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Lancelot knows his destiny- his love for the queen of Camelot is to doom the kingdom and be Gawain's death knell. When Gawain receives the crown from Sir Sonic, he decides he is going to take a page out of the knight of the wind's book: twist fate to their liking.
There will be no Queen of Camelot if Lancelot takes the position of King Consort himself. If Gawain gives Lancelot his heart and his kingdom, then his knight cannot break them unintentionally.
TWs: Resurrection, injury, blood, healing magic, pain, mentions of torture, mentions of christian fantaticism, memory loss/amnesia
POV: Gawain - The Green Knight
Wordcount: 5,377
āā< ā¢ ~{āā
I kimen av alt, Trommer ei takt,
Kjennsleskipets ror...
Av gull, av stein, Dansar vilt utan bein,
Brister utan Ć„ brjote...
Eg synk... Ned i mĆørkret,
Det blenkjande kvite, Fell heile mi yte...
āā< ā¢ ~{āā
There was a flash of green in the darkness. It was faint at first, subtle even, but it rapidly began to build up bolder and brighter until all that the man-that-was-once Gawain knew was a swarming sea of green.
Vines choked through his lungs, tore through his belly, swam through his veins. Roots wove across the structures that once were bones, lashing at the sinews, muscles, ligaments. Bit by bit, piece by piece they tore him asunder and wove him together again, every wound knitting into unmarked skin as they shattered him to pieces before they made his broken body whole.
Were he still a man, Gawain was sure it would have hurt. But there was no pain, at leastā¦ not yet.
There was no feeling at all but a warm embrace.
A flicker in his mind, like a dying flame- or perhaps a newly lit one. Drums sounded somewhere in the endless empty universe, rhythmic and slow.
Nay, not a drumā¦ A heartbeat.
More sounds followed the heartbeat then. So distant they came, timelessly ancient noises as if he'd heard them years ago, or perhaps they were just still yet to sound- a sense, somehow, that he was not supposed to hear them now... A voice he knew called out his name in the dark.
"Gawain? Gawainā¦"
Nimue. His sister, his friend, his Queen.
"Noā¦ No not you!"
Greif, heavy as a stone in his heart.
Forgive me, my Queen, for I have failed youā¦
He wasn't sure if it was her grief he felt or his own, but he regretted it all the same to hear the pain in her words.
"Not you! Gawain!"
I should have protected you better. What use was he as a brother, as a sworn sword, as a Knight-of-the-Fey, if he failed to protect his Queen?
The restless dark echoed back in whispers, calling out his name both in Nimue's desperate voice, and the voices of a thosand others.
Gawain! Gawainā¦
A distraught scream tore itself from Nimue's lips, breaking across the darkness like a bolt of lightning. As if summoned by her cry there came a searing flash of vision, of blue ocean eyes raging with the promise of a wrathful storm.
The vines that writhed inside of him and unmade him so reverently first unfurled across her fair skin, the Fingers of Airimid that glowed in radiant greens and golds. His hand, warm by the touch of hers, her magic weaving into his chest and belly; her tidal wave of green that now healed every broken part of himā¦
And awakened something locked away, deep down in the depths of his darkness.
Nerves that no longer responded and hadn't for eternity began to itch as the green wave flowed over him, but he could not move to scratch them, paralysed, broken.
Gawain could do nothing but endure, waiting for the worst as after the itching came pain, terrible pain...
"Be thee curse or blessing?" Gawain cried out into the dark, this pain so great it tore him apart, his very mind buckling under the strain.
And then just as the agony within grew so severe as Gawain was sure he must shatter, did it allā¦
ā¦come toā¦
ā¦ a stop.
A boy before him. A memory from before, Gawain recognised, yes, before the darkness. The vines wreathed themselves into the shape of a chair and the biting rope at his wrists and legs. Darkness hung all around them like the memory had forgotten the bloodstained beams and tattered tent walls, the muddy ground nought but a pool of crimson.
And then the vines dragged the boy- Squirrel- away from him. The pool of blood kicked up at Squirrel's struggling, splashing across Gawain's chest.
"No! Leave him alone!" Gawain cried, raging against his bonds, but he could do nothing but watch the would-be-Child-Knight as he dissapeared into the devouring darkness.
