Chapter Text
The banquet hall was filled with the sounds of raucous laughter and singing as the barons and viscounts from all across the land feasted in celebration. The large spread of food created inviting and alluring scents, encouraging the merry noblemen to indulge in their senses in an almost vulgar manner. The banquet table stretched long and wide across the hall, where at the head sat the King himself, gently resting his head on his hand, leaning on the armrest, and next to His Majesty was one of his trusted Knights of the Round Table, Sir Lancelot.
Lancelot scrunched his nose as he watched a baron near to the King scoff down an entire chicken leg at once, though his helm did a good job in hiding his displeasure. Did the fine upper class always forget their manners when dining, in front of the King, no less? However, the unceremonious drinking and merry atmosphere was not out of pure fun or coincidence; it was to celebrate the return of his Majesty after being imprisoned by the Jackal King from the neighbouring realm. As it was such a relief and joyous occasion, Lancelot supposed he could excuse the lack of courtesy. Not that the King would care; King Arthur never punished anyone for insolent behaviour (unless it was treason, of course). Lancelot had questioned the King’s lenience once, to which he had responded happily, “If the people see no reason to censor their words, then that is the only way we can truly see what we must improve in this world.” It was impressive to him that the King could still see so clearly the kingdom’s needs even after having such power bestowed to him.
Of course, Lancelot thought to himself, that had made King Arthur’s “death” that much of an impact to the morale of the Kingdom. He remembered the almost ineffable wave of relief he had felt when Sir Percival had sought him out from the training grounds and informed him that the King was, in fact, alive. It was near embarrassing how happy he had felt at the news.
Lancelot looked around once again at the nobleman seated at the table; they were clearly pleased with the King’s return, even if some of them had only come for the food, or for social appearances. There was many a drink being passed out, and the pressure that one may normally feel at the King’s banquet was not nearly as strong. This was most likely due to Sir Lancelot being the only Knight present in the room — most of the other Knights had been stationed surrounding the outside of the hall and exits. The King had originally not wanted stricter regulations to be put in place, saying it would “put a damper on the mood”, but Lancelot, as well as his fellow Knights, were quick to disagree.
In fact, Lancelot was not even certain that King Arthur was fit enough to be attending this in the first place. A week was not a long time: in his opinion, the King should still be resting and recuperating, recovering from six months of capture (Lancelot mentally winced at the harsh reminder that they had essentially forgotten about the King for that long). He spared a glance to his left, where King Arthur was sitting. He was making small conversation with the viscount on his right, smiling cheerfully and offering to refill his tankard, to which the viscount appropriately refused to let him do. He appeared to be fine, and Lancelot had to admit, the facade he had put up was impressive to the untrained eye.
But Lancelot saw.
Saw how Arthur’s hand trembled slightly when holding his cup, the way his smile dropped when the conversation directed away from him, how his ears stood pointed upright, on edge and listening for disturbances.
Saw the level of exhaustion barely peeking through on his face, his eyebags, the way his eyes stood permanently half-lidded, as if being pulled down by the will to sleep.
Saw how his focus darted back and forth each door that led out of the hall, expecting an ambush or attack, how he occasionally winced when he leaned on what Lancelot assumed was an unhealed bruise or wound.
Lancelot saw all of it, and yet couldn’t see how no one else noticed — or maybe chose to not notice. He would not blame them; it was easy to assume King Arthur would spring back the same way he always seemed to do after a bad experience. Lancelot was still half under that illusion himself.
The viscount had turned away and struck up conversation with a different noble, and Arthur took the opportunity to speak to Lancelot. “Dreadfully boring, isn’t it?” He whispered to the knight.
Lancelot let out a soft hum of assent, to which the king laughed in response, “Constantly on duty, aren’t you? I would offer you a drink but I don’t think that would be looked on favourably by the party.”
“You don’t seem to be drinking anything yourself.” He pointed out quietly.
He had meant it as an attempt to banter, but Lancelot hadn’t expected Arthur’s smile to falter, his expression tightening to become more guarded. “I am not much in the mood to become intoxicated.” His voice had dropped lower, and Lancelot had to listen carefully in order to hear. “I believe I have had enough of being incapacitated to serve me my entire life.”
“What do you mean by that?” He tried to inquire.
