#lancelotbbc

"I was not sighing," I said, resuming our trek along the deer trail. "I was expelling air in a rhythmic fashion to maintain stamina." 

"Right. Sighing." She fell into step beside me, her shoulder bumping mine. It was a deliberate, playful check, not an accident. "Admit it. You’re bored. You were hoping for a wyvern. Or at least a very angry badger." 

"I am never bored when ensuring the safety of the realm," I recited, the words automatic. 

YN stopped walking. I took two steps before realizing she wasn’t with me. I turned back. She was standing with her arms crossed, an eyebrow arched so high it nearly vanished into her hairline. 

"You sounded like Arthur just then," she accused. "It was terrifying. Do it again." 

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. "I do not sound like the King." 

"You did! You did the voice." She deepened her own voice, puffing out her chest in a mockery of royal posture. "'I am never bored when ensuring the safety of the realm. Duty is my breakfast. Honor is my lunch. Brooding is my dinner.'" 

I laughed. It was a sound that felt rare these days, usually buried under layers of chainmail and responsibility. But with YN, the armor always felt a little lighter. "I do not believe Arthur eats brooding for dinner. Though he does occasionally snack on it." 

"See? There he is," she said, stepping closer, her eyes bright with mischief. "The real Lancelot. I knew I could dig him out from under the cape." 

We continued walking, the tension of the patrol dissolving into the easy rhythm we had developed over the last few months. When Arthur had first assigned YN to my patrol unit, I had been skeptical. She wasn’t a knight. She wasn’t noble-born. She was a tracker from the northern borders with a reputation for sharp knives and a sharper tongue. 

I hadn't expected her to become the person I looked for first when I entered the Great Hall. I hadn't expected the way the air seemed to thin whenever she was close, making my heart work double time to compensate. 

"So," she said, kicking a pinecone along the path. "Since there are clearly no bandits, and the magical beasts seem to be taking a nap... how about a wager?" 

I eyed her warily. YN’s wagers usually resulted in me doing something ridiculous, like cleaning the stables while wearing a blindfold or explaining to Merlin why his favorite tunic was now pink. "I am wary of your wagers." 

"Cowardice? From the bravest knight in Camelot?" She tutted. "Shameful." 

"Caution," I corrected. "There is a difference. What is the wager?" 

She stopped again, looking around the clearing we had entered. It was a small, circular break in the trees, carpeted in soft clover. "Sparring matches are boring. You always hold back because you’re a gentleman, and I always fight dirty because I’m not." 

"I do not hold back," I lied. 

"You do. You pull every strike that comes near my face. It’s sweet, but it’s bad training." She unbuckled her sword belt, leaning it against a tree, and then began to unlace her leather bracers. "No weapons. Hand to hand. First one to pin the other keeps the winner’s title until sundown." 

I raised an eyebrow. "And what is the winner's title?" 

"Captain," she grinned. "If I win, I lead the patrol back. I give the orders. You have to do the grunt work. If you win... well, you get the satisfaction of knowing you beat a girl." 

"That sounds like a terrible deal for me," I noted, though I was already unbuckling my own sword belt. The day was warm, and the chainmail was heavy. I placed my gear next to hers. "If I win, I choose where we eat tonight." 

Her eyes narrowed. "Fine. But I’m warning you, I’m hungry. If you choose that place with the dry mutton again, I will mutiny." 

"Deal." 

We circled each other in the center of the clearing. The birdsong seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of our boots shifting in the grass. This was a game, yes, but YN was right—she was a dangerous opponent. She didn’t fight like a knight. She fought like water, flowing around obstacles, striking where the defense was weakest. 

She moved first, a feint to my left followed by a sweeping kick at my ankles. I stepped back, reading the momentum, and caught her wrist as she aimed a palm strike at my chest. 

"Too slow," I teased, releasing her and stepping back. 

"Warming up," she shot back. 

She came at me again, faster this time. She ducked under my guard, her shoulder driving into my midsection. It was a solid hit, knocking the wind out of me. I stumbled back, and she pressed the advantage, hooking her leg behind my knee. 

I went down, but I grabbed her tunic as I fell, pulling her with me. We hit the soft earth with a thud, rolling over the clover. The world became a blur of green and sky and YN’s laughing face. 

She scrambled to get on top, trying to pin my shoulders, but I used my size to my advantage, bridging my hips and rolling us over again. 

"Cheating!" she gasped, laughing as she tried to shove me off. 

"Physics!" I countered, pinning her wrists to the ground. "Not cheating." 

For a moment, I had her. My weight was settled over her, her arms pinned above her head. I looked down, adrenaline humming in my veins. Her hair had spilled out of its tie, fanning like a dark halo against the clover. Her chest was heaving, her cheeks flushed a vibrant pink. 

"Do you yield?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave without my permission. 

She looked up at me, her eyes dark and unreadable for a split second. Then, a wicked smirk curled her lips. "Never." 

She bucked her hips, hard, throwing my balance off just enough. At the same time, she twisted her wrists. I held on, but she brought her knee up, tapping me lightly but pointedly in the side. Instinctively, I flinched, and that was all she needed. She twisted like an eel, slipping free of my grip and scrambling onto my back as I tried to recover. 

She wrapped an arm around my neck—gently, a mock chokehold. "Yield!" she shouted into my ear. 

I laughed, tapping her arm. "I yield! I yield!" 

She released me immediately, rolling off to lie on her back in the grass, staring up at the canopy. I stayed sitting for a moment, catching my breath, watching her. 

"I win," she declared, pointing a finger at the sky. "Captain YN. Has a nice ring to it." 

"You fight without honor," I said, though there was no heat in it. I lay back down beside her, the cool grass seeping into my shirt. 

"Honor gets you dead," she said softly. "Winning keeps you alive. That’s the first rule of the borderlands." 

We lay there in silence for a long time. The forest was quiet, save for the wind rustling the leaves. It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Being this close to her, listening to the rhythm of her breathing slow down, sent a different kind of panic through me. It was the panic of a man standing on a precipice, deciding whether or not to jump. 

I turned my head to look at her. She was already looking at me. 

"You let me win," she said quietly. 

"I did not." 

"You hesitated," she insisted. "When you had me pinned. You hesitated." 

I felt the heat rise in my neck. "I was... assessing the situation." 

She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand. Her playful demeanor had shifted into something softer, more inquisitive. "What is it with you, Lancelot? You’re always so controlled. Every move is calculated. Every word is measured. Do you ever just... let go?" 

"I am a knight of Camelot," I said, as if that explained everything. "Control is the job." 

"But who are you when the job is done?" She reached out, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. The touch was electric. "I think there’s a wildness in you, Lancelot. I think you’re terrified of it." 

I caught her hand, stopping her fingers from tracing down my cheek. I should have let go. I didn't. "And I think you read too much into things, Captain." 

She didn't pull her hand away. "Prove me wrong." 