This could not be Nimue's doing, she would never hurt the boy so, but no matter what this was, he dimly understood what it meant; Squirrel was in danger.
"He's just a boy!" Gawain cried, begging the darkness to release him. He heard a voice echo him; quieter, but no less insistent.
"He's no threat to us..." That voice continued, low, cracking with the weight of an unspoken promise beneath their somber words.
Hope, tentative, desperate hope fanned in his heart not to be alone in protecting the Boy; that another might speak up for him. But that voiceā¦ Gawain knew it, didn't he?
Yes, he'd heard it beforeā¦
I don't harm the childrenā¦ That same voice had once firmly told him, as searing eyes of grey dripping with the crimson blood of innocents stared him down, anger flaring deep in the shadows that had framed an angular face. Swathes of grey had stood the man apart from the Red Paladins he fought for, despite the truth Gawain had uncovered- that the Weeping Monk was Fey.
Suddenly Gawain was pulled up, up, out from the crushing, relentless, soothing hold the magic had on him, by strong arms too dressed in grey. The Monk, was it, or was he just confusing now with his memories? Gawain had no true awareness of the world, dazed as he was and in his state he would have fallen, but those arms were quick to steady him, to pull him close. Enveloped in safety beneath a grey cloak, cradled against the chest of his enemy, wrathful shadows flickering around them, a sense of pain nearby- but not his own- and an unfamiliar heartbeat thrumming rapidly against his ear.
Gawain felt an awareness within him slowly washing over his awakening senses like the breaking of a new dawn.
He felt a sense of hurried movement, where were they going? And the coldness of the ground as he was lain gently against it, too.
"Stay here." The voice-in-the-shadows told him.
Gawain laughed. Where else would I go? He tried to tell it, but if his own voice still worked, then it refused to obey him now. Or perhaps he had spoken, but his ears could not find the sound, rebelliously noncompliant- just as his body would have refused to walk if he had so dared to try, and whatever strength he may have had leeched from him as quickly as it had come. The icy chill of the earth seeped into his very bones as if he was a body yet buried within it; in the way that humans did, 6 foot deep.
He may not have been fully among the living, Gawain understood, but he knew one thing for a certainty- he was not dead yet.
Yet by his quickening heart as the shadow of safety around him withdrew, somehow he also knew that something was very wrong, even as the creeping magic unfurling in his chest continued to knit him together; danger! It chanted in his ears, danger!, yes, danger is near!
And that danger had a golden face.
Many of them. Yet how could he possibly stand against these golden masked men? He had fallen, fallen so, his sword was gone, his arm far too weak to wield itā¦
Urgency battled with the relentless fatigue within him and lost.
Arawn, Hidden, help us!
The strong arms that had carried him here and laid him down took up their own swords, the rasp of steel on scabbard glinting in the low light as if to answer his plea.
Gawain forced his eyes to open, his head to rise, to watch.
By Arawn, it was beautiful. A lone grey warrior cutting down the masses, all vicious strikes and flair, the music and dance of battle combined within this flash of a man, slaying each and every dark shadow before him...
The Weeping Monk had turned upon his maker.
The Monk's swords; swift in their betrayal of the Church now found Him, his God, equally as swift in His vengeance of the act, the tide turned quickly, and then came the raining of blows upon the grey Monk's body as the second wave utterly decimated him.
The breath caught in Gawain's throat when like him, the Weeping Monk fell.
May the green take us both... Gawain thought and closed his eyes, he would not- could not- watch this.
Whispers in his ears, vines upon his skin. Darknessā¦ darkness pulling him under again.
āā< ā¢ ~{āā
Gawain awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. His eyes darted around rapidly, and the first thing he realised is that he had absolutely no blasted clue where he was.
The pale glow of a half moon cast a dim, silvery light across the clearing he found himself in. It was nighttime now- and cold- by Arawn, did he feel cold. His head pounded something rotten, his mouth dry as fire-wood.
Gawain found himself nestled between a fallen log and the faint, ashen embers of a fire that had otherwise died out hours ago, wrapped around him was a ratty, threadbare blanket. It did nought to protect him from the chill which felt like it had sunk its claws deep into his very bones.
