summon.

*originlist - fate/go multimuse rp blog.

*written by dez ( 21+, US) *canon and oc muses *oc friendly, nsfw friendly, plot enthusiast, multiship *literate + any length replies. ENG/RUS. *i love crime i love jokes and i'm normal about characters

"lancelot!" they're getting better at dropping the 'sir', "would you allow me to braid your hair? it's been on my mind, you may not want it in your face as the warmer weather approaches."

he perks up immediately at bedivere's call of his voice, at bright attention. "mrr?" braiding his hair? it's been a while since he or anyone else bothered with that. usually the most he gets is a half-hearted attempt to tie a ribbon around a what might be called a ponytail. "if you want to. thanks." he hadn't actually thought much about it, but now that bedivere mentions, it probably would help to not have his hair sticking to his face and the back of his neck.

Gawain is staring absolutely respectfully but absolutely whorishly at Lancelot. There are literal flowers coating the floor. Was Merlin not bad enough for the cleaning staff? He's hardly subtle, but his pollen allergies making him sneeze on his own flowers is just making this worse. Stupid old men.

lancelot makes eye contact, grins at gawain, and the flowers are short to follow. it should be embarrassing, probably is for gawain, but for lancelot it's simply a warmth blooming in himself. the knowledge of being loved so unavoidable that even lancelot and his eternal pessimism cannot argue with.

hakuno doesn't smile, but the rest of her expression transfers the same idea. berserker gets it. but as to her question-- a snicker and shake of the head. "they'd be coals if i'd cooked them. i helped a little." it counts for something then, right? he did oversee the process (read: lurked) and gathered ingredients.

he looks down at her, head cocked in confusion as the cookies are raised up. "who else would they be for...?" he simply got it in his mind to give things to masters. so he did. there wasn't any intent to share the food, or it wouldn't have been food like this. "i don't like sweets. been told it's rude to take sweets from a kid, too." a bit of a joke. he grins at her, sharp fang and bemusement. "if you don't want to eat them all, then don't. do whatever you want with them, chouette."

"That reeks." He doesn't take what's held out for him, because he isn't a complete fool.

Just heartless and cold. Seimei raises his hand and waves dismissively at the box, for Douman to return it and stop trying to foist it off on him. Something that's clearly dripping blood and laden with so many curses that even the least spiritually attuned individual could see the black miasma around it.

Eurgh. It'd be unpleasant to even touch that box for a great myriad of reasons. "I don't want your trash, Limbo. Throw it away yourself."

There is no sound of footsteps behind them before a soft, familiar voice says “excuse me.” Ritsu startles and turns immediately, already feeling Douman bristle sharply. Their Servant is in the form of a not-quite-spirit, visible to those with sensitivity as something similar to a cat riding around on Ritsu’s shoulders.

"Rit-su-kaaaa!" Ritsu is sprinting over with a spring in their step and a cup in the hand not waving their cohort down. "I haven't visited for a while! Y'still doin' okay? I brought flan as apology." The answer to what's in the cup.

"What? Do I have something on my face or are you surprised that I ended up looking like this?" (to Ritsu from Galahad Alter)

Ritsu blinks, wide-eyed in surprise at the sudden question. You know, the family resemblance is a little striking. Would the word be ‘unfortunately handsome’? Even as an Alter he’s got that knightly air, the regality of it interrupted by his dialect. A little funny— but things like this is why Ritsu likes alters, tends to summon odd ducks.

The world confines to just this small area, safe and in pain. Lancelot has bitten into her, but she still sees him as safe. The world is in agony, but- she’s the director. Sophia likes Lancelot. It’s her job to make sure that he’s taken care of like this. So she sniffs past her pain, looks up at him. He’s still lost in a foggy gaze, and she tries to wipe away her tears.

