught to hide since childhood.

“Do you intend to hold my hand in the flame for the rest of the night ?” A cheeky smile danced on your lips.

“It has crossed my mind.” He dared to confess it.

Your eyes flickered to his in response and he let his own meet yours.

You almost shied away at his confession.

"Your hands... they were cold." He stammered the false excuse, seeing your eyes avoid his own.

He fought of the anxiety that rose inside his chest, refusing to let it stop him.

His eyes went to the flame “You once told me that it was not a weakness to care for another being." You hummed in response, recalling how you had told him this the day you had embraced him in the stables. "I care about you." He drew a quiet breath, eyes on the flame "I always will."

What was he saying ? Did he mean he cared for you as a friend or was there more to this confession ?

You closed your eyes, mentally scolding yourself for allowing this hope to live inside of you knowing that your destiny was to be married to Virion.

Even if your heart lay in the hands of the one who's fingers where laced with yours now.

“I don't deserve you...” Your voice wavered as you opened your eyes and kept your focus on your hand.

With a frown he looked at you, he wasted not a second to ask “Why do you believe that ?”

You shook your head lightly, feeling guilty for everything he had gone through because of you “I have done nothing but lead you into danger. The attack on my carriage, the trinity guard, the fire... I couldn't live with myself if you got hurt.”

Lancelot could tell that you believed that you were a burden to him, a thought that was absolutely ridiculous to him “I lead myself into danger. I chose to. Is that not what you always wanted me to do back when we met ? For me to make my own decissions ? To walk my own path.”

“I didn't mean for you to risk your life for me constantly, Lancelot.” You clarified.

Absentmindedly he brushed his thumb over your hand in slow circles “I knew what I chose when I accepted the position as a knight. I chose this, y/n.”

He chose you.

“I still thank the heavens for bringing you into my life.” You made your own confession “And I want you to know that I am grateful for everything you have ever done for me.”

He acknowledged it with a tilt of his head and you saw how he tried and failed to fight the smile that tugged on his lips.

Silence fell between you and for a moment all you did was watch the burning ashes dance around your entangled hands like tiny sparks. Your eyes often wandering to the glowing Fey markings beneath his eyes.

“I think Percival knows you did not intend to return.” You gently informed him.

He had expected as such, the boy was far smarter then he gave him credit for “I will speak to him.”

You nodded, then jested “You might find chickens in your room.”

He scoffed at the jest “I suppose I cannot blame him.”

A yawn escaped you, the attempted siege on your castle and the emotional shockwave had made you terribly tired.

Lancelot moved your intertwined hands away from the flame, knowing he could not truly keep you here for hours. It was still night and even he felt exhausted. He had fought enemies, fire and his heart all in one night.

Yet, he did not let go of your hand just yet. He turned it in his own, then rose your knuckles to his lips, placing just the lightest kiss on them.

A touch so feather light that if you had not witnessed him do it, you would have barely felt it.

Still it was enough to make your mind go haywire and you forced yourself to remember this was just a sign of respect.

A touch so light and quick, but still long enough for him to catch your scent once more. Long enough for him to experience what it was like to touch his lips to your skin.

“We should get some rest. I believe they expect you to decide what happens to those who attacked the castle tomorrow ?” He guessed, succesfully hiding the tremble in his voice.

You could only nod, fearing how your voice would sound now.

He let go of your hand and you walked next to him back inside the castle in deafening silence.

He found no chickens in his room. What he did find was one very angry young fey boy that demanded an explanation. Which he gave, although he left some parts out.

OoooOOoOooooOOOOOOoOOoo

You had explained to Gwen what had happened upon your return, luckily she had no trouble keeping people out of your room and therefore no one else knew that you had been absent.

Tomorrow you would have to deal with those who had attacked your castle and survived. You needed the rest to make sure you had a clear head to make the right decision. Just as you had finished changing in your nightgown you heard a knock on your door. You called out, asking who it was. One of the guards answered and entered, followed by Sir Ihon who promptly send the guard away again with a flick of his wrist.

Your eyes widened in confussion, why was he here ?

“Sir Ihon.” You greeted him politely.

“Your highness.” He gave an inclination of the head as he greeted you.

“Did Virion send you ?” You crossed your arms in front of your chest and watched how the knight came closer to you.

The knight shook his head slightly as he casually began to walk around you, circling you like a shark did it's prey “No. The king does not know I am here. There are many things the king does not know...”

For a second you could have sworn that you felt him touch your hair and you took a step away from him in response “What are you talking about ?”

The knight came to a halt in front of you “I saw you tonight. Saw how eager you were to let Sir Lancelot hold you in his arms.”

Your eyes widened, not expecting someone to have seen you in the forest tonight “Were you following me ?!?”

“Don't worry, Your Highness. The king does not have to know...” He took a step closer to you as he spoke slowly.

You narrowed your eyes at the knight, not liking where this was going.

Your tone was cold, sensing the knight did not come here to warn you out of the goodness of his heart “And you have come here only to tell me this ?

The knight stepped closer once more, his eyes never leaving your form “One would want such a thing to remain a secret from their future husband, the king is...a very jealous man. The king will not hear of this...” he let his fingers touch the thin cords of your nightgown that rested on your chest “...If you show me the same eagernesss… that you undoubtly show your beloved knight.”

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