There was a small sleeping figure next to the fire just to the left of him, a boy who he recognised immediately- Squirrel! Gawain couldn't help but sigh in relief. At least from here, in the dim light of the flickering embers and the half moon in the cloudless sky above, the boy looked intact. Exactly why he wouldn't be currently evaded Gawain, but the relief at the sight of him safe was enough, for now.
Gingerly, Gawain shrugged off his blanket, wincing as his body answered the movement with sharp spasms of pain that raced up and down his spine. His head pounded with the lingering beat of heart shaped drums as the pain abated, his senses returned to him.
Where in the nine hells are we? He wondered, shivering.
Peering round to what he could see, Gawain eyed the oak trees, towering protectively over their little campsite, and beyond them, the gentle slopes of endless hills as far as the distant horizon.
Gawain took a moment to orient himself by the stars; the few he could see with the light of the moon filtering through the branches above him, anyway, but it was enough to tell him they were camped next to a road that ran East to West, parallel with the sun.
At a guess, they were somewhere East of Gramaire, then.
But where? Gawain frowned, thinking, rubbing his chin. His beard was stubbly, not quite ready to shave, but a damn sight closer to it than he last remembered it being. No matter.
Gawain knew this place well, yet in the dark, it would be nigh on impossible to figure out their true location, when the lands around Gramaire were surrounded by miles upon miles of moorland like this, and forests and river and stream, with wilderness broken up by a village here, a town there, even larger settlements if they'd wound up further South than the Eastern road he guessed they were on.
The next thing Gawain noticed were a pair of horses, untacked behind where Squirrel lay- and he could have sworn he recognised the darker of the two, but from where he wasn't sure. Had he met that beast before?
Gawain moved as if to stand with the intent on checking the steeds, but his body hardly seemed to hear him. His legs twitched, slowly, half numb, half pain. Gritting his teeth in defiance he forced himself upright, sweat prickling across his brow and with a terrible jolt of pain he came crashing right back down onto his hands and knees. He held his breath against a scream, frozen in agony, not daring to move.
Arawn help me!
The pain was so great he thought he might faint, worst in his spine, shooting terrible spasms down his legs that had him panting. Aside from the pain, his legs for their part felt oddly numb as if he'd lain on them wrong and sent them to sleep, but where his shins touched the ground pulsed with the lightning-like-pains of being pricked by a thousand blades all at once.
Sinking lower Gawain bowed his head into the grass like a prayer, begging for the pain to subside. It was no small mercy when his body seemed to listen to him, but he still took a moment to breathe through the spasms that still wracked his body, like it too tried to buck off the pain inside it.
Slowly, Gawain straightened his arms and lifted his head, and breathed a sigh of relief when the pain did not flare up again. Shifting his legs was a task and a half- they reacted slowly, sluggishly. Perhaps he'd slept on them oddly, yes, perhaps they'd behave soon.
Please behave soonā¦
Pins-and-needles erupted across his thighs too as he gingerly shuffled back. Gawain groaned against it, settling back into a sit instead, leaning against the half log.
"No standing, then," He murmured to himself, "Got itā¦"
A bloodied bandage bound neatly around his forearm caught his eye. He carefully picked the knot apart, a strange sense of trepidation fluttering in his chest with each strip he unwound.
Another sigh of relief escaped him at the sight of scarred skin beneath. It was a long slash across his forearm that seemed weeks old, the light itch deep within that told him it was tender beneath, still healing. He remembered it's recieving- a not-quite-sharp-enough blade that the sightless priest had pressed into his arm, slowly, painfully, revelling in the way it made him hiss in pain when his flesh was torn down into the very muscle. The blade wasn't what had hurt the most, Nay, that had come after when the so called Brother Salt had tortured him by digging his fingers into it, clawing into his arm brutally. To pour Salt in the wound indeed...
Gawain swallowed the bile in his throat at the sickening memory and tried to ignore it. He flexed his arm experimentally, pleased with the result; he'd miraculously lost no strength within his arm and his hand only complained a little at the most twisting movements.
Had Squirrel done this?
The wound had not been stitched that he could see, but it surely must have been taken care of diligently to heal so well.