He comes back as she starts to inch forward. A small giggle escapes, though it’s still pained, and with his clarity she pulls a piece of cloth meant to tourniquet out instead to wipe her own blood away from his face. Yikes, that’s some muscle there, that’ll be a bitch to fix… haha, wow, is that bone…? 

“H- hey there… it’s okay, y- you didn’t h- have control over it…” Sophia’s hand shakes slightly, patting Lancelot’s cheek softly. It feels like she’s choking on the tears, her face hot and fearful, but she smiles. (Lancelot is back, so it’s okay.) A quiet whine escapes at the grasp, but she nods, face scrunched into a shape that looks less like she was crying. “If you need more, take it now, okay? We gotta fix this up before we get going…”

“I ha- I have my supplies in my jacket. Just keep the pressure there, oka- okay? I’m not upset. Just stings.” It was just- a surprise, is all! Sophia bites her jacket in place to pull out the disinfectant. Of course it’s her left arm. Couldn’t leave her dominant hand in check. Her hand, gently, knocks on Lancelot’s chest, raps against the armor as she grins despite pain gritted teeth.

(He is safe. It’s easier, because she still trusts him.)

“It’s okay. I’m okay. You kept me safe from the enemy. They’d have done worse, and you just needed some more mana. You did a good job, Lance. I need some help with this part, okay? And I trust you to do it.” Even if he’s a bit too forceful, she doesn’t want him to leave, either. Both because she needs to fix this up, and… “I trust you, Lance. I’ve got some disinfectant, I need yo- you to pour it over the wound, then wipe it clean, alright?”

he has failed her not as a knight, but even as a guard dog. (still there is a part of him that insists certain sacrifices must be demanded of a master who knowingly summons an animal. it argues with that which wishes to be ‘worth something’.) she, too, is a princess— so [lancelot should inevitably betray his royalty] / [she shouldn’t be wearing her own blood].

it’s a whining growl that issues from him, shifting generally in pitch as he tries to retain control of what he sees. his impulse to either run and atone or finish ensuring the [king] hates him, or - or -

it’s not a king, though, it’s sophia, a princess, and he her dog, and a dog mustn’t leave. he’s not taking more from her. he can go and take from some wildlife’s hearts if need be. still, sophia orders him to continue pressing on the injury. she is not a hand with healing magic. (strange, hasn’t the king always been... no. no, because she isn’t the king.)

“mrrr. rh.” he’s paying attention. parsing her words. he’s fed and not starving and he’s not going to panic about biting the princess. sophia is holding out disinfectant for him and he takes it, carefully releasing his fingers from her arm. blood begins slogging out again, but it’s only a moment before lancelot pours the disinfectant over. it does have the welcome effect of no longer making him want to eat the remainder of her arm— the sharp medicinal smell is unpleasant and impossible to ignore, cutting right through the remains of his instincts.

thank god.

to wipe is the next task. she has supplies something to do that with, too, some cloth he doesn’t pay much attention to as he carefully swipes it over the torn muscles. it’s not going to stop her bleeding, unmake the injury much as he might like if it did. he remembers something about doing this before. washing wounds, bandaging them. he’s done this before. he is lancelot, after all. he... is, and he knows his own name, and he knows he’s bandaged wounds before. and this is sophia, his master.

“Invading? So touchy. You imply it’s a choice I’m making, huh? How arrogant, to think I’m visiting you every~other~night.” It’s an unspoken truth, regardless, that this Oberon happens to have a darker set of rainbows casting illusions around him, limp wings rather than those stiff ones that stay upright and do nothing else. To be fair, Titania too would doubt such a thing. Always a skeptic, those princess-types. Oberon has never met a naïve princess, an innocent princess, and doubts he ever will.

Fairytales are a bit too sensitive for that sort of thing.

“Who says something isn’t wrong with one of us?” The apples on the plate are brown yet with speckles of tiny bites prying into pale flesh, yet the melon is untouched until a clawed hand takes a bite- ah. A blue tongue licks at the juice that runs past segmented joints. “You’re the one who dreams in fantasy. Maybe I’m taking on the master’s role you can’t, hm? But it’s the natural hubris of humans to assume they’re the ones in control.”

