𝖉 𝖆 𝖒 𝖓 𝖊 𝖉

My name is Kaleb, he/him, and I’m the idiot mun behind the muse, the Weeping Monk from the Netflix series, Cursed.  I default to a modern au for Lancelot to better integrate him into most situations, but am happy to write in other universes as well. His canon is mostly based on Cursed and not Arthurian legend, though I’m also happy to interact with muses from these kinds of universes.  While I absolutely love plotted scenarios, it’s often easier to start with memes. Please feel free to send me things even if I reblogged it two weeks ago or even if I haven’t followed you back yet. I won’t necessarily respond to everything but because of my real life, it’s often the best way to start things with me.  All of my information about the muse and my rules are outlined in my Google doc.  ( Rules & Info Page ) ( Meme Tag ) ( Headcanon Tag )

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠, though perhaps that should have been expected in the height of baseless war.  Lancelot had assumed the worst for the man that the Fae had referred to as The Green Knight — their champion,  their leader — and yet when he’d come to,  he found himself in the company of the very ghost of a man that he’d last seen on death’s door.  They had at least that in common:  neither was known to be alive.   Their conversation had been scattered between restless bouts of attempted sleep,  isolated from whatever else surrounded them,  knowing only the existence of each other and the few healing hands that came and went.  A question may have been asked only to be answered hours later as though no time had passed at all — for time seemed as much of an illusion as their very survival  for the present.  All the more reason for Lancelot to feel that this entire moment is perhaps only imagined,  dialogue simply floating in the midst of space.  Heaven or hell,  he’s not entirely certain. “ I’ve only done as I’ve been taught — or what has been done to me. ”        It’s no excuse,  he knows that.  He’s not sure how long ago Gawain spoke,  though it feels only like mere minutes have passed.  But though he does not understand the other man’s unconditional kindness,  he at least acknowledges it.        “ I do not deserve your acceptance.  I cannot make promises,  nor beg for guidance — but I will try.  If you will let me. ” 

𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫,  more or less melting into a completely crooked posture as his comfort takes hold,  no doubt thanks to the warm liquid coursing through him.  It’s not bragging to admit he would have done a better job than their pursuers,  but her agreement is enough to warrant a wider grin.  Reaching over,  Grey pushes his empty glass onto the table,  trading it instead for the still half full bottle,  mimicking her now as he tips it to his lips. “ Hmm — ”        He quirks a brow,  staring over at her with that same smug grin that seems to have fixed itself onto his face.        “ Your childhood sounds like it must have been eventful regardless. ”        Legs stretch out,  but her words strike him for a moment.        “ We? ”        It isn’t like he isn’t enjoying their time together,  more that he’d assumed she wanted nothing more to do with him,  particularly after their rushed conversations from before.  “ You intend to stick around with me long then?  No offence — but I wasn’t exactly looking for company. ”        He tilts the bottle to his lips again,  glancing over at her,  wondering what was coursing through her mind.        “ It’s either your turn to pry,  or we’ve got to come up with a new game. ”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  is likely the same thing that keeps Lance from turning away from the opportunity.  He’d been recently told to let loose a bit more,  though the words were less kind when they were given ( something about a stick up his ass,  really ).  Rarely did he want to take the advice of others,  but it seemed that he was about to do so again with the prospect of corn fritters.        “ I’m simply dying with anticipation. ”      He manages,  dripping in sarcasm as he rolls his eyes and glances back over at the other.  The first sip from his glass is a godsend,  already dulling the incredulousness of the early evening.  To call him sour would be putting it mildly,  and even Lance was aware of his own attitude.        “ A delight would be a comfortable meal taken indoors on a rainy afternoon.  But I’m indulging,  mostly because you’re not wrong.  Let’s get on with these corn fritters you speak so highly of. ”

𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬, the gentleness that his new King presses upon his words,  and his own wondering whether that same benefit is granted to all,  or if Lancelot is somehow unique.  It is a selfish,  greedy thought,  the desire to stand out;  but when he’d lived an entire lifetime prying himself away from normalcy only to be dashed down at every opportunity,  he cannot be helped for desiring to be exceptional.  His lips turn in a small grin,  head tilting back up to stare at the man before him,  still bathed in the light from the sun it seems.        “ I do not intend to keep my past a secret from you — if ever you are curious,  I will answer any questions with absolute honesty.  I have done things of which I am no longer proud of.  I do not expect that these things will be kept secret from the public forever either. ”  But as though Arthur had already sensed his own anxieties,  he’s already comforting Lancelot against such fears.  He had been lucky thus far,  to land himself into a placement which had yet brought no such ill will.  The other knights were jovial and rarely tormented one another except in jest,  as though they were young boys at play.  He had yet to join into their games or understand them entirely,  but they had often brought a grin to his lips,  and they hadn’t failed to try to include him.  Not once had the markings on his face been brought up,  save for a genuine and respectful curiosity.        “ I trust that your heart is in the right place and that it has been when selecting your other knights.  You say to pay no mind to the opinions of others — a year ago I would have laughed at such a thought,  and yet now I find myself hoping to appease you.  I don’t think I had even realised my own loneliness prior. ”  

𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧,  𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲,  some sense of casualness that seems ill suited between them,  for strangers they remain.  And despite the unusual inflection,  the rushed way he speaks,  his unfamiliar dress,  there is an aura about him — as though he’d been here long before any other,  simply fitting right along.  The introduction grants little clarity,  and Lancelot’s brows furrow,  head tilts with deepening curiosity.          “ You’re a doctor? ”        He repeats,  however incorrectly,  turning his head to glance behind.  The doctor’s unusual garb leads the Fae to one conclusion.        “ Was it Merlin who sent for you?  They’d be expecting you — I can show you to our wounded.  ” 

𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟,  he can’t help but wonder if he’d pushed his way into the wrong company.  He hardly assumes that Chris would have set him up,  but clearly he’d underestimated how easy this conversation would be.  No favours are being won by forming a friendship though,  and he reminds himself with a slow exhale,  slow roll of his eyes.          “ My name is hardly going to help — but it’s Grey. ”        Wetting his lips,  he crosses his arms across his chest,  frown deepening.        “ There’s been some disappearances — clearly nonhuman,  but I don’t know much yet.  I’ve just followed the bread crumbs.  I thought you might know something — it’s the only reason I indulged in the idea of seeking you out. ”

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐟𝐮𝐥, and yet both demeanours boil down to a comfort with joviality that only the two of them seem to recognise in one another.  Between the warmth from the alcohol now taking hold and the surprisingly enjoyable conversation,  Grey finds his smile genuine,  lips almost permanently tugged into a small grin.  He’s grateful when she doesn’t press for more information;  no amount of alcohol seems to be capable of over divulging for the hunter.  “ If I were still on their side,  I’d likely have finished the job. ”      He boasts with a smugness that leaves little suggestion over whether or it’s made in a jest,  the light quirk of his eyebrow hardly helping.  As he refills his own glass,  he leans back into the seat,  gaze fixed on her once more to listen to her second tale.  Lips purse as he considers,  imagines the scenario as best as possible.  His brows knit together in a frown,  gaze dropping to the ground as he tries to piece it together.  “ And here I thought you were about to tell me that you had killed him — no judgment here if you did.  Sounds about like what happened,  if I’m being honest.  But you said you don’t like to think about it.  You prefer the comfort of ignorance then.  Can’t blame you for that either. ”        His grin returns,  turning his head to look back over at her.        “ I’ve no idea what kind of fae you are.  I don’t claim to be any sort of an expert.  How’s the ah . . . the pain level?  Or can you feel anything anymore now that you’ve downed half a bottle? ”

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥,  his reactions formal,  not able to claim naivety to the processes of the court for much longer.   Lancelot doesn’t reveal his gratefulness when the crowds scatter at their king’s bequest,  fondness internalized,  though the swelling in his chest seems almost unnatural.  It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt,  as though it’s filling what had previously been an emptiness inside of him.  He swallows as he stands up straight again to follow Arthur,  keeping pace with him and not daring to step ahead.  Though he’d felt such an attachment to the other immediately,  Lancelot hardly wanted to overstep boundaries either. Finally out of the prying eyes of the public,  his lips turn in a gentle grin at the compliment,  exhaling in relief as they escape from the heat.        “ It was a mere taste — I now see why your swordsmanship skills are so highly talked of. ”        He watches as the other works his way out of the armour,  standing a few feet away with his hands clasped in front of him.  His face pales at the thought of his former life though,  gaze dropping to the stony ground.          “ Yes — I trained from a young age.  But that man . . . to learn to fight came at a great cost.”        He takes a deep breath,  grateful for the change in topic,  his only reveal that he finally turns his gaze back to Arthur.  Lips twitch again,  expression softening,  and he nods briefly.          “ Nothing would bring me greater pleasure.  I — I can’t express how grateful I am for all you’ve already done.  If I may be blunt — I’ve never had much taste for . . . this.  The court.  You’ve changed that much already.  Are you so thorough with all of your knights? ”