Perhaps Nimue had passed on to Squirrel what Gawain had once taught her, the arts of healing, the balms of the forest and the balance of the Green, of life and death, strength and decay. Gawain glanced down at himself, taking in just how many injuries he truly had- marks from his time with Brother Salt.
Guilt prickled the corner of his eyes with unshed tears, watching Squirrel- Percival, or whichever name he preferred- as he slept. The boy was loyal to him, more loyal than he deserved, a bravery about the child that Gawain felt truly in awe of. How much blood and pain and loss the boy had faced, at such a tender age, and with an indomitable strength of will!
Surely, then, Gawain owed his recovery to Squirrel who must have seen the horrors Brother Salt had wrought upon Gawain's body in order to care for him as he had.
Gawain thumbed over the scar, soft and raised, glinting silver in the moonlight, but Gawain guessed it was still pink. There was no pain where he pressed, just a shiver, like it only remembered it once hurt.
This was the work of weeks, not a mere day. Yet his memory of such a time wasā¦ gone. Thoughts hazy, all he could recall were snippets in no particular order, sensations, voices, pain.
Think, Gawain, think!
Why could he remember nothing of the time?
Was this truly the first time Gawain had woken since he'd been tortured? This felt a strange dream, like he'd fallen asleep yesterday eve and woken, groggy in the night.
Gawain winced as he tried to understand what he remembered, these incoherent fragments of thoughts that made no damned sense!
"Something must explain thisā¦" Gawain muttered, racking his brains to try and grab the last thing he actually remembered for sure, the last thing that did make a lick of sense at all.
He remembered the Weeping Monk, of their battle- learning he was Fey. Of speaking to him in the torture tent, pondering the realisation of who the Monk really was. Of pleading with him, testing him, rattling him just enough to uncover a sliver of the mask that hid a broken, lost Fey from the world.
And of course, he remembered the torture, a senseless cruelty that left marks upon his skin and soul. An itch in his left hand drew his attention to his severed fingers.
Do you know me, friend?
Gawain shuddered again, a bolt of panic surging with more echoes of pain that man had wrought upon him, the shock when the cleaver had come down upon his hand, and of the hushed, lilting voice his torturer had spoken in. He had never raised it during the torture, no matter how rattled Gawain's resistance seemed to have made him.
Gawain remembered the victory in the foul man's eyeless face when he had finally broken. Finally given in to the pain. Finally screamed.
Shame burned in his heart that he had ever let that bastard hear it.
After thatā¦? Nothing made any damned sense. Snippets of strange vines and the taste of magic and these weeks old woundsā¦
And of everlasting darkness, as soothing as it was terrifying.
Some secret part of him almost seemed to miss it, that quiet.
But it wasn't always quiet, was it? Silent at first, a peaceful stillnessā¦ then there had been the drums.
Nay, not drums.
Hearts, beating in the dark. One his own, quiet as the dark at first. A second, one he'd listened to, close to his ear.
As he pondered it, gritting his teeth against the rippling waves of pain, more and more did he wish for that darkness again. There was no pain, there, he knew, there was only peace, only calm, onlyā¦
Death.
Gawain's eyes flew open in horror with the understanding of what it was he missed.
He missed the peace of death.
He had. He hadā¦ Diedā¦
His heart had stopped beating in his chest.
Now, it palpitated, battering his ribcage in defiance of all that was still.
Gawain shuddered, clutching at his chest and the pang within it as if the fear of what he'd just discovered threatened to bring back what just moments ago he'd been wishing for.
He had died, but he was not so now.
Which meantā¦
ā¦somehowā¦ he had been brought back to life.
He tried not to pant, tried to slow down his breathing, among the shattered glass that made up his memories he remembered again the sound of Nimue, closeby, sobbing his name.
Nimue!
Oh gods, she must have been the one to save himā¦ He was, yes, he was taken to her after his torture, he remembered that. But she was not here now, nor was she the one to carry him outā¦
So how had he escaped? There was fightingā¦ and he had watched someoneā¦ who, who had he watched fighting?
The Monk.
It had been the Weeping Monk who had carried him away.
