Voices chanted his name with unbridled glee amid a cacophony of cheers. Fists were in the air. Coins exchanged hands, singing as they clinked from full hands to empty ones. Every manner of man was pouring an ale, whether or not they lost the bets. Children were running amok in the chaos. Despite the mud caking their shoes, mothers were far too happy to scold them. 

Gawain and his siblings rode over to smack him in the shoulder, the volume with which he delivered his congratulations surpassing that of the crowd. Lancelot could still hear the bloke laughing as the First Knight steered his horse to the dais and tossed his sheath to his squire. 

There were flowers: petals catching the breeze, wildflowers pooled beneath his loyal steed’s hooves, wreaths looped around his lance, his horse, his shield, his wrists. A crowd had gathered in the field to praise him. He nodded to all of them, politely whispered hurried thanks, and snaked his now free hands under his helmet. 

Several more cheers resounded as the afternoon sun kissed his handsome features, but he paid them no heed. The visor, he might have worn for protection, but to him it was but a restriction–a hindrance–that kept him from looking up at the stands. If he could have gone without it, if he could have been granted more than glimpses of his guiding light, then perhaps today’s tournament could have been won far more swiftly. 

He lifted his gaze, mirth coloring his cheek as he found her eyes already on him. Pride shone through those lovely green orbs: pride that brought relief for his fatigued shoulders, pride that he would win a hundred more jousts for. 

She stood up to meet him, strolling past the canopy’s protection such that the sun struck her hair as she waited at the railing. Lancelot had never truly believed in what the church proclaimed as the higher power, but he could feel it in the sunrays illuminating her golden halo. He could see it in the pink across her fair cheeks. He could sense it in the warmth of her fingers as they caressed his chin. 

The knight could spend forever in this moment, frozen in time with naught but she, his light, and he, her faithful believer. He would give up everything to stay here. Fame, fortune, even the sword if that’s what it took. He needed nothing else.

If there was a heaven, it was here. 

“Sir Lancelot!” 

A different voice called out his name instead. A different set of arms looped around his neck. A different set of lips landed on his cheeks. 

“Congratulations,” a too-sweet voice chimed in, Guinevere’s beautiful face occupying the space where his king’s had been. “You have made your king proud. You have brought honor to Camelot, white knight.” 

Two steps away, Arturia gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes; a smile that was practiced…manufactured. It was utterly unlike the one she was wearing just moments ago, so detached she could have been giving it to a stranger. 

The queen put her wreath of flowers atop Lancelot’s head. All around them, the crowd erupted into cheers louder than before. Someone took the flag of Camelot out for a spin. Men cried out in jealousy for the queen’s favor, women for Lancelot’s attention. Even children waved sticks around, proclaiming they’d be knights like Sir Lancelot the gallant. Like Sir Lancelot the courageous. Like Sir Lancelot, the perfect knight. Like Sir Lancelot, whose heart shattered as his king broke their gaze and retreated. 

The queen’s outstretched hand filled his vision. He kissed the back of it, like he must have done so many times before, as was custom. Queen Guinevere and Gawain rode by his side on his victory parade to the castle, both of them excited to partake of a feast in his honor. 

The entire way back, there were toasts being made. The entire way back, bards were singing his songs. Windows were lit. Streets were packed with people. Even the knights who had lost joined in on the fun. The banquet was no less lively. Jesters flitted across the hall. Wax dripped from the ceiling lights. Musicians spurred lords and ladies into dance. Wine spilled from cup to cup. 

Still, as seemingly every person that had been invited extended their congratulations, or gratitude, or words of admiration, all Lancelot could see was his beloved king across the table, too far away to hear, to reach, to touch. All Lancelot could think about was their silent moment by the dais and the ghost of her touch on his cheek. 

He was showered with gifts. Assaulted by questionable poems of praise. Promised crops. Promised ale. Promised dogs, horses, cattle. Promised gold. He didn’t care. He would give it all up to go back. He’d beg on his knees, he’d pray, he’d do anything to return to that one fleeting moment. 

The knight’s thumb ran over where her touch had been, Arturia finally, finally returning his gaze.