"How?" 

"Do something unpredictable." Her eyes searched mine. "Do something you haven't planned out three steps in advance." 

My heart hammered against my ribs. The prompt was dangerous. She didn't know the war that waged inside me every time she smiled, every time she sharpened her dagger by the firelight, every time she challenged me. She didn't know that my 'control' was a dam holding back a flood. 

"Unpredictable," I repeated. 

"Yes." She challenged me with that look, the one that said she knew something I didn't. "But you won't. You're too noble. Too perfect. You’d never do anything to risk the—" 

I moved before the thought fully formed in my mind. 

I shifted, closing the small distance between us, and kissed her. 

It wasn't a tentative, testing kiss. It was an answer. It was the months of silent longing, the jealousies swallowed, the admiration hidden behind formal titles. I cupped the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her hair, and poured every ounce of the "wildness" she claimed I feared into the motion. 

For a second—a terrifying, singular second—she was still. Frozen. 

Then, she melted. 

She made a small sound in the back of her throat, her hand coming up to grip the front of my tunic, pulling me closer. Her lips were soft, warm, and responded with a fervor that matched my own. The world narrowed down to the sensation of her, the scent of pine and soap on her skin, the taste of her. 

The kiss deepened, becoming less of a statement and more of a conversation, a frantic, heated exchange of everything we hadn't been saying. I shifted my weight, leaning over her, and she arched up to meet me, her other hand coming up to cup my jaw, her thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. 

When I finally pulled back, we were both breathless. My forehead rested against hers, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. My heart was beating so hard I was sure she could feel it through my chest. 

I opened my eyes. 

YN looked... undone. Her lips were swollen, her eyes wide and dazed, the pupils blown dark. A flush had spread from her neck to her cheeks, deeper than the exertion of sparring. She blinked, once, twice, looking at me as if she had never seen me before. Her mouth opened to speak, but no sound came out. She just stared, her usual quick wit completely abandoned. 

I ran my thumb gently across her lower lip, watching the way she shivered at the touch. The mighty tracker, the woman who always had a comeback, was rendered speechless. 

I smiled, a genuine, terrifyingly happy smile. 

"Thanks for proving my point." 

She blinked again, shaking her head slightly as if trying to clear a fog. "What?" she croaked. Her voice was an octave higher than usual. 

"My point," I whispered, leaning back just an inch to admire her flustered expression. "I told you I was merely assessing the situation earlier. I wasn't hesitating because I was too noble. I was hesitating because I was wondering if doing that would be a violation of the patrol protocols." 

She stared at me. "You... that was..." 

"Unpredictable?" I suggested. 

"I..." She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. She shoved my chest lightly, but her hands lingered there. "You did that on purpose. To shut me up." 

"Did it work?" 

"Yes," she admitted, a laugh bubbling up out of her, sounding a bit hysterical. "Gods, Lancelot. Warn a girl next time." 

"I thought the objective was to not plan three steps ahead?" 

She groaned, covering her face with her hands, but I could see the smile beaming from behind her fingers. "I hate you. I hate that you're right." 

"You don't hate me," I said, peeling her hands away from her face. I interlaced her fingers with mine, pinning them gently to the grass again, mirroring our earlier position but with a very different intent. 

"No," she whispered, her eyes softening, the vulnerability there stark and beautiful. "I really don't." 

I leaned down and kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the fact that I didn't have to hide it anymore. It was a gentle, lingering press of lips, a promise rather than a declaration. 

When I pulled back, she was smiling, that familiar, teasing light returning to her eyes. 

"So," she said, her voice steadier. "Since I won the match... and I am Captain..." 

I groaned, rolling off her and staring up at the leaves. "Do not tell me you are going to make me walk back carrying all the gear." 

"No," she said, shifting so she was hovering over me, her hair creating a curtain around us. "But as Captain, I am declaring an extended rest break. The patrol can wait another hour." 

I reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "An abuse of power. Arthur would be appalled." 

"Arthur isn't here," she murmured, leaning down until her lips were a breath away from mine. "And I have to verify that the first time wasn't a fluke. Purely for scientific observation, of course." 

"Of course," I agreed, closing my eyes as she closed the distance. "For science." 

The sun had shifted significantly by the time we finally gathered our gear. The golden light was turning amber, lengthening the shadows of the trees. We walked back toward the horses in a comfortable silence, though the space between us had vanished. Her hand brushed mine every few steps, and eventually, I just took it, lacing our fingers together. 

We reached the edge of the ridge that overlooked Camelot. The citadel stood stark white against the darkening sky, a beacon of order and rules. 

YN squeezed my hand. "Back to the real world." 

"It's not so bad," I said, looking at her rather than the castle. "It has its moments." 

She smirked. "So, about the second part of the wager." 

I frowned. "The second part?" 

"If I won, I lead the patrol. Which I did. But we never discussed the dinner terms for my victory." 

I sighed. "I assume we are not going to the tavern with the dry mutton." 

"Absolutely not. You are cooking." 

I stopped walking. "Me?" 

"You. Fire, rabbit, vegetables. The whole thing. I've seen you sharpen a blade, Lancelot. I bet you can chop a carrot." 

"I have not cooked since I left my village years ago," I protested as we mounted our horses. 

"Then it will be an adventure," she said, swinging into her saddle with ease. "And if it's terrible, I promise I won't tell the other knights." She paused, looking back at me, her expression turning wicked. "Unless you annoy me." 

"I am sensing a pattern of extortion in our relationship," I noted, mounting my own horse. 

"It keeps you on your toes," she said, turning her horse toward the city gates. "Come on, Sir Knight. Try to keep up." 

She kicked her horse into a gallop, dust kicking up behind her. 

I watched her go, the woman who had turned my solitary, duty-bound life into something vibrant and chaotic. I thought about the kiss in the clearing, the way she had looked at me—flustered, real, and affectionate. 

I spurred my horse forward, chasing after her, ready for whatever game she wanted to play next. 

Later that evening, the fire crackled in the small hearth of my chambers. It was against protocol to have a guest this late, especially a female guest, but as YN had pointed out, the door had a lock for a reason. 

The "stew" I had attempted to make was bubbling in a pot suspended over the fire. It smelled... adequate. 

YN was sitting on the floor by the hearth, whittling a piece of wood with a small knife. She looked comfortable, her boots kicked off, her tunic unbuttoned at the collar. 

"It smells like you burned the onions," she commented without looking up. 

"Caramelized," I corrected, stirring the pot. "It is a culinary technique." 

"Is it?" She looked up, grinning. 

"Yes. It adds... depth." 

She laughed, shaking her head. She set the wood down and crawled over to where I was sitting. She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder to peer into the pot. 

"It looks edible," she conceded. 

"High praise." 

She turned her face into my neck, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just above my collarbone. I froze, the spoon pausing mid-stir. 

"Thank you," she whispered against my skin. 