Yes, Gawain recalled and nodded to himself, the grey warrior had fought his way out, battling fiercely on their behalf against those terrible golden masked warriors, masks that had been no nightmare, no figment of his willful imaginationā¦
He recalled now what exactly those masks meant. The Trinity Guard, fearsome soldiers in employ of the pope, as ruthless as the man who commanded them and trained in secretive ways only known by the order itself. It was said none could stand against them, and yetā¦
The Trinity Guard had come for them, and the Monk had fought them anyway. Closing his eyes, Gawain scrabbled after what he could remember of the fight. The Weeping Monk had battled with grace and admirable skillā¦ but ultimately he had fallen whilst protecting him and the Boy from their wrath.
A question of why exactly Monk had fought for them Gawain had not the heart to ponder. Odder still came the pang of grief the knowledge seemed to bring him.
Surely Gawain should be joyous that his enemy was dead, whether he'd died in service of him or notā¦
But there was no joy to be had in the knowledge that such a formidable warrior, enemy or no, had been taken from the world.
The boy, Squirrel, must have used the distraction to help Gawain escape, butā¦ If a memory was to be had of it, or the past week in which he must have spent healing, then it was gone, clear like the morn after far too much wine and revelry, all points past the fifteenth drink were lost to the blankness of the void within his mind.
This was it, the last thing he remembered. There was nothing, not even a snippet or haze of sensation that came after that.
His heart seemed to have slowed with these revelations, the pain abated. The stillness lent him a taste of the peace from the beyond, let him catch his breath and calm himself again.
Gawain drew a long breath, and a sudden elation to be alive thrilled through him and coaxed his wavering strength again, joyous should he be to breathe! A hard earned gift, it seemed. He took a moment to revel in the feeling of dirt and leaves and moss beneath his fingertips, dirt, Gods, what beautiful dirt!
As teeming with life as he was, no longer the claws from deep below sunk into his skin, the Green had been denied his body for now. He slowly moved, ignoring the crack of pain- which was dimmer now than it had been before- and pressed his forehead against the ground in a silent thanks to all that had allowed him to remain.
Arawn, Hidden Ones, I thank you. I will make your gift worthwhile, and serve my people with all I amā¦ He swore it now to the ears of the world, that they would listen and hear it.
For we are born in the dawnā¦
It was at that moment that he heard a sound, a whimper from near the fire, interrupting his prayer, his vow.
āSquirrel?ā Gawain asked, peering over- but the boy was still as before, he didnāt look to have stirred. Gawain watched him for a few moments longer as he slept soundly. Nothing.
Must have been my imaginationā¦
"Ngh!ā¦"
No, there it was again, and it came not from where Squirrel lay curled up but from further away, at the other side of the fire.
Gawain squinted into the inky darkness beyond the light of the embers but could see nothing. He dared to move again, slowly creeping around the fire, eyes wide as he peered around in the gloom.
A hint of movement, the sound of ragged breathing, another whimper, and Gawain spied it, a bundle of a shape in the shadows at the foot of the tree. Cautiously drawing closer now he could see the pale skin of an uncovered face reflecting the silvered moonlight, crimson tears glinting cherry red from the embers that refused to die out.
Gawain froze, breath catching in his throat.
Surely not. Surely the Weeping Monk could not have survived what he had seenā¦
Despite every instinct in him screaming at him to flee, or better yet to grab his sword and run his enemy through, he needed to know.
The man looked younger than Gawain remembered, slender, angular features that in any other circumstance he may have even called attractive. A sheen of sweat glinted across the man's skin, bruising laced his sharp jaw and up across the side of his face and temple, which all seemed to swell on one side. His pale lips were parted, shallow breaths came in rapid pants, his bloodied brow furrowed as the Monk twitched in a clear restless sleep.
Even as Gawain watched the Weeping Monk stirred again. His head jerked to the side as if he'd been struck whilst his hand clutched at his side and he groaned in his sleep, half muttering incoherent words Gawain couldn't understand. The ragged cloak shifted as the Monk moved, revealing a sliver of glistening wet fabric and the hand that almost seemed to claw at his side was absolutely covered in blood. Gawain guessed it was likely his own.
Part of him wondered whether to try and tend to this obvious wound.