Yet this is said light as the not quite dust motes around him. Oberon bites into the slice of melon, chewing on it like gum.

“…if you want an answer,” Not one that is a single, unquestionable truth, but instead just one answer of many, “the faeries of the autumn forest like receiving updates, but they’re fake things that won’t exist in real places. So perhaps if you think of that, prince’s-boy, you might riddle together some solutions for your questions.”

It’s almost a guide to the liar’s tongue, the same that swipes over his lips to clean off the rest of the juice.

Is it arrogant? Andrej didn’t feel as such beginning this conversation, but there’s a slight prod of doubt now introduced. Is it simply him? No, it couldn’t be, he generally doesn’t dream of his writings or those around him particularly often. “Perhaps not every night.” But still, Andrej does not entirely believe Oberon’s words.

It’s fine like this, a little back and forth of storytelling. The themes of a story contain truths, even if the words are pure fantasy.

“Really, I’m not that bad. I’ve grown up a little bit.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question because he knows Oberon would scoff at him, if the Pretender believes him or not. Best to keep the statement without requesting rebuttal. (Though Andrej knows he is so desperately far from skilled, he accepts passable for his master’s capabilities.)

“You truly are thoughtful.”

He was genuine in his gratitude unlike just about everything else about him. Lavender hues focused on the young magus before him, well young relative to his immortal lifespan anyways, and breathed in to ease his nerves.  God he wished he wasn’t so skittish on taking that form to begin with.  It would have done his body some good if he was used to shifting to and from it. It would have made thing far less painful but alas what can be done now.

It’d be awhile until his self-regeneration fully kicks in and starts to mend the minor cuts and injuries that he sustained in that prolonged combat situation.  He feared the trials ahead if a fight had forced his hand in such a manner.

Relaxing a bit a small patch of flowers bloomed in their immediate area as Merlin attempted to expedite his healing just a bit.  He can recover from most things without much trouble as long as there wasn’t something to disrupt his healing factor

The Bounded Field will do as a rest stop and if whatever they fought awhile go tried finishing the job they’d fine that it’d be hard to track them down as they remained in its area of influence.

They try their best to be thoughtful, honestly, though hearing it said aloud still manages to embarrass Ritsu a little bit. There’s a self-conscious laugh in their voice when next they speak. “I just don’t want anyone getting hurt...” That’s all. They step back a bit as flowers suddenly bloom beneath both of them, Ritsu caught somewhere between surprise and not wanting to step on a bloom they shouldn’t.

Guess Merlin won’t be needing the command seal, then, which is a bit of a help. Ritsu relaxes their stance, realizing it’s one of Merlin’s spells, not some unseen mage’s. All is well. Ritsu recognizes a bounded field when they’re plopped inside of one, this having been far from their first. “Or this’ll work. I’m not gonna say no to a break.”

Ignored him? Ignored him? When Lancelot looked at companions and women and his own wife before the king himself? Because a king is above all others, because the king is inhuman and perfect and good and great- damn it all, right now (in the twisted spin of rage and regret) he’d rather have plunged the place into hell.

(It’s not correct, but it’s not quite wrong either, at this point.)

“It’ll do me good because you can’t give it to any other broad or bastard.” Stupid, idiotic man. He’s going ;to rip his chest open. He needs to do something, yet all he can do is stare and snarl, like some simple animal. How dare he worry about Arthur’s life, when he isn’t even allowed to rot after his mistakes.