I turned my head slightly. "For the stew? You haven't tasted it yet. You might want to retract that." 

"No," she said, pulling back enough to look me in the eye. "For today. For... letting go." 

I turned fully, abandoning the stew to its fate. I cupped her face in my hands. The playfulness was there, simmering under the surface, but the moment was tender. 

"I didn't let go, YN," I said softly. "I just grabbed onto something better." 

She smiled, that brilliant, unguarded smile that made me want to fight dragons just to keep it there. 

"Smooth," she teased. "Very poetic. You practice that in the mirror?" 

"Naturally." 

She leaned in, her nose brushing mine. "Well, keep practicing. I think I like this side of you." 

"And which side is that?" 

"The one that's mine." 

I kissed her then, forgetting the burnt onions, the patrol reports due in the morning, and the watchful eyes of the court. 

"You have proven another point just now," I murmured against her lips. 

"Which was?" 

"That you always win." 

She laughed, pulling me down onto the rug. "Don't you forget it, Lancelot. Don't you forget it." 

"And you should be letting Percival take his turn," I countered, dropping onto the log beside him. I huddled into my tunic, pulling my knees to my chest. "But we both know you won't wake him." 

Lancelot offered a small, tired smile. The firelight danced in his dark eyes, illuminating the shadows that seemed to live permanently beneath them these days. "He had a long ride. The chainmail weighs heavier on him than he admits." 

"It weighs heavy on all of you, Lance," I said softly. 

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for a whetstone and his dagger, beginning the rhythmic, scraping motion of sharpening steel. It was his tell. Whenever his thoughts became too loud, he sought the simplicity of maintenance. Sharp edges, clean lines, polished armor. He wanted to fix the world, but usually, he had to settle for fixing his gear. 

I watched him for a long while. We were a long way from the small, mud-churned village where we had grown up. Back then, we were just two children swinging sticks at imaginary dragons, pretending to be the heroes we had only heard about in stories. Now, he wore the crimson cape of Camelot, the noblest of Arthur’s knights, and I… well, I was the shadow that followed, the sister who refused to be left behind when destiny came calling. 

"You're thinking too loud," I murmured, bumping his shoulder with mine. "I can hear the gears turning from here." 

Lancelot paused, the blade hovering over the stone. "It’s quiet tonight. Too quiet. I have a feeling we are being watched." 

"We’re in the Darkling Woods. The trees have eyes here. It’s usually just a badger or a druid passing through," I dismissed, though I instinctively scanned the darkness beyond the firelight. "That’s not what’s bothering you." 

He sighed, a sound that seemed to deflate his rigid posture just a fraction. He sheathed the dagger and clasped his hands together, leaning forward. "Arthur relies on us. This treaty with the northern lords... if we fail to escort the envoy safely tomorrow, the alliance crumbles." 

"And we will escort them," I said firmly. "We always do. You worry about the mission because it’s easier than worrying about yourself." 

Lancelot looked at me then, really looked at me, with that piercing, sorrowful gaze that made women across the five kingdoms swoon. But I wasn't a court lady; I was the girl who had patched up his scraped knees and held his hand when our parents died. I saw the exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes. 

"I am fine, YNN," he lied. He was a terrible liar to everyone except himself. 

"You’re miserable," I corrected him. "You’re the bravest man I know, Lancelot. You’re the most skilled swordsman in Camelot, perhaps in all of Albion. You have the King’s ear and the people’s love. And yet, you look like a man serving a penance." 

He looked away, back to the fire. "It is an honor to serve." 

"It can be an honor and a burden," I pressed. I knew where his heart lay. Everyone did, though no one dared speak it aloud. It lay back in the citadel, in the chambers of a Queen-to-be who looked at him with sad, longing eyes whenever Arthur wasn’t watching. It was a tragedy written in silence. 

I watched him pick up a stick and poke at the embers, sending a flurry of sparks spiraling up into the canopy. The silence stretched between us, heavy with the things we couldn’t say. The damp smell of the forest floor mixed with the woodsmoke, a scent that was fundamentally the smell of our adult lives. 

"Do you remember the lake?" I asked suddenly. "Near the old mill? Before... before everything changed." 

Lancelot’s face softened. "I remember. You fell in trying to catch a frog. I had to fish you out." 

"You dove in fully clothed," I laughed quietly. "Ruined your only good tunic. Mother was furious, but you told her you tripped and pulled me in with you, just so I wouldn’t get in trouble for playing near the deep water." 

"I was always better at taking the blame," he murmured. 

"You were always better at taking the fall," I corrected. "You’re still doing it. You sacrifice pieces of yourself, day by day, for Arthur. For Gwen. For the idea of Camelot." 

At the mention of her name, his jaw tightened imperceptibly. He didn't speak, but the tension returned to his shoulders. 

"This life," I gestured vaguely at the sleeping knights, the swords piled nearby, the endless darkness surrounding us. "The constant danger. The sleeping on roots. The emotional torture of watching the woman you love marry your best friend and King. It’s suffocating you, Lance." 

He finally turned to me, his expression guarded. "I made a vow, YN. To Arthur. To the code." 

"I know you did. And you will keep it, because you are Lancelot du Lac, and you don't know how to break a promise," I said, my voice thick with a mixture of pride and frustration. "But looking at you now, sitting in the dark, polishing a blade that is already sharp enough to cut the wind... I have to ask." 

I leaned in closer, forcing him to meet my gaze. 

"Isn't there anywhere else you would rather be?" 

The question hung in the air, suspended like the smoke drifting through the branches. 

For a moment, I thought he would deflect. I expected him to give me the knightly answer—that there is no greater place than by his King’s side. But the defenses lowered, just for a second. The Knight of Camelot vanished, leaving only my brother. 

He looked down at his hands—calloused, scarred, strong hands that had taken lives and saved them in equal measure. 

"A farm," he said, his voice so quiet I almost missed it. 

I blinked. "A farm?" 

"Somewhere quiet," he continued, his eyes unfocused, seeing a horizon I couldn't. "With a small plot of land. Horses that aren't trained for war, but just for riding. A house with a roof that doesn't leak, and a hearth where the fire is for warmth, not for cooking rations." 

He looked up at the stars peeking through the canopy. "I would wake up when the sun rises, not when the warning bell tolls. I would work the earth. I would build things—tables, fences, cradles—things that last. Things that aren't meant to destroy." 

I felt a lump form in my throat. It was such a simple, humble dream. It was the life we might have had if he hadn't been touched by destiny, if he hadn't been so innately, curse-worthily noble. 

"And... is there someone there with you?" I asked, treading carefully. "On this farm?" 

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, sad and beautiful. "In my head? Yes. She is there. She wears simple linen, not silk. And she smiles without fear." 

He didn't say her name. He didn't have to. 

"But," Lancelot exhaled, the fantasy evaporating as quickly as it had formed. He sat up straighter, the armor of his persona clicking back into place. "That is not my path. Destiny does not ask us what we would rather do, YN. It asks us what we must do." 