Gawain had more than enough experience by now to know that even in this state, as injured as he clearly was, the Weeping Monk was still dangerous. If he reacted badly to being wokenā¦
An image flashed in his mind of the Monk standing over him again; boot to Gawain's wrist, shortsword in hand, moving quicker than he could even see to plunge it into Gawain's heart all whilst Gawain lay broken beneath him, powerless to move out the way!
With a shudder Gawain grabbed at his chest as it seized with a vice-like bolt of sympathetic fear. Slowly, he took a breath to calm himself. The Weeping Monk had spared his life last time in the forest after all; albeit, because the Church had 'wanted Gawain alive'ā¦ So the Monk had mocked him, as Gawain had bowed, pain exploding through his abdomen, reeling at the knowledge this man was a traitor-Fey, hoping beyond anything he could reach him.
The Weeping Monk must have spent the entire fight holding back, whilst Gawain had given all he had, and the Monk had still defeated himā¦
It was obvious enough that the Monk had been more than capable of killing him.
How much harder would that fight have been if they had both been out to kill?
Gawain had to admit, the idea was not a pleasant one. And yet such skill, fighting for the Feyā¦ That could have been an appealing idea.
"Nnnhhhā¦" The Monk whimpered in pain again in a breathless, drawn-out noise. Gawain's brow furrowed and another thought occured to him.
How terrifyingly formidable must the Golden Masked warriors have been that had done this to him, defeated the Monk so severely?
Again it begged the question in his mind; more relevant now that the Monk was alive.
Why had he fought the masked men?
It was obvious enough to Gawain now that the Weeping Monk was responsible for their survival and apparent escape, but beyond that, his motives were unclear. No matter that Gawain wanted to believe they were pure... the possibilities leaned far more sinister than they did good.
Where was he taking us?
"N-no... Please, Fatherā¦"
Gawain's head snapped up at the sound of the Monk gasping a tormented plea, voice hoarse, on instinct alone did Gawain back up sharply, hissing at the pain of his spine screaming in protest at the quick movement before he realised the man he'd jumped away from was in fact still asleep.
"I...I can'tā¦ nghhh!ā¦"
And whatever misgivings Gawain had regarding the Monk's motives threatened to wither away at the sheer pain, the sheer terror in the man's voice.
"You're ok," Gawain felt compelled to tell him quietly, carefully leaning closer, not quite daring to touch him, "You're safe, it's alright."
The young Monk groaned again, muttering what Gawain thought was another "No..." before he seemed to fall silent. Slowly his face relaxed a little, though a harsh crease between his brow remained, and whilst his breathing was still ragged it too seemed to deepen slightly.
And now Gawain felt conflicted. Part of him wanted to wipe the Monk's brow clear of sweat, give him the aid and healing he so clearly desperately needed, comfort and soothe him in what he guessed was a pain-induced nightmare.
Another, more righteous and burning part of him wanted to slap the Weeping Monk awake and finish the fight they had started back in the forest, to make him suffer for the atrocities he'd committed against his fellow Fey, then drive a sword through his traitorous chest.
But if it was true that the Weeping Monk had indeed saved them, then Gawain at least owed him the benefit of hearing him out.
Another question swirled again within Gawain's mind;
"How could you?..." He whispered under his breath.
This, a thing he'd pondered for a great deal of time since asking it back in the forest; he'd been right in his assumption that The Weeping Monk was conflicted, right that he'd been forged by the Church. How he, an Ashfolk of all Fey, had ended up with them in the first place, Gawain still couldn't figure out- and the man had been irritatingly reluctant to give him answers before.
Perhaps it was that the Monk was of another country entirely? Though Gawain had never come across any in his time in Byzantium and Rome, perhaps the Church had sent him overā¦ Gawain knew well enough the first whispers of the Monk began not long before he'd formed the Fey Guard over 10 years ago, but still these damned questions remained.
Why?
Why would the Monk have spent the past ten years butchering his own people? Further still, why defend the Church so steadfastedly and for so long, then betray them like this?
Had Gawain's words truly caused this?
I don't harm the children, the Monk had said, and Gawain had called him out on it.