It’s like a punishment, isn’t it. Perhaps it is. After being ignored so long, he finally turns to ignore someone else and gets damned for it. Arthur’s expression cracks more like joints and rage builds, gnashing his teeth together. Fine. Curse that miserable bastard to something painful-

There is nowhere for his blade to go but forward. No choice but shedding blood. So easily, Caliburn slits his throat. The blade makes an awful scraping sound past the bone. He can almost hear the (what would be) last final wheeze of breath whistling out of this new opening. It shoves forward and to the side, then clatters behind Lancelot and smears blood across the hall as it skids down tile. The boot on Lancelot’s leg kicks forward and slams into his diaphragm, pinning him down. 

“Then touch something else, bastard.”

Arthur’s hands tear into his own chest.

Armor melts away and something wet and bright escapes, drips like heavy blood. More and more, like the golden light that spills from Lancelot’s own neck. The further he pushes, the more the metaphysical instead turns to the real. Flesh itself even melts away, something not meant to be seen inside of him, an odd metallic sheen past what is not saint graph but organs and muscle. Even the glamor melts away, and the sheen of scales mottles over Arthur as the spokes of light in his eyes thin into needle points, burning from the light they cast into the very eyes that hold them.

As violent as the rest, wings like gilded white opal burst from the king’s back, a tail ripping its way out of his leg like a wire buried underneath. Iron coats the floor and the wounds barely have time to heal as Arthur all but bites through his tongue to muffle the scream.

Blood spills and mixes with Lancelot’s as Arthur coughs, hacks back a clot of it in his esophagus. Avalon manifests bright and glorious, even as its light boils away the blood that rests upon it. Arthur falls to his knees between Lancelot’s own legs, clutching the sheathe close even as it burns with a holy light.

With the kind of force that makes CPR break ribs, Avalon is slammed into Lancelot’s chest. Arthur holds it down and uses it like a prison, like shackles, trying to pin him down onto the floor. The rage in his face is more potent than ever. A mix of spittle and blood splatter over Lancelot’s chestplate from the the force of his screams.

“I never gave you permission! I never told you to leave! I wanted you by my side until I died! Yet you left, again and again and again- and I welcomed you back! Every time! Was my adoration not enough?! How greedy did you need to be?! I was never allowed anything yet I thought I wouldn’t need to ask- because you were mine! My knight! My companion!” The weight of a nation presses down on Avalon as its glow ebbs to a calmer light, working its healing magic on the two men its trapped between. A claw breaks through the gauntlets he wears as one grabs the shirt beneath Lancelot’s armor and scratches at it, dangerously close to his healing throat.

Something clear lands and cuts a path through the blood. The rage is never diminished, yet tears fall from his eyes.

“You could have killed them all and I’d forgive you. But you had to leave. Fuck you and your honor and your knighthood! I hate it! I hate that kingdom, I hate it all, I hate everything people expected of me! Fuck being a good king, a good man- I wanted you, Lancelot! You expect me to be kind after you chose everything else?! If you wanted to be by my side, you would have chosen me instead of knighthood, instead of her, instead of your duties! You would have just said you wanted me more than her!”

he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t understand any of it. arthur’s complaints are things he has only performed in a way that’s just to the side of what arthur say. but he’ll take them, because at least it’s ruinous. it feels like being flayed, the reluctant tear of skin from muscle as the binding tissue offers only token resistance.

the last thing he thought he could value tearing him down. it would be easier if arthur just killed him normally. a glutton for punishment until it escapes lancelot’s own control and expectations of how it will go. (as ever, his king exceeds expectations. poetic. even in hate he is more than any other. the light is beautiful and blinding and leaves nothing behind its desolation.)

“when could i have been allowed to say that, then?!” at that time. his chestplate buckles with the force of arthur’s press and his sternum cracks, too. the break is immediately repaired, lingering only in the feeling and spreading pain from the center of his chest.

well, he got what he wanted. how awe-inspiring in its fury, to behold something like the wrath of god, even as it burns his throat back together and something draconic tears and unfurls its way out of arthur. lancelot is crying and he doesn’t understand why. fear and revelation and frustration.

always, no matter what, his choices are wrong. no matter what he is to life for an idea. “i am never my own!” he can’t even be hated and killed for what he is, which is a failure of dreaming. 