"You could leave," I whispered, though I knew it was futile. "We could leave. Tonight. Just ride south. No one would catch us." 

"And leave Arthur unprotected?" He shook his head. "Leave Camelot to fall to Morgana or the next threat? You know I cannot do that. And neither could you." 

He was right. I cursed him for being right. I had sworn my own fealty, not just to the King, but to my brother. Where he went, I went. If he marched into the mouth of a dragon, I would be right there to sharpen his spear. 

"So that's it then?" I asked, a bitter taste in my mouth. "We just keep going until we can't?" 

"We keep going until the work is done," Lancelot said firmly. He reached out and placed a hand on my head, ruffling my hair as he used to when we were children. "And I am glad you are here, YNN. If I cannot be on that farm... then being here, with my sister, is the only other place I can bear to be." 

I leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palm. "You're a sentimental fool, Lancelot." 

"Perhaps," he agreed. 

The moment was shattered by the snap of a twig. 

It wasn't the natural settling of the woods. It was the distinct, sharp crack of a heavy boot on dry wood. Lancelot’s hand was on his sword hilt before the sound had even finished echoing. I was only a fraction of a second behind him, my own blade sliding silently from its sheath. 

"Wake them," Lancelot hissed, his voice dropping to a command tone. 

I didn't need to be told twice. I scrambled backward toward the sleeping forms. "Gwaine! Percival! Up!" 

As if summoned by the noise, the darkness around us erupted. 

Men—bandits, by the look of their ragged leathers and mismatched armor—poured out of the tree line. There were at least twenty of them, screaming war cries meant to terrify. But they had made a grave error. They weren't attacking a merchant caravan; they were attacking the Knights of the Round Table. 

Lancelot was a blur of motion. He kicked the log we had been sitting on toward the first two attackers, sending them stumbling into the fire. Sparks exploded outward, illuminating the clearing in a chaotic strobe. 

"Left flank!" Lancelot shouted to me. 

I pivoted, ducking under a wild swing from a bandit wielding a rusted mace. I drove my elbow into his gut, followed by the pommel of my sword into his temple. He went down hard. 

Beside me, the camp was alive. Gwaine was laughing—actually laughing—as he parried two swords at once, still half-asleep but fighting with the grace of a dancer. Percival was simply tossing men aside like ragdolls. Merlin was scrambling behind a tree, and I saw a flash of gold in his eyes as a falling branch conveniently knocked out a bandit sneaking up on Arthur. 

But my focus remained on Lancelot. 

We fought back-to-back, a rhythm we had perfected over years of survival. I felt the heat radiating off him, heard the sharp intake of his breath with every strike. 

"Two on your right!" I called out, parrying a thrust aimed at my ribs. 

"I see them," Lancelot replied calm as a frozen lake. He ducked a high swing, spun, and slashed the legs of one attacker while catching the blade of the second on his crossguard. With a fluid shove, he unbalanced the man and finished him with a precise strike. 

I wasn't a knight. I didn't have the title or the cape. But in the dance of steel, we were equals. I blocked a heavy axe blow that rattled my teeth, gritting my teeth against the impact. "They keep coming!" 

"They want the horses!" Lancelot realized, his eyes darting to the picket line. "YN, cut them off!" 

"On it!" 

I broke formation, sprinting toward the horses. Three bandits were already there, trying to untie the frightened animals. I didn't stop running. I launched myself off a tree root, slamming into the nearest man with my shoulder. We tumbled into the dirt. He was stronger than me, smelling of stale ale and sweat, his hands grappling for my throat. 

I couldn't reach my sword. I clawed at his face, gasping for air as his thumbs pressed into my windpipe. 

Suddenly, a silver flash whistled through the air. A dagger embedded itself deep into the bandit's shoulder. He howled, his grip loosening just enough. 

I didn't waste the opening. I rolled him over, grabbed a rock from the ground, and silenced him. 

Breathing hard, I looked up. Lancelot stood ten paces away, his sword hand occupied with another duel, but his dagger sheath empty. He had thrown it mid-combat to save me. 

"Show off!" I yelled, scrambling to my feet. 

"Watch your six!" he shouted back. 

I spun around, sword raised, just as Elyan rushed past me to engage the remaining threats near the horses. 

The skirmish lasted perhaps five minutes, though it felt like hours. Slowly, the noise of battle faded, replaced by the groans of the defeated and the heavy breathing of the knights. 

The bandits—those who could run—fled back into the darkling woods. The rest lay scattered around the campsite. 

"Is everyone whole?" Arthur’s voice cut through the gloom, authoritative and sharp. 

"Gwaine’s got a scratch, but his ego is intact," Elyan reported, wiping his blade on the grass. 

"I’ll have you know this scratch adds character," Gwaine retorted, inspecting a shallow cut on his cheek. 

I sheathed my sword, my hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline began to ebb. I looked for Lancelot. He was retrieving his dagger from the man I had fought. He wiped the blade on the bandit’s tunic, inspected it for chips, and sheathed it. 

He walked over to me, his eyes scanning me for injuries. "Are you hurt?" 

"I'm fine," I said, rubbing my throat where the bruises would surely bloom by morning. "Thanks to you." 

"You hesitated," he critiqued gently, but his hand squeezed my shoulder. 

"I didn't hesitate, I stumbled. There's a difference." 

"If you say so." 

We stood there for a moment amidst the wreckage of our camp. The fire was scattered, our blankets trampled, and the peace of the night utterly destroyed. 

"Well," Gwaine announced, kicking a bandit’s unconscious form. "I don't think I'm getting back to sleep. Who’s up for breakfast?" 

"The sun hasn’t even risen yet," Merlin pointed out, looking disheveled. 

"Early breakfast then," Gwaine shrugged. 

As the others busied themselves with securing the perimeter and checking the horses, Lancelot and I stepped back toward the log, which was now slightly charred. 

He sat down, the adrenaline leaving him, the weariness returning. But something had shifted. The melancholy from before the fight was gone, replaced by the sharp clarity that comes with survival. 

"You were good out there," he said quietly. 

"I had a good teacher." I sat beside him, leaning my head on his shoulder. The chainmail was cold and hard, but I didn't mind. 

We watched the woods, waiting for the sun. 

"You know," I whispered after a long silence. "About what I asked earlier." 

Lancelot stiffened slightly but didn't pull away. 

"That farm sounds nice," I admitted. "With the leak-free roof and the horses." 

He looked down at me, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "It does, doesn't it?" 

"But," I continued, watching Arthur and Merlin bicker over the state of the cooking pot nearby. "I don't think the King would know how to boil an egg without us." 

Lancelot chuckled, a genuine, warm sound that I hadn't heard in weeks. "No. I suppose he wouldn't." 

"And Gwaine would probably accidentally set the kingdom on fire within a week if you weren't there to rein him in." 