But to his dismay, the King realised that he had shared too much, and quickly backtracked, “It is of no consequence, ignore what I said. I do believe this feast is wrapping up soon.” He changed the topic swiftly, before being roped into a conversation with a small group of nobles near him.
He watched as the King rubbed gently at his wrists while he talked, his expression growing more tense as his hand made contact with skin. Lancelot narrowed his eyes at Arthur suspiciously.
Something was clearly bothering the King, and Lancelot was going to find out what.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
Lancelot was resuming training in the palace grounds after the feast, alone and, frankly, happy he was by himself. The peace and quiet gave him room to think, and apply himself diligently. Using a wooden baton, he struck the tree in front of him with precision and accuracy; if it was with his sword the poor tree would surely have been in shreds.
The shaking and rustling of the leaves was enough to fill Lancelot’s mind for perhaps the first hour, but a glimpse of brilliant blue made him miss his swing, stumbling as the weight balance was skewed by the mistake. He quickly looked up, trying to catch sight of it once again, and indeed, it was the King who had come, staying quite a bit far from the Knight. He had sat down, and was enjoying the flowers that were part of the palace gardens.
What a perfect chance to inquire.
A servant of the castle came out of the door near to where Arthur was sitting, startling when he saw the King sitting in front of the roses he was supposed to water. Of course, as Lancelot predicted, he wasn’t intimidated for long as the King made engaging conversation with him; not many of the servants were scared by King Arthur, most greeting him quite merrily, excluding the new hires.
Lancelot pulled himself out of his train of thought as he noticed the servant had gone off to water the other flowers, leaving Arthur to his own devices. Indeed, it no longer looked like he was looking at the flowers, but rather slightly in front of them, with an expression Lancelot could not quite make out at this distance. Summoning up his knightly courage, he walked forward and approached the King.
Even when he was still a good distance away, Lancelot noticed King Arthur’s ears spring up, alert to his footsteps, and his head quickly snapped up to meet his gaze. He relaxed upon realising it was the Knight, and waved a hand at him.
“What a coincidence that you are here too, is it not?” Arthur spoke as he approached, “That tree you were training on I do pity.”
“Indeed. What are you doing?” Lancelot asked; in truth he should be speaking more formally, but Arthur had always expressed very vocally how much he disliked when he did so.
“Me? I just came to gaze upon the flowers.” He turned back to the white lily in front of him, standing tall and proud. “They were lovingly cared for in my absence, I see.”
Lancelot hated how his breath hitched when the King mentioned those 6 months. He quickly looked down at the flowers as well, gazing at the bright patches of violet and white lilies before him. Clearing his throat, he agreed, “There was never a moment they wilted or fell.”
Arthur gave a distracted hum, and Lancelot looked back to see him once again looking just in front of himself. He could now see the King was looking at the small patch of dandelions in front of the flower bed.
“Dandelions…” he spoke more to himself than to Lancelot, and gently plucked one from the stem, holding up the yellow flower head to the sunlight. “I almost forgot about them.”
“Forgot about… the weeds?”
“Aye.” Arthur’s voice came out the slightest bit choked, which Lancelot picked up on almost instantly. As if realising his mistake, the King cleared his throat, before speaking again, “I had never paid them much attention before, but now… I see they’re as beautiful as the lilies that tower above them, hiding them from view.”
“But…” Lancelot couldn’t see what was so important about the flowers, but watching Arthur, noticing the glassy look in his eyes, he chose to not contradict. Perhaps this was related to the King’s plight.
As if reading his mind, Arthur gave him a response. “The Jackal King… had a supernatural power. One of illusions, which I believe you are aware of?” Lancelot nodded in response, and Arthur continued, “He used to make fabrications of the palace grounds using my memories. It was… a heartache, to see them and not know whether they were real.” His fingers brushed on the yellow petals of the flower. “I had forgotten the dandelions, so he never deigned to include them.” His hands trembled slightly as he placed the plucked dandelion on the ground, and stood up.
Almost instantly, that vulnerable expression on the King’s face was wiped off, replaced with a bright smile that he flashed at Lancelot, and yet it seemed so hollow in contrast to what he saw before. “Enough of that — my apologies for interrupting your practice, I’ll take my leave now.”
