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On a particularly fine spring day, Sir Lancelot had found himself tasked with supervising a group of young squires in one of Camelot Castle’s designated training grounds. They had settled on sword fighting practice, it seemed; soon enough the court’s walls resounded with the metallic clashing of fine blades and the thumping of wooden shields. The knight found himself glad to possess a visor, for though days like this were pleasant, they could be hard on the eyes when the sun blazed overhead, particularly at noon, which was fast approaching. And yet, while he was supposed to be providing advice for the youngsters and correcting their stances, his mind could not help but wander to yesterday’s tournament.
Naturally, Lancelot had won. He often prided himself on his might, and evidently the ladies admired him for the skills which came to him with such ease as well. Upon entry to the tournament grounds, he had found himself overwhelmed with a variety of favours from all sorts of women, all of which he had ensured to keep securely on his person; after all, was it not part of the chivalry he kept so virtuously to?
After the tourney, he had made his way back to the Misty Lake to recount the full story, in much detail, to his adoptive mother. The Lady of the Lake was proud of her son, like she always was, no matter the venture he had endured. He had brought her a gift, as was practically tradition at this point, and indulged in a cup of herbal tea before his departure in the evening.
A short while passed as Lancelot considered the new victory on his record, but it was not long until he had been forcefully dragged out of his thoughts by a grandeur of horns and trumpets. A clear sign of the king’s return. He hurriedly dismissed the squires, who were already having trouble staying collected, and made his way to the main castle, a determination to his gaze like no other.
The townspeople flooded the streets, flocking toward the gates of Camelot. Though he could not blame them, the knight could not help but feel a flicker of irritation at his inability to pass through with ease. He had a duty to uphold and this was hindering it significantly.
Regardless, he had managed to make his way to the front of the castle to meet with the other Knights of the Round Table. Gawain and Percival made space for Lancelot between themselves as they exchanged brief greetings. They were soon joined by Galahad and Lamorak as well, before their attention was turned to the rising portcullis.
A deafening cheer emanated from the crowd as the small procession made its way into the town, the people parting as they laid down tapestries for the horses to pass over. In rode King Arthur, on his steed, a white mare with a coat that shone in the sunlight like a great star, with a small entourage accompanying him.
And yet it was not the horse that stood out to Lancelot (though she was impressively well-kept, he would admit); it was the mobian in the saddle that caught his eye. Even with the visor covering the majority of his face, he knew his eyes softened at the sight of Arthur. He watched as one of his personal attendants, a small, neat-looking leopard, held the king’s stirrup for him to descend with ease. She had a smile upon her face as she assisted him, though her shaking hands betrayed her collected expression.
The knight could not help but feel a twinge of jealousy tear at his chest at the sight. He swiftly reprimanded himself for that, however, pushing the thought out of his mind as he lowered himself to the ground, bowing to His Majesty once he had heaved from the saddle. It was improper for him to feel such a way towards a simple gesture! In addition, he was not in a role where he would be personally attending to the king’s needs, anyway. Why did it upset him so, to see Arthur tended to? He was little better than a daydreaming maiden.
He discarded his feelings wholly and the knights rose as one. At once, he saw the cerulean-quilled hedgehog make a start toward him with a smile. Despite his journey, he seemed energetic — though he always did, as Lancelot had observed. The gauntlet on his right hand gleamed in the sunlight, and rightfully so, the knight thought. It should gleam, a great symbol of power upon the king’s hand, demanding admiration. It certainly had Lancelot’s—
What was wrong with him today?
“... Lance? You’ve been staring at my wrist for a while now, buddy. Are you good?”
Ah. Now he was being scolded for his gawking. Of course, why wouldn’t he be? That was shameful. In front of a crowd, as well? Before the rest of his knights?
“My deepest apologies, sire.” Lancelot bowed his head in apology. “My mind was in another place entirely. Did you say something?”
“Yeah. I asked if you wanted to spar in the Deep Woods. Maybe we shouldn’t, though, if you’re busy daydreaming,” the king said, giving a sort of dry laugh.
It had always been absolutely beyond Lancelot how informal Arthur was. It was something the royal advisors had desperately tried to correct, but the hedgehog was stubborn and unresponsive to their attempts. It went both ways, however, as he had grown tired of correcting the servants when they called him ‘Arthur’, and not ‘Sonic’. And yet…
“I will be fine, sire. We may proceed with your suggestion.”
…it was still endearing, in an odd sort of way.
After the crowds had eventually dispersed, Lancelot and Arthur departed with haste. If there was one thing the king could be admired for (though in the knight’s eyes, there were many more), it would be his remarkable speed. Even while he wielded the mighty Caliburn, with the sword’s blade cutting through the wind, he seemed unphased by the additional weight. And though he never dared to boast of it, Lancelot possessed such a speed too, but he would always argue that this was due to the assistance of his uniquely-forged footwear.
Eventually they came to a stop in a clearing all too familiar. Here, the trees’ whistling leaves were tinged purple by the winding glowing ivy and various uncommon flowers. There was little grass in the clearing, however; the ground had become worn and hardened by the repetitive cycle of training knights over the years. Now, though, it served primarily as the battleground of the king and his most loyal knight.
While Arthur had already positioned himself in the usual stance, Lancelot remained stock-straight, causing the former to tilt his head in confusion.
“Uh… Lance? Are you gonna get ready?”
“Not just yet, sire. I have something to offer you beforehand.”
With that, Lancelot stepped over and gestured for the king to hold out his hand. Once he had, the knight placed one hand by Arthur’s wrist and lowered a favour of his own, a small amaryllis flower, into it with the other. He gently curled the other’s gloved fingers over the token and nodded, a small smile upon his face. Again, he was glad for the visor which obscured the majority of his face — had it been visible, Lancelot would’ve surely embarrassed himself. He could feel how hot his face was burning, avoiding Arthur’s eyes all the while.
Arthur was either completely lost on the meaning of this or he was wilfully ignorant of the fact that Lancelot, his own knight, had presented him with a favour before the clashing of swords would inevitably ring out. Honestly, the knight wasn’t sure which outcome he would prefer. He drew his hands away and cleared his throat. The silence was not helping the atmosphere, which had grown mildly uncomfortable.
“Thanks,” the blue hedgehog smiled, opening his hand again to admire the petals of the flower he had been handed.
“It is my pleasure. Now, shall we get on with our sparring before it grows dark?”
“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. Thanks, Lance! I can always count on you.”
Those words caused the knight to smile again, but his joy would prove brief as he returned to his original position and readied himself, his expression the epitome of focus.
No words were spoken for the next couple of hours as the pair fought relentlessly, punctuated by the sound of clashing swords and rushing feet. This was where Lancelot felt he truly belonged: alongside Arthur as his most trusted knight. Though he knew the thought was ridiculous, he wondered if the king valued their shared time as much as he did, or if he admired the way his features glistened in the sunset light. He wondered if there was any possibility of Arthur seeing him as more than just his position as a Knight of the Round Table…
But Lancelot was not a fool. He knew that all of his dreaming was simply wishful thinking.