"Likely two days," Lancelot corrected. 

"So," I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment. "I suppose we stay." 

"We stay," he affirmed. 

I thought about the danger. I thought about the heartache he carried every day seeing Gwen. I thought about the inevitable end that knights faced, the violent, cold end that awaited us all eventually. 

But then I felt the solid presence of my brother beside me. I heard the banter of the friends who had become our family. I felt the residual buzz of a fight won and a life protected. 

Lancelot was right. He couldn't leave. He was the heart of this group, the moral compass that pointed true north even when the world spun out of control. And I was the anchor that kept him from drifting too far into his own nobility. 

"YN?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Thank you." 

I opened my eyes and looked at him. "For what?" 

"For asking," he said, his gaze fixed on the first hint of grey light touching the eastern sky. "It’s nice to visit that place. The farm. Even if just for a moment." 

"We can visit it whenever you want, Lance," I promised, taking his hand. "But for now, I think Arthur wants us to pack up." 

He squeezed my hand tight. "Right. Duty calls." 

He stood up, the Knight of Camelot once more. He checked his armor, straightened his cape, and moved to join his King. But before he reached them, he looked back at me, just once. 

"YN," he said, and this time, there was no sadness in his eyes, only a fierce, protective love. "There is nowhere else I would rather be than fighting beside you." 

I smiled, the first real smile of the night. "Go on, Sir Knight. Destiny is waiting." 

I watched him walk away, silhouetted against the rising dawn. The farm was a beautiful dream, a soft, impossible dream. But this—the mud, the blood, the steel, and the bond that tied us together—this was real. And as long as he was here, fighting the good fight, I knew there was nowhere else I would rather be, either. 

Lancelot smiled, stepping fully into the room and letting the door close behind him. "I thought I was moving quietly." 

"You were," she said, finally glancing at him. Her eyes, dark and sharp, assessed him quickly before returning to the blade. "But the castle breathes differently when a knight walks through it. Even the 'noble' ones." 

There was a distinct playful bite on the word noble. It was a Gwaine trait, that inherent distrust of titles, though on YN, it sounded less like a joke and more like a scar. 

"Couldn't sleep?" Lancelot asked, leaning against a rack of shields. He crossed his arms, the chainmail shifting with a soft chink. 

"Something like that," she murmured. She tossed the dagger into the air, the blade spinning a tight silver circle, and caught it by the hilt with effortless precision. "Gwaine is snoring. It sounds like a bear dying of consumption. I needed somewhere where the air didn't smell like tavern ale and bad decisions." 

Lancelot chuckled softly. "A familiar scent in your family, is it?" 

"In him," she corrected. She hopped off the workbench, landing silently. She began to pace the length of the room, flipping the dagger, catch, flip, catch. "He drinks to forget. I sharpen things to remember. We have different coping mechanisms." 

Lancelot watched her. There was a tension in her shoulders, a coiled energy that suggested she wasn't just bored; she was agitated. He had seen her around the citadel for months now, ever since Gwaine had been knighted. She existed on the periphery, a ghost in the machine of Camelot. She wasn't a servant, nor a noble. She was simply Gwaine's sister, a title that afforded her protection but stripped her of definition. 

"Is everything alright, YN?" Lancelot asked, his voice dropping to that gentle register that made people trust him with their lives. 

She stopped pacing and looked at him. For a moment, her guard dropped, revealing a profound exhaustion. "Do you ever feel like you're waiting for the other boot to drop, Lancelot? Like all of this—" She gestured vaguely at the armory, the castle, the concept of Camelot itself. "—is just a play we're reciting lines for?" 

Lancelot felt a cold prickle at the back of his neck. Every day, he thought. Every time I look at Merlin and see the magic he hides. Every time I look at the Round Table and know I am not of noble blood. 

"I think everyone feels that way, sometimes," Lancelot said carefully. "Especially those of us who weren't born into this life. Camelot can be... overwhelming." 

YN scoffed, a harsh sound. She walked over to a training dummy in the corner—a burlap sack filled with straw, painted with a crude target. Without warning, she struck it. It wasn't a wild, brawling punch like her brother might throw. It was a precise, open-palm strike to the throat area, followed instantly by a sweep of her leg that would have toppled a man. The dummy swung violently on its chains. 

"It's not about being overwhelmed," she said, resetting her stance. "It's about being invisible. Everyone looks at me and smiles because they see Gwaine. They see the rogue knight's sister. They think I'm just here to mend his cloaks and scold him when he loses his wages at dice." 

Lancelot pushed off the shield rack. He walked slowly toward her, stopping a few feet away. "Gwaine speaks highly of you. He says you were the one who kept him alive when you were children." 

"Gwaine remembers what he wants to remember," she said, striking the dummy again. Thwack. "He remembers the adventure. He forgets the hunger. He forgets who had to negotiate with the landlords, who had to stitch up his cuts when he picked fights he couldn't win, who had to learn to read the maps so we didn't walk off a cliff in the dark." 

She spun around, facing Lancelot, her chest heaving slightly. "He gets to be the hero. He gets the cloak and the sword and the applause. And I get to be the 'sister'. The footnote." 

Lancelot studied her. He saw the resentment, yes, but beneath it lay a fierce capability that was being stifled. Camelot had no place for a woman who fought like a soldier but lacked the title. 

"You have a warrior's spirit, YN," Lancelot said earnestly. "I see that. Merlin sees that. We know you are more than just a relative." 

YN laughed, but there was no humor in it. She shook her head, backing away a step, her grip tightening on her dagger. "That’s just it, Lancelot. You're trying to be kind. You're trying to be the perfect, gallant Sir Lancelot. You look at me and you see a damsel who's sad she isn't a knight." 

"That is not what I see," Lancelot insisted, stepping forward. 

"Then what do you see?" she challenged, her voice rising. "Do you see the girl who learned to pick locks before she could read? Do you see the woman who knows six different ways to poison a man with common garden herbs because a sword is too heavy to carry when you're starving? No." 

She took a sharp breath, her eyes blazing in the torchlight. 

"You don't know who I am," she whispered, the words heavy and final. "You think I'm Gwaine with long hair and less alcohol. But Gwaine fights because he loves the thrill. I fight because I am terrified of what happens when I stop." 

The silence that followed was thick, filled only by the crackle of the torch. 

Lancelot looked at her—really looked at her. He stripped away the context of her brother, the context of Camelot. He saw the calluses on her hands that didn't come from needlework. He saw the way she stood, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to run or kill at a heartbeat's notice. He saw a survivor. 

And in that survivor, he saw a reflection of himself. 

"You're right," Lancelot said softly. 

YN blinked, surprised by the admission. She had expected a platitude, a denial. 

"I don't know who you are," Lancelot continued. He walked over to the weapon rack and picked up a training sword—blunted steel, heavy and dull. He weighed it in his hand. "I only know what you’ve shown us. And you’ve shown us a mask." 