Gawain knew he had struck a nerve by the way the Monk's eyes had flickered with just a hint of emotion before he'd turned away from him, hiding under righteousness and the bravado of a false belief, but they'd both known full well how thin the cloak was he hid behindā¦
Was young Percival the reason, then? Proof of his lie if he'd stood aside, proof of his truth if he defended the child from harm?
For a man with so many unknowns, it had been astoundingly easy to turn himā¦ Which made the Monk's loyalty fickle, the man a threat.
Gawain sighed softly, glancing up at the answering call of an owl. The silent wingbeats and a flash of brown overhead told him this tree was the home of a female Tawny Owl, and he smiled lightly towards where she'd dissapeared to, a quiet thanks for allowing them to share her space.
There was no use pondering the what if's any further, Gawain knew. He'd have to hear what story the Monk had to tell come morning.
If the Monk actually survived the night that was...
Gawain raised a skeptical eyebrow over the Monk. Without knowing exactly his injuries Gawain couldn't be sure of what state he was truly in, but from the stench of blood so strong it hung around him like a shroud, and how much of it Gawain could see, whatever injuries the Monk had sustained seemed severe.
Though Gawain's own wounds had been looked after, the Monk looked as if his own had been utterly ignored.
Gawain shook his head, mused again over the options available to him, but without knowing where they stood, to try tending to the wounds of a Fey so unpredictable as the Weeping Monk was a fool's endeavour.
Yes. Better to leave it until the man woke naturally, Gawain decided, if he woke at all, but there was naught to be done but tend the fire and wait for that to happen.
Another glance at the sky told Gawain the darkest part of night had passed but first light was still some cold hours off yet. The fire was quick to flare to life with a few logs atop it, already gathered and lain near in a small pile. The embers sparked and crackled, coaxed upon the wood with a breath of Gawain's air, brightening the darkness. With greater light, and, painted in the silvers of the moon and the reds of the fire, the Monk only looked even worse for wear.
With a quiet sigh left unanswered by the owl this time, Gawain settled himself beside the flames and prepared to hold vigil 'til morning.
Notes: This story isn't dead! I just really hate editing. And life has been insane since I started posting this fic, but hey, heres a chapter, thanks for sticking with it.
Lyrics at the start from Hertan by Wardruna; "In the core of everything drums a beat, The rudder on the ship of emotions; Of gold, of stone, dancing wildly without feet, breaking without shattering. I sinkā¦ into darkness and the gleaming white, my shell is shed..." "I kimen av alt, Trommer ei takt, Kjennsleskipets ror. Av gull, av stein, Dansar vilt utan bein, Brister utan Ć„ brjote. Eg synk... Ned i mĆørkret, Det blenkjande kvite, Fell heile mi yte."
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Okay, I have though about something for too long and Iām afraid I wouldnāt write it. But here is my Lancelot x Gawain Business proposalās au
Basically Gawain is being a menace to society and Arthur is like he needs to calm down. So Arthur decides that Gawain needs to get married so he either calms down or at least has someone trying to decrease the menace to society that he is.
Dinadan is like a calm and single knight/noble so Arthur arranges that they meet and maybe get married.
However Dinadan a 100% doesnāt want to get marry or even go on a date. So he goes to his friend Lancelot and is like can you go on a date and scare this guy off. Lancelot is like yes I can do that.
Lancelot doesnāt ask any questions he just there to support a friend.
So they are on their date. Gawain doesnāt want to be there because he know his uncle just want him to settle down. However his date might be the most interesting man he ever met.
Instead of talking to him Lancelot eats everything, stands up and says, āI kill peopleā and leaves. It is at that point that Gawain is smitten and a little in love.
He tells Arthur he wants to marry Dinadan. And Arthur is like great. Meanwhile Dinadan is freaking out and Lancelot is freaking out.
To make matters worse Lancelot starts his new job as the palace guard and had no idea that he went on a date with his bossās nephew. So now heās trying to keep that a secret seeing as he lie to kingās nephew. Also he told him he killed people.
Of course this all resolves, Lancelot and Gawain get married and are menaces to society together.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: In which Squirrel and Gawain take care of a stubborn and badly injured Lancelot while making their way to the Fey camp. Along the way, Lancelot begins his path of healing and redemption. Takes place immediately after 1x10.