‘On purpose’. Somehow it’s more damning than intent, that the lowest miseries of his life weren’t even on purpose. Just a string of accidents send swinging, crashing into the wall. Arthur wants to choke, to starve, to bleed. There’s nothing to cut but Lancelot’s throat, and the idea of giving him the satisfaction is even more sickening right now than killing him. 

(Is that a lie, too, or are you finally admitting you’re that selfish? Do you even know, King?)

A smothered sound comes from his mouth like the grinding of teeth. Eyes dart wildly back and forth as he tries to pull his blade away, but this is the cost of a physical body no matter the elevation from the human form it contains. His entire body is shaking like a thunderstorm. Finally so close then all he can say is-

“How dare you- once I can forgive! You bastard! You traitorous dog- worse treachery than any! Not a single deed outweighs this slight, and you won’t even listen, you damn fool!” The rage refuses to dissipate, instead building and building upon his face, lip curling further into a snarl. Scales that shimmer like an oilslick form underneath his gauntlets- but it’s obvious, because he takes one glove by the leather and pulls it off, hanging from his mouth in rage before he throws it onto the ground.

If he was a Master, a King, this wouldn’t happen.  If he was a King, a Master, he’d be a canary in a coalmine, one more time. His hand is all but radiant, yet the things on his fingers are more tools than even body parts with the lethality they hold.

“Hate?! I hated your thoughts themselves! I hated you because my most loyal knight betrayed me, and not until the very moment after that betrayal would I believe it!” Arthur would take the moment to breathe, but he can barely feel his limbs. Breath escapes him and is taken in monumental effort yet the words spill without the hope of holding them back. It’s as if speaking is as essential as oxygen itself. “You ask for a privilege unearned! How dare you. I never let them take your seat- do you need to find what I will not yield to be satisfied? Do you need the thing I will not give you named? Were our nights in the same tent, under the same stars, not enough? Will you ask for the very memory itself?!”

The left knee practically buckles under his shaking body. Everything is twitching and shaking.

“Your death is not yours to ask for, Lancelot du Lac.” The mounting rage is a new look. His boot slams forward, aiming for one of Lancelot’s legs as he shifts down to take a knee. Ineffective to defend oneself, but…

(”If he can kill me, it’d be a good way to go.”)

…that isn’t an issue, is it? 

“Even if you renounce your name, I’d never let you die.” There’san unnerving humanity in the perfect king’s eyes. A bare hand grips the base of Caliburn’s blade, toying at seeing if Lancelot jerked his hand away from a blood oath with the disgusting king he turned out to be. To look at him- Lancelot will get that. Those human eyelids refuse to blink, the trained, frantic desperation of someone who wakes up with a sweet dream still on the lashes and tries against all natural order to keep it there, just a bit longer.

“I hate that you turned on me like everyone else. Even in the face of it all, at least Lancelot didn’t expect anything of me I couldn’t provide… what a fucking joke that turned out to be. You had the highest expectations of them all.” At this rate, the gnashing of his teeth will chip a tooth. If he was allowed to, he might pace from the stress, but instead a low, threatening hiss escapes his throat, almost fluttering in pitch. Caliburn finally stops trying to pull away- instead, even pushing just a half-inch further.

“Congratulations. You’ve discovered that everyone is right- I’m a selfish and human king. You’re my knight, Lancelot du Lac, and I’ll cut off your hands before letting even you, who would be welcome to my kingdom, take my most valued knight from my side.” The blade twists sideways, as if trying to dig into the palm. It shakes with his hands. He can almost feel the bone scrape against metal. Maybe he can, if he cuts deeper. Maybe if he cuts Lancelot open he can taste that sweet taste he forgot for so long- sweet morning dew on just-mushy-apricots as the sun kisses the cheek of the one you find beautiful, and for the first time see them in the newest morning light. There’s almost mania in his mouth, stuck open like a broken record.