He turned to her and tossed the sword. 

It was a sudden motion, but YN caught it by the hilt instinctively. The weight of it dragged her arm down slightly before she corrected her grip. She looked at the weapon, then up at him, confusion furrowing her brow. 

"What are you doing?" 

"You say I don't know you," Lancelot said, drawing his own practice blade. He adopted a defensive stance, not the rigid form of the tourney grounds, but something lower, more fluid. "So show me. Stop talking about it. Stop hiding behind Gwaine's shadow. Show me who YN is." 

YN stared at him. The dagger was still in her left hand, the sword in her right. Dual wielding. It was unorthodox, messy, and difficult. 

"I'm not a knight, Lancelot. I don't fight by your rules." 

"Good," Lancelot said, his eyes locking onto hers. "Neither do I." 

He didn't wait. He lunged. 

It wasn't a lethal strike, but it was fast. YN gasped, parrying the blow with the sword, the steel clanging loudly. She stumbled back, not used to the reach of the weapon. 

"Too slow," Lancelot critiqued, circling her. "You're thinking like a duelist. You have two weapons. Use them." 

YN grit her teeth. "I didn't ask for a lesson." 

"And I'm not giving you one," he parried her clumsy counter-strike effortlessly. "I'm giving you a conversation. Speak." 

She swung again, frustrated. Lancelot blocked it, but this time, YN didn't retreat. She used the bind of the swords to step in close, bringing the dagger up toward his ribs. 

Lancelot saw it coming. He twisted his body, catching her wrist with his free hand. They froze there, locked in a struggle of strength. 

"Better," he breathed. 

YN’s eyes narrowed. She didn't try to overpower him; she knew he was stronger. Instead, she stomped hard on his foot. 

Lancelot hissed, his grip loosening just enough. YN wrenched her hand free, spun away, and brought the flat of her sword around in a whipping arc that caught Lancelot in the shoulder. 

He staggered back, a genuine smile breaking across his face. The pain was sharp, grounding. "Dirty," he noted approvingly. 

"Practical," she shot back. 

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The heaviness of her earlier confession began to bleed away, replaced by the immediate, visceral focus of combat. They moved again. This time, YN didn't try to mimic a knight. she dropped the sword. 

It clattered to the floor. 

Lancelot paused, confused. "You disarmed yourself." 

"No," she said, shifting the dagger to a reverse grip. "I got rid of the dead weight." 

She moved like smoke. Without the heavy sword, she was faster than him. She ducked under his high guard, weaving around his reach. Lancelot had to rely on his instincts, the ones he honed fighting magical beasts and bandits, not the ones taught by the master-at-arms. 

He swung low; she vaulted over a bench. He thrust; she deflected the blade with the flat of her dagger and spun behind him. 

They danced for minutes, sweat beading on their brows, breath coming in sharp hitches. It was a silent dialogue. Here is my anger, her strikes said. Here is my understanding, his blocks replied. 

Finally, Lancelot saw an opening. She had overextended on a slash. He stepped in, dropped his sword, and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides in a bear hug, lifting her slightly off the ground to neutralize her leverage. 

"Yield?" he asked, breathless, near her ear. 

YN struggled for a second, thrashing against his hold, before her body went slack. "Fine. You win. Put me down, you oaf." 

Lancelot laughed and set her down. He stepped back, giving her space, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 

YN leaned against the workbench, her chest heaving. Her hair had come loose from its tie, falling in wild strands around her face. She looked exhausted, but the darkness in her eyes had cleared, replaced by a bright, burning vitality. 

"You're fast," she admitted, grudgingly. "For a noble." 

Lancelot retrieved his sword and racked it. He picked up her dagger from where she had dropped it and handed it back to her. 

"I'm not a noble, YN," he said quietly. 

She looked at him, wiping her face with her sleeve. "What? Of course you are. Sir Lancelot. The King's favorite." 

Lancelot sat down on the bench she had vaulted over. He looked at the stone floor. The adrenaline was fading, leaving room for the truth. He had demanded she show him who she was; it was only fair he returned the favor. 

"I lied," he said. The words were terrifying to say, even now, even to her. "When I first came to Camelot. I am a commoner. I forged a seal of nobility to get an audience. I was discovered, and I was banished." 

YN stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "You... you lied to Uther Pendragon?" 

"To Uther, to Arthur, to everyone," Lancelot said. "I proved my worth later, and Arthur restored me, changed the rules for me. But I know what it is to walk these halls and feel like a fraud. I know what it is to feel like everyone sees a crest, but underneath, you're just a man who's good with a sword." 

He looked up at her. "I know what it means to be an outsider wearing the armor of an insider." 

YN slowly sat down next to him on the bench. The distance between them, which had felt like a chasm earlier, had vanished. 

"I thought you were perfect," she murmured. "Gwaine thinks you were hatched from a golden egg." 

Lancelot snorted. "Gwaine thinks anyone who doesn't drink until noon is a saint. I'm just a man, YN. A man who wants to serve something greater than himself." 

She turned the dagger in her hands again, but the motion was slower, contemplative. "Our father," she began, her voice low. "He was a knight. A Caerleon knight. He died in disgrace. Or that’s what they say. Gwaine... he took that anger and turned it outward. He decided the whole system was rotten." 

"And you?" Lancelot asked. 

"I internalized it," she admitted. "I decided I had to be better. Not noble—I hate them as much as Gwaine does—but capable. I had to be the one who didn't fall apart. If Gwaine was the wild storm, I had to be the anchor. But anchors... they just drown, Lancelot. They stay at the bottom." 

"Not always," Lancelot said. He reached out, hesitantly, and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a gesture of camaraderie, platonic and firm. "Sometimes they hold the ship steady so it doesn't crash against the rocks. Gwaine is a good man, but he would be lost without you. I've seen the way he looks for you in a crowd. He draws strength from you." 

YN looked at his hand, then up to his eyes. "I don't want to just be his strength. I want to be my own." 

"Then be it," Lancelot said simply. "You have the skill. You have the mind. Camelot is changing. Arthur... he isn't his father. There is room here for people like us. People who fight dirty because they have to." 

A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "I did stomp on your foot." 

"It still hurts," Lancelot lied, smiling back. 

"Good." 

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. The castle was beginning to wake up. Somewhere far above, a bell tolled the hour. 

"I should go," YN said, standing up. "If Gwaine wakes up and I'm not there to pour water on his head, he'll miss morning drills." 

"And Arthur will have my head if I'm late for patrol," Lancelot agreed, rising. 

They walked to the heavy oak door together. Lancelot pushed it open, revealing the corridor, now gray with the approach of dawn. 

"Lancelot?" YN said, pausing in the doorway. 

"Yes?" 

She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the stone path ahead. "You were right. You didn't know who I was. But... you're taking the time to get to know me. And that’s more than can be said for most." 

