Achirding -- Rook's Art Tumblr

The hedgehog’s hands are calloused from swordplay and bumpy from a thousand scars, but his touch is gentle... Practiced in a way borne of experience and soothing in a way borne of kindness.

That might be the most surprising thing of this all- not Lamorak embarrassing himself as he agonizes on his deathbed, not that his life has been short and violent, and not that he will die alone without his sister noticing his absence until it is too late... 

The greatest surprise is that intimidating, grim, cold, standoffish, and self-absorbed Sir Lancelot is so kind. 

The Knight of the Lake owes him nothing. Lancelot doesn’t know Lamorak. He doesn’t have any form of friendship or affection with Lamorak’s father, and Percival is still so new to the Round Table that it’s likely the hedgehog has no strong opinions of her, either. 

Lancelot has enough great deeds and spoils of war to his name that there is nothing Lamorak could offer him in return for this kindness. And what could the hungry, unknown bastard of an older knight possibly offer someone like the great Sir Lancelot?

Lamorak’s only inheritance was old rivalries and blood debts the hawk was expected to undertake and endure. If anything, Lancelot was probably taking on a grudge for helping Lamorak, if anything, so why…?

“Indeed!” A gruff voice from the other side of the tent agrees, sounding /ncredibly annoyed. Lamorak cranes his head back to look at the man somewhere behind him, but the movement sends a shock of searing pain down his arm and throughout his body. He makes an undignified mewl that a full-blooded hawk would never make- but Lamorak hurts too much to care right now. 

“Gawain,“ Lancelot says with a tired quality to his voice like this has been an ongoing argument. Lamorak forces an eye open when he feels Lancelot dab the towel under his chin, but the hedgehog is looking at Gawain.

Sir Gawain of Orkney. A fearsome warrior known throughout the land for his great skill in combat, tremendous strength, and chivalrous conduct. The nephew of the High King and heir to the throne until King Arthur sires his own luckless bastard.

Also the eldest son of King Lot, the man who Lamorak’s father defeated and killed in combat. Gawain had every reason to hate and resent him, and would be in his right to collect on that blood debt now. Lamorak should hate him, too, and be a good son and honorable knight- 

But it hurts to breathe and his arm throbs in pain, and getting into a fight over his dad’s stupid grudges is the last thing on his mind right now. 

“Sorry,” Lamorak grunts between gritted teeth, the only thing he can bring himself to say. It isn’t clear who he’s apologizing to.

“It will take more than that to set things right between our households,” Gawain turns his nose up with a sneer, looking down with cold eyes, “Blood demands blood-“

"Then take it and be quiet."

Gawain cuts himself off with a sputter as a bloody rag smacks into his face, immediately wrestling it off and throwing it across the room. The echidna rubs at his nose and face while cursing loudly, "Lancelot!“

“Dégage,” Lancelot tells Gawain with a shake of his head, pulling a wet towel from the basin on the floor. The hedgehog wrings the towel free of moisture before folding it in half and pressing it to Lamorak’s forehead, “There will be other opportunities for you and the boy to kill each other.”

“Sorry,” Lamorak says again as he closes his eyes, enjoying the cool rag against his sweaty forehead. Everything still hurts terribly.  

“Do not apologize,” Lancelot tells him firmly but not unkindly, petting them top of Lamorak’s head gently, “You fought well and valorously. You brought yourself and our kingdom honor today.”

The ultimate knight never struck Lamorak as affectionate, in any sense of the word, but this is really nice. It makes Lamorak think of his childhood, where his mother would sit at his bedside to soothe fevers and pains. It should be embarrassing to be doted on like a child, but if he has the choice, he would rather leave this world with gentle kindness like this. At least he is going to die in the arms of an angel.

“You will not die this day, Sir Lamorak,” Lancelot tells him, again, still gently stroking his head, “Take heart-“

“Notice that fair Sir Lancelot did not deny being an Angel!” Gawain interrupts loudly and abruptly, moving to stand next to the hedgehog. Right next to Lamorak’s cot, too, but the echidna only has eyes for Lancelot right now, “He did not say he was not a creature of light and beauty here to grace us mere mortals with mercy and kindness!”

Lancelot presses his lips into a thin line as he stares at Gawain, hand resting on Lamorak’s head absently as the older knights become engrossed in a staring contest. The hawk is more than a little offended that his death bed is being co-opted by whatever disagreement Gawain and Lancelot are trying to work through. Not everything needed to revolve around them.

“I am not an angel,” Lancelot tells Lamorak, voice serious but obviously exasperated as he looks down at the hawk. There’s some holes in the top of the tent that sunlight is streaming through, giving the hedgehog a lighting that makes him look even more angelic. 

“And neither is the boy,” Gawain adds cheerfully, standing in the shadow just outside his periphery that makes red fur looks like flames.

Lamorak really was going to die-

“It feels worse than it is, I assure you,” Lancelot dips the towel in water again, wringing it out of blood before gently rubbing the dirt and blood from his arm. That hurts even more than before, and Lamorak can’t help crying out again no matter how lightly and tenderly the hedgehog tries to clean the area, “It will be a scar you can be proud of earning.”

“Unless they have to cut the whole damn thing off,” Gawain is suddenly much closer again, looking down at Lamorak’s arm with vague disgust, “It is looking rather green, perhaps its already infected beyond saving.”

Ice settles in Lamorak’s stomach as he freezes, staring up at Gawain in growing alarm and horror. Lose his arm…?

“Enough,” Lancelot puts one hand on his hip as he points at the tent flap like a stern matron, “If you are not here to help, then you may leave, Sir Gawain.“

“I would be delighted to help!” Gawain says cheerfully as he elbows Lancelot aside, a dangerous edge to that sharp smile. This is obviously a nightmare, Lamorak barely has time to think as the hilt of his own blade is shoved into his beak, “Chew this unless you want to lose your tongue. No great loss.”

Lamorak doesn’t have any time to protest before Gawain is grabbing his arm roughly and shoving it against his body with a loud crack. The hawk lets out a screech that would deafen a banshee as white hot pain sears throughout his body, vaguely aware that he is blubbering like a child before darkness takes him again.

Lamorak hopes this time he does actually die because he won’t be able to live with the embarrassment.