“I’d give you any weapon, any woman, any wealth and legend. Land and lordship could be your’s. I would give you that damn cup and Excalibur and the Round Table itself if you asked, you ruinous dog. Bite all you want, but this time, I won’t allow someone to put you down ‘til you rot. Serves you right for taking the life from me.” Hold on. So far, this has been relatively straight forward, but Lancelot didn’t kill Arthur, factually. Hardly even metaphorically, though it’s more workable. But the answer comes quickly enough, no matter how much it’s spat out like a mouthful of vinegar.

“I hate that you abandoned me, you damn fool.”

the rage terrifies him and so lancelot wallows in it, forcing himself to sit at the center of pain and anger and hatred as a desperate act of self-immolation. even as a ghost, the way he is now, he just can’t die. he can’t let people’s hands be free of him. this is punishment. flay yourself and sit, ribcage cracked and spread open for vultures to eat his heart, never worth a thing.

he [doesnt / does] want the king to be angry at him. anger like this makes him want to run. the familiar taste of [ ______ ] (that thing he hated more than anything else). blame him, then, as in self-flagellation lancelot sets himself to take any fall he possibly can. there is no glory left, and then perhaps he can disappear. “then what good does it do you?” his death can be arthur’s, fine. why keep something that does nothing.

the boot to his leg makes him buckle and he braces himself against, impulsively and because it is all that’s in his hand, caliburn. the sword slices deeper.

the only good thing is that servants, even cut like this, take a while to die. the sword hasn’t pulled free and let his blood spill loose. he can watch arthur and take that with him, the heat of a funeral pyre. lancelot’s eyes don’t waver. “if i am your knight, then why won’t you look at me? at your side,” he scoffs, “and if i walk behind you you act as if you can’t even see me. if i walked at your side you would die like all else.” he cannot, can never.

“what the hell do you mean, abandoned you? i left, because that or people die. and still they did. everything burns because i wanted to choose what a knight would. the one time i choose what a knight wouldn’t, you live.” as surprising as that was. he thought— no, never mind. of course he turned on arthur and killed him, even if he doesn’t understand (should someone ask him) what arthur meant.

of course he did, because that’s what happens. “that’s the answer, isn’t it?! i cannot touch anything but a sword!” it’s not a knight, that’s a mercenary. but at least it is still arthur’s sword he clings to. he leans forward in his yelling, not caring how much it cuts. a servant can’t die that quickly unless the core is broken, and blood loss takes a while. still, something is sliced and blood tinged with the gold of a dying servant spills, dyeing his armour.

it’s fine if it’s arthur. if arthur kills him and lancelot forgets, like his king, to die. at least he can keep this, at least if it is him dying it is not those he touches. the scale still gets what payment it demands.

He needs to avoid that man. Avoid the things he indulged in and then buried away. He’s tried to bring back the dead once, and he refuses to let that folly’s thorns dig deeper again.

(It’s cruel. The king is too human, doesn’t live up to someone who should be perfect to the point of transcending humanity. So he understands this is cruel. But he has only smiled once in this place, and it was to that man’s parting back.)

(This is fine, if they are both in pain, isn’t it? Even if his selfishness keeps his pain hidden as everything else.)

So it’s easier to keep a straight face. Easier to stay silent. To try his best to turn to stone, close his heart off yet again, yet again, yet again. But the sound of Arondight pulled from its sheath is never something he’d dare to forget. Even the most painful moments, soothed by that sword of companionship-

The thoughts come in parts.

It just barely cuts the back of his nape. (Realization.) Lancelot shouldn’t aim so lethally at him. He never should, after all, they- (Bargaining.) But away from they, and back to Lancelot- when he does aim, he aims true. His head should have been cleaved right off. (Disbelief.) He doesn’t want to die to Lancelot’s hand. (Denial.) Not like this. (Truth.) He needs to act. (Regret.)