Before Lancelot could call out to him, ask him to stay, inquire what was wrong, King Arthur had already returned inside the castle, leaving him standing alone by the lilies and the dandelions.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
The next day, the King had not yet come down from his bedchambers to attend the daily meetings between him and the heads of all the villages in the kingdom, and comedically, it was Sir Lancelot who was requested to fetch him. He thought to himself as he ascended the steps, how humorous Arthur would find it when Lancelot showed up at his door.
As he finally climbed the last set of stairs — it was completely unnecessary to put the King’s chambers at the top of the building, he complained mentally — he was struck by a sense of unease at the unopened door that stood before him. While not unheard of, it was quite uncommon of King Arthur to not answer a summons diligently; last time he had done so, it had been because he had (somehow) sprained his ankle terribly while walking around his room. There was, unfortunately, a good chance something similar might have happened today. Lancelot steeled himself for loud complaining, and thrust open the door, walking inside.
Contrary to his expectations, Arthur was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from the door and Lancelot. He made no comment on the knight’s unorthodox behaviour, though the twitch of his ear made it clear to Lancelot that he had heard him.
“…Sire?” Lancelot asked hesitantly, before abruptly stopping himself. He was never hesitant. “My king, you are required downstairs to meet with the heads of the village.”
At this, Arthur finally turned around, swivelling around on the bed to look at Lancelot with such a harsh stare he was taken aback. The cold look didn’t suit the King at all, Lancelot thought.
When he spoke, it came out slightly rough. “Leave me alone.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”
“Lance— Sir Lancelot.” The knight’s brows furrowed in confusion. Why on Earth was he acting so odd? “Leave me be. I am not in the mood… please.” There was something raw in Arthur’s tone as he said that.
Lancelot took a step closer. “My liege, something has been troubling you as of late, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what.” He cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone unaffected, though it had never worked with the king before. “If it is impacting your duty to serve as King, I would strongly recommend you rest or at least disclose what is going—“
“Infinite. You haven’t fooled me. Cease this at once.”
Lancelot blinked. “…Infinite?”
Arthur let out a harsh laugh. “You can drop the act. You lost me the second you kicked open the door.” He could hear a faint attempt of bravado to cover up the open sadness lingering in his voice. “Sir Lancelot is much too chivalrous to do such a thing.”
Lancelot stared at the King, who was looking warily back at him, his mind racing. How did one even begin to approach such a situation? He was completely convinced that everything was an illusion, even Lancelot—
Somehow, Arthur had managed to get up and walk over to his desk in the time that Lancelot was thinking, not even daring to take his eyes off of the knight. He rubbed at his wrists fervently, and began to speak once more, “Infinite, this game is over. Leave at once.”
The referral to him as the Jackal King snapped the knight out of his thoughts, and he tried again, “I am not lying when I say I am not King Infinite. You have returned to the castle; it’s all over—“
Lancelot was ashamed to admit that he was not at his most attentive while speaking, which led to Arthur catching him by surprise, lunging at him and knocking him to the floor. They both fell with a thud, Lancelot lying on his back and Arthur straddling him. A scrape of steel and a silver glint came from somewhere to the left of him, and before he knew it, Arthur had brought a small letter opener against his throat, the blade brushing his neck slightly. Lancelot immediately stilled underneath the knife, his breath hitching at the cold touch. The silence was broken only by the blue hedgehog’s ragged, uneven breathing.
Arthur hissed at him, “Gaia’s Wounds, don’t make a mockery of me, Infinite.” He spat out the name like it was a curse. “I’ll— I’ll kill you right here and now if you don’t stop impersonating him. I won’t let you dishonour his name.”
Lancelot stared into Arthur’s face, seeing his brows furrowed, his scrunched up muzzle, and the same glassy look he had in the palace gardens before. He needed to get out from underneath him and away from the damn blade if he didn’t want to die.
“You want to kill me?” Lancelot took a deep breath, before continuing,
“Then do it.”
Arthur froze at Lancelot’s words, uttering a short “what?” as his hand faltered on the knife.
It was a gamble, and paid off nicely.