It was the closest thing to a thank you she would give. Lancelot accepted it with a nod she couldn't see. 

"And YN?" he called out softly before she could walk away. 

She stopped. 

"Next time you want to practice," he said, gesturing to the dagger at her belt. "The armory is always open. And I could use someone who doesn't fight by the rules. It keeps me sharp." 

YN looked back over her shoulder. The morning light caught the side of her face, illuminating a smirk that was entirely her own, no longer a shadow of her brother. 

"Careful, Sir Knight," she said. "Next time, I might use the other foot." 

She turned and walked away, her boots silent on the stone, disappearing into the labyrinth of the citadel. 

Lancelot watched her go until she was just a shadow in the distance. He felt lighter than he had in weeks. He adjusted his sword belt, the weight of it feeling a little less like a lie and a little more like a duty he had chosen. 

"It’s open," I called out, setting the velvet aside. 

The door creaked inward, bringing a gust of cold, damp air with it. Lancelot stepped inside, filling the small room with his presence. He was soaked. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and water dripped from the hem of his cloak, pooling on the floorboards. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that sleep alone couldn’t cure. 

"You’ll catch your death," I said, standing up and reaching for a dry towel I kept near the hearth. "Does the great King Arthur not believe in roofs?" 

Lancelot managed a tired smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It was a genuine expression, one he saved mostly for me. "Patrol ran long. The storms washed out the bridge at the northern crossing. We had to double back." 

He unclasped his cloak, the heavy, sodden wool landing with a thud on the bench. Underneath, he wore his chainmail, the metal gleaming dully in the candlelight. I moved to help him, my fingers deft with the leather straps of his armor. This was our ritual. When the world became too loud, or the burden of his knighthood too heavy, he came here. Not to the castle, not to the barracks, but to the sister who remembered who he was before the sword. 

"Sit," I ordered gently. "I have stew. It’s been sitting on the hob for hours, so the beef should actually be edible." 

He sank onto the stool, the chainmail jingling softly. "You’re a saint, YN." 

"I’m a seamstress with a hungry brother," I corrected, ladling the stew into a wooden bowl. "There’s a difference." 

I placed the food before him and broke off a chunk of dark bread. He ate with the focused intensity of a man who had missed his midday meal, staring into the fire. I watched him, tracing the lines of his face. He was handsome—everyone said so—but I saw the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his jaw. 

"How is Merlin?" I asked, taking my seat opposite him. 

Lancelot paused, his spoon hovering. A softness entered his expression. "He is... Merlin. He saves us all three times before breakfast and lets Arthur take the credit for two of them." 

I smiled. I liked Merlin. There was a kinship there, between my brother and the servant. They shared a secret language of glances and nods. I didn’t know the full extent of it, and I knew better than to ask. In Camelot, secrets could get you killed, and ignorance was often the only shield a commoner had. But I knew Lancelot carried Merlin’s burdens just as he carried Arthur’s banner. 

"And the King?" 

"Anxious," Lancelot said, tearing a piece of bread. "There are rumors of bandits near the border of Cenred’s kingdom. But it’s more than that. He feels the weight of the crown heavily these days." 

"He has good men around him," I said. "He has you." 

Lancelot sighed, pushing the empty bowl away. He looked down at his hands—hands that were calloused from the hilt of a sword, scarred from a hundred skirmishes. "Sometimes I wonder if that is enough. Being a knight... it is not just about fighting, YN. It is about being a symbol. People look at you and they see hope. They see safety." 

"Is that so terrible?" 

"It is when you know you are just a man," he whispered. "When you know that you can bleed, that you can fail. If I fall, it is just a man dying. But if Sir Lancelot falls... if the ideal breaks... then the people lose faith." 

I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. His skin was rough, but his touch was warm. "You set the bar too high, Lance. You always have. Even when we were children, you thought you had to hold up the sky so the clouds wouldn’t crush us." 

"Someone had to," he murmured. The reference to our parents hung in the air, unspoken but present. The fire crackled, popping loudly, filling the silence. 

"You are allowed to be human," I said firmly. "You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to want things for yourself." 

He pulled his hand away gently, rubbing his face. "I have everything I need. I serve a just King. I fight for a world where the strong do not prey on the weak. It is more than a peasant boy from a forgotten village could have ever dreamed of." 

"But is it enough to make you happy?" 

He looked at me then, his dark eyes searching mine. I saw the flash of pain there, deep and buried. I knew what—or rather, who—was at the root of it. Guinevere. 

I had seen the way he looked at her. It wasn’t the leering gaze of the other men, nor the possessive look of a lord. It was a look of pure, agonizing adoration. And I had seen the way she looked at him, with a wistful sadness that broke my heart. But she was the Queen—or would be, soon enough. And he was the Knight. It was a tragedy written in stone before it even began. 

He didn't answer my question. Instead, he stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the rain-lashed streets of the Lower Town. 

"I saw a child today," he said, his voice low. "On the patrol. We were passing through a hamlet near the woods. A wagon had overturned in the mud, trapping a man underneath. The villagers were panicking, screaming. The mud was rising." 

I waited, knowing he needed to tell it. 

"Gwaine and Percival were joking about something behind me, they hadn't seen it yet. I rode ahead. I managed to leverage the wagon up, just enough for the man to scramble free. He was hurt, leg broken, but alive." Lancelot leaned his forehead against the cold glass. "His daughter... she couldn't have been more than six. She ran to him, then she ran to my horse. She handed me a flower. A crushed, muddy bluebell." 

He turned back to face me. "She looked at me as if I were a god, YN. As if I had descended from the stars just to lift that wagon." 

"You saved her father," I said softly. 

"I did what anyone with strength would do," he countered. "But to her... it was magic. Not the sorcery Uther feared and Merlin possesses, but the magic of kindness. The magic of safety." 

He walked back to the table and picked up the velvet tunic I had been mending. He ran his thumb over the gold embroidery of the Pendragon crest. 

"I am not happy in the way you want me to be, sister," he said, his voice steadying, gaining that steel resonance that commanded armies. "I will never have a farm of my own. I will likely never have a wife, or children to bounce on my knee. I will not grow old in a rocking chair by a warm hearth." 

My heart clenched. "Don't say that." 

"It is the truth," he said gently. "But happiness comes in different forms. When I see Arthur building a world where that little girl can grow up without fear... when I see Merlin fighting from the shadows to protect a destiny he believes in... that gives me something better than happiness. It gives me purpose." 

I stood up and moved to him, taking the tunic from his hands and setting it down. I grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at me. He was tall, broad, and imposing, but in that moment, he was just my little brother who needed to be told he mattered. 

"You sacrifice everything," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Your heart, your safety, your future. You give it all to Camelot. You give it all to Arthur. And what do you keep for yourself, Lancelot? What is left for you?" 

He smiled, and this time, it reached his eyes completely. It was a smile of profound peace, terrifying in its acceptance. 