He first goes to Rhongomyniad’s place on his back, an unconscious response to something like a betrayal. But no- he doesn’t use that spear, he refuses to let it shed blood again. So he drops low to buy the time to instinctively swap to his right hand. It’s Caliburn that he pulls out, a second too late as Lancelot’s weapon swings wide above his head. (It’s not right, not right, not right-)

Fine. Lancelot hates him, as he long has known. Finally that sentiment gives way. Now that he’s here, he must remember it all. All the slights, all the building resentment, the way he loved the woman Arthur was married to and must have heard every slight Arthur gave her, his precious fucking lady- the thought finally makes something like bitter resignation brew up.

The sound that escapes him is the first he’s made to Lancelot- to that man- and it’s the kind of snarl a wounded beast makes. He advances with barely held back lethality, letting something of these last, uncountable years finally slip out. Caliburn sings at an even match, awakened desires and cutting steel, once again greedy for blood and spoil and him.

The hunger leaves him pupils wide and teeth bared. An equal- no, that man- no, Lancelot- no, him, just him- he, regardless of name and title. He was always better. Stronger, more natural with the blade, seamless and beautiful as a vase full of water and cut flowers and yet as ruthless as a waterfall.

Arondight is sent flying. 

Arthur lunges forward to grab the blade, wrenching it into Caliburn’s empty sheathe, cutting into the leather with the same fluid motion that he presses the tip of his blade into Lancelot’s neck, and not a centimeter further.

(Nothing of Lancelot’s should hit the floor-)

Yet his blade moves. Arthur moves in turn to pull it back, leash the hunger that was let out, but it’s then his eyes finally narrow. The muddied negativity turns into something like being wounded, the shock of pain, but then disbelief. He tries to pull it away, but the grip is stronger.

(If he cuts further, he could taste the-)

“…I should say the same to you, shouldn’t I, Knight of the Lake? What more do you want of what little was mine?” Yet he couldn’t take- Unconsciously, he stops trying to pull the blade away. Arthur takes a step forward, staring down at that traitorous man with burning eyes. 

“If you wanted my head, you shouldn’t have missed.” Yet he puts a hand on Arondight, ill-fitting in a place not meant for it, yet even more beautiful in the glimpses that are caught past what is torn and ruptured. (Just like its master.) “Get up. You aren’t the type to miss. What is it, pity? I haven’t wasted away. Treat me like an equal if you want to kill me at the very least, if our years meant anything to the man you are now.”

(Maybe it’s idiocy, that he doesn’t realize what’s happening. Maybe it’s the same face-blindness he is struck with looking into a mirror, the wrongness and disbelief hiding the image shown entirely.)

he feels just a little bit alive fighting arthur. it’s not the same as anything else. it is, at least, making a choice for himself. even if something out of whatever blackness boils in him, it is at least a choice he’s making, and not something driven of ‘it is what a knight does’ or ‘it is what’s been demanded’.

lancelot stays standing, with the sword of selection slicked with his own blood. it pricks and he barely feels the pain as he pulls it to cut, blood seeping in to the fabric of his collar. it’s not even a properly thought out motion, he simply leans forward when he’s given question, expression alight with... something. (both hunter and hunted, he is the rabbit and the wolf bearing down on it, arthur is both trap and that which frees him. lancelot will tear himself open.)

arthur doesn’t call him by his name. of course he wouldn’t— no, shouldn’t he? (do you deserve this?) "i want you to look at me! hate me properly! i want you to kill me!” the words are bitten out. his grip on caliburn is tight enough to cut into the bones of his palm.

does arthur think he missed? no, he got what he wanted. lancelot’s breathing hard, somewhere a mix of panic and elation. “i want to ruin something on purpose!” if things are going to burn and he is destined to have nothing, then he will tear things how he wants them. the important thing, the only important thing, he’ll destroy himself. this is the closest he is allowed to get to touching the king.