Lancelot took the moment of hesitation as a chance to grab the blade-wielding hand and push back against the king, rolling them to the side so their positions flipped. Arthur’s hand hit the floor with such force the letter opener flew out of his grasp, sliding across the floor and underneath the desk. Lancelot quickly grabbed his other hand as well, bringing out a pained yelp from Arthur, so that he could do nothing but struggle helplessly beneath him.
“My Liege.” his voice had an unintentionally rough tone to it, catching Arthur’s attention. “I have said this before and I will keep saying it until you understand: this is real. You are no longer captive. You’re free.”
“But how?” He choked out in response. He looked up into Lancelot’s eyes, and the knight saw the glistening sheen of grief in them. “How— how can I know you’re real?” Arthur closed his eyes, and let his head thud against the wooden floor, giving up his struggle. “What if I close my eyes, and when they open again, I’m back in that— that wretched cellar once more?”
“I…do not know how to convince you.” Lancelot let go of the king’s wrists, now certain he wouldn’t attack again. “But I can give you my word. Knight’s honour.” He brought up his hand to cover his heart in a salute.
Lancelot noticed that the second he let go, Arthur’s hands went up to his wrists, rubbing at them once more. He gave a soft chuckle at the knight’s promise. “I suppose I must believe you now, shouldn’t I?”
Ignoring the king’s mockery of his words, he stood up and continued, “Are you alright to go down and conduct the meeting? Shall I order a postponement?” Lancelot offered a hand to the king, and helped him up off the floor.
“No, no…” Arthur stood up, dusting himself off and running a hand through his quills. “It is the first meeting since I came back. I have to attend.”
“…Very well.” Lancelot was more than displeased at the circumstances, but he couldn’t argue against the king’s word. “I shall take my leave.” He gave a curt bow, before heading to the door.
“Oh, and Lancelot?” The knight turned around to face Arthur, who was looking at him with a weary smile on his face. “Thank you.”
Steadfastly ignoring the way his face heated up, Lancelot let out a brief hum of assent before quickly turning and leaving the room.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
Sir Percival had called Lancelot to the training grounds in the morning, in order to spar together, and Lancelot wasted no time in making sure he was punctual, that was, until he had the misfortune of bumping into Arthur on the way there.
“Ah, Lancelot! Where are you heading off to this fine morning?” King Arthur asked happily, but there was a glint in his eye that betrayed his pretence of cluelessness.
“Good morning, my King. I am… headed to the servant’s quarters.” He tried to make it seem like he was doing something unappealing in an attempt to deter Arthur, but it failed.
“Oh, really? Because a little purple knighted bird told me you and Sir Percival were planning on training. Was she mistaken?” Lancelot desperately wanted to punch the smug grin off his face.
“…Oh yes. I…forgot.” He replied flatly, and walked past Arthur, hoping to lose him quickly.
It was wishful thinking, as the soft thud of leather on wood trailed behind him, and a cheery voice piped up once again. “I’ll have you know, you weren’t the only one Percival had invited. There was Gawain and of course…”
Lancelot stopped walking, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath to reign himself in. “You?”
“Me!” Arthur came in front of the knight, hands on hips triumphantly like he had just won a race. “So don’t think you are rid of me so soon, dear Lancey.”
“Do not call me that.” He glared at the king to intimidate him, but it appeared to amuse him more than anything. He tried again. “I will not hesitate to rip your quills out if I hear that again.”
Arthur let out a melodramatic gasp; Lancelot couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “You dare threaten your benevolent king? I could have you imprisoned for such a threat!” He turned and saw the black knight had continued walking without him, to which he called out, “Oh come on, entertain me just this once!” before trailing after him.
They both reached the training grounds with neither dead, which Lancelot considered a brilliant show of his self-restraint. There stood Sir Percival, waving them over, and Sir Gawain, lounging on the freshly clipped grass, facing the bright, clear blue sky with his eyes closed.
“Glad to see you could both make it.” She noted Lancelot’s irritated expression, then Arthur’s smug one, with amusement. “I take it nothing of note happened?”
“We are fine.” Lancelot gritted out, before walking past the purple cat briskly to see Sir Gawain. She lifted an eyebrow at the black hedgehog’s retreating figure.
“I may have grated on him a bit too much.” Arthur’s tone was sorrowful, but his eyes sparkled with a lack of remorse. His face quickly eased into a cheerful grin. “I forgot how easy it was to provoke him.”