"I keep the knowledge that they are safe," he said. "I keep the honor of standing between the darkness and the light." 

He placed his hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. "You ask if it is too much. You ask if the cost is too high." He shook his head slowly. "I'd do it everyday for the rest of my life." 

The words hung there, absolute and final. 

I looked at him, really looked at him. I saw the nobility that wasn't born of bloodlines or titles, but of a spirit so pure it made the gold of his crest look dull. He wasn't saying it to be a martyr. He wasn't saying it to impress me. He was stating a fact of his existence, as simple as the rain falling or the sun rising. 

"I know you would," I whispered, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes. "And that is why I worry. Because one day, 'the rest of your life' might come too soon." 

"Then I will have spent it well," he said. 

He pulled me into a hug. His armor was cold and hard against my cheek, smelling of rain and metal, but his arms were warm. I held him tightly, memorizing the feel of him, the steady beat of his heart against the chainmail. I held him because I knew, with a sister’s terrible intuition, that men like Lancelot were not built to last. They burned too bright. They gave too much. 

"Promise me something," I said into his shoulder. 

"Anything." 

"When the patrol is done, when the battles are over... you come back here. You come back to me. Let me mend your cloak. Let me feed you stew. Let me remind you that you are Lancelot du Lac, not just Sir Lancelot of Camelot." 

He pulled back, framing my face in his hands. "I promise, YN. As long as I have breath in my lungs, I will always come back to you." 

He kissed my forehead, then stepped back, reaching for his wet cloak. He swung it over his shoulders, the crimson fabric billowing. In the flickering light, he looked every inch the hero the legends claimed he was. 

"I must go," he said, hand on the latch. "Arthur has a council meeting at dawn, and I need to check the armory manifests before then." 

"Go," I said, forcing a smile. "Go save the world, brother." 

"Not the world," he winked. "Just the kingdom." 

He slipped out into the night, the door clicking shut behind him. I was left alone in the quiet room, the sound of the rain drumming against the roof. I sat back down in my chair and picked up the needle and the velvet tunic. 

I would finish mending it. I would stitch the gold thread through the crimson cloth, making the stitches tight and strong. I would reinforce the seams so they wouldn't tear when he swung his sword. 

He had his duty, and I had mine. He would protect the King, and I would try, in my own small way, to protect him. 

I'd do it everyday for the rest of my life. 

His words echoed in the empty room. I pricked my finger with the needle, a tiny bead of blood blooming on the tip. I wiped it away, staring at the closed door. 

"So would I, Lance," I whispered to the shadows. "So would I." 

The weeks that followed were a blur of activity in the Citadel. The rumors of bandits turned into reports of raiding parties, and the Knights were constantly on the move. I saw less of Lancelot, catching only glimpses of him riding through the square, his face grim, Arthur at his side. 

I kept busy. The seamstress trade was never slow in a city like Camelot. Knights tore their surcoats, ladies ripped their hems, and the common folk always needed patches for their winter woolens. But my mind was always on the upper town, wondering where he was. 

It was a Tuesday when the bells rang. Not the slow, mournful toll of a funeral, nor the frantic clanging of an attack. It was the summons. 

I gathered my basket of wares and made my way up the winding streets toward the castle courtyard. A crowd had gathered. Arthur stood on the steps, flanked by Leon and Gwaine. Lancelot was there, too, standing slightly behind the King, his eyes scanning the crowd. 

When he saw me, he gave a barely perceptible nod. 

Arthur spoke of a quest. A beast had been sighted in the Darkling Woods, terrorizing the outlying villages. It was a task for the Knights. The crowd cheered, confident in their protectors. I didn't cheer. I watched my brother. 

He looked... resigned. Not fearful, never fearful. But there was a heaviness to him that hadn't been there the night of the storm. 

Later that afternoon, before they were set to ride out, he found me by the stables. The smell of hay and horse sweat was thick in the air. He was tightening the cinch on his saddle. 

"You're leaving," I stated, coming up beside him. 

"Within the hour," he said, not looking up. He checked the stirrup leather, giving it a sharp tug. 

"Is it bad?" 

"It's a Wyvern," he said quietly, so the stable hands wouldn't hear. "Or something like it. Merlin thinks it might be magical in origin." 

My blood ran cold. "Magic." 

"Don't worry," he said, finally turning to me. He looked magnificent in his full armor, the Pendragon crest blazing on his chest. "We have a strategy. And we have Merlin." 

"It's not Merlin I'm worried about." I reached out and straightened the clasp of his cloak—the one I had mended. "You take the most risks, Lance. You always put yourself between the danger and the others." 

"That is the job, YN." 

"That is your version of the job." 

He sighed, capturing my hands. "If I don't do it, who will? Gwaine is reckless. Elyan is fast but lacks the reach. Percival is strong but... I am the one who can see the moves before they happen. I have to be the shield." 

"Just... come back," I pleaded. "You promised." 

"I know." He squeezed my hands. "I will." 

He mounted his horse, the beast stamping impatiently. Arthur called out from the courtyard archway, signaling the departure. Lancelot looked down at me one last time. The visor was up, his face framed by steel. 

"Remember what I told you," he said over the noise of the horses and the crowd. "About why I do this." 

"I remember," I shouted back. 

"Everyday!" he called out, a grin finally breaking through his stoic mask. "For the rest of my life!" 

He spurred his horse and galloped away to join the column of knights. I watched them go, a river of red and steel flowing out of the main gates. The sun caught the tips of their spears, turning them into stars. 

I stood there until the dust settled and the sound of hoofbeats faded into the ambient noise of the city. 

That night, the city felt empty. The Rising Sun was quieter without Gwaine's laughter or Lancelot's quiet presence in the corner. I went back to my room and tried to work, but my hands were shaking. 

I thought about his line. I'd do it everyday for the rest of my life. 

It was a beautiful sentiment. It was the creed of a hero. But as I sat there in the dark, listening to the wind howl through the eaves, I couldn't help but feel a chilling premonition. 

He spoke of the rest of his life as if it were a vast, stretching road. But for men like Lancelot, for men who loved so deeply and gave so freely, the road was often short. 

I picked up a piece of scrap fabric, a remnant of the crimson velvet. I held it to my chest. 

He was happy. That was what I had to hold onto. He had found his purpose. He had found his family in Arthur and the Knights. He had found a love he could never touch but which fueled his soul in Gwen. 

He was exactly where he wanted to be. 

"Be safe, brother," I whispered into the silence. 

I didn't know then what the future held. I didn't know about the Dorocha, or the veil, or the terrible, silent sacrifice he would one day make that would shatter my world completely. I didn't know that "the rest of his life" would be measured in months, not years. 

All I knew was that he was the best man I had ever known. And if he was willing to give everything for this kingdom, everyday, then the least I could do was keep a candle burning in the window, waiting for him to come home.