“Indeed he is.” Sir Percival agreed, following his gaze to watch as Lancelot spoke with Sir Gawain lying on the grass, then idly kicked the knight’s chest plate, to which the echidna yelped in surprise. “Though I have to admit, he has been remarkably relaxed these recent days, despite the obvious irritation he holds right now towards you.”
“That I have noticed as well.” A change in Arthur’s tone encouraged Percival to turn back and look at him. His brow was furrowed, and his smile seemed more pensive than it was before. “I really did worry you all, didn’t I?”
Before she could process and respond to him, King Arthur had walked away, towards the other two knights, and happily spoke, “Well now, shall we get started? I did hope the plan wasn’t just to lounge around doing nothing for a few hours.”
Gawain exchanged a glance with Percival, who was coming up from behind the king, and she cleared her throat, attracting the two newcomers’ attention. “I did hope you both would realise you are late. Sir Gawain and I have already sparred, we are taking a break right now. That, of course, only leaves you two to train with each other.”
“Fine with me!” Arthur made a show of stretching his arms above his head, before shooting a smirk at Lancelot. “Think you can keep up, Lancey?”
He bristled at the nickname, hands twitching with the urge to rip out his quills, but retorted, “As if I could not.”
Taking up the wooden swords lying on the grass beside where Gawain and Percival were now resting, Arthur and Lancelot braced themselves in a fighting stance, facing each other. Without warning, Lancelot lunged forward, catching him off guard and — to his triumph — replacing his grin with a brief look of panic as he hastened to defend himself. The wooden batons clashed together harshly, causing Arthur to stumble back. It was a mere millisecond before the blue hedgehog retaliated, swinging the weapon around to aim at Lancelot’s side, to which the dark knight quickly parried. He spared a glance at Arthur’s face, being met with wide green eyes, sparkling with excitement and thrill.
Lancelot thought this may have been the most lively he’d seen the king since they had come back from the Jackal’s castle.
Lost in his thoughts, Arthur took the opportunity to catch the dark knight off guard, managing to overpower him and send him to the floor, where he instantly brought up his baton to defend against the final blow coming from Arthur standing above him. They locked themselves in a clash, wooden swords shaking with exertion from both sides.
“Oh, Lancelot… you don’t know what you’re missing… why, I do believe Percival’s tunic sleeve has slipped… how scandalous…” Arthur attempted to bait Lancelot, but his tone told him that he wasn’t expecting it to work at all. A quiet chuckling accompanied by a loud laugh told him Percival and Gawain were able to hear their conversation as well.
“Hah… you really are foolish if you think that’s what would defeat me… and a poor judge of character if anything like that would deter me.” He retorted, knowing it would get under the king’s skin — technically it was not foul play to use words to distract as Arthur was the one to start it.
His face betrayed no emotion, but Lancelot noticed his ear twitch at the insult, and knew it had got to him. Arthur scoffed, leaning harder on his sword to try and get him to budge. “Nonsense, Lancey, I know exactly how to rile you up.” He grinned devilishly, before continuing. “My goodness, Gawain has taken off his armour and is flexing his muscles! How toned they are, the sweat dripping off them, imagine being beneath such beasts, so intense—“
Lancelot found a sudden, convenient burst of energy within himself (he was not at all bothered by what the king was saying, not in the slightest), and pushed against Arthur’s sword with a newfound strength, lifting him off of his body and letting him regain his footing.
He turned to see Arthur still lying on the floor, laughing so hard hadn’t returned to his fighting stance. He sat up, wiping tears from his eyes. “You say I am not a good judge, and yet what gave you the strength to push me off?”
Lancelot flushed a dark hue as he heard a roar of laughter come from his right. “Utter nonsense.” He muttered to himself, before saying out loud, “I pushed you off because of my own strength, not your pathetic bait.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow towards him. “Yes, yes, heaven forbid we come into battle and the enemy appears to be slightly attractive—“ he cut off himself with a yelp as Lancelot threw the wooden baton at his head with full strength, knocking him down once again.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
It was, frankly, stupid, in Lancelot’s opinion, to force the king to go back into battle in his condition, but of course, King Arthur had never been one to sit back and let his knights do all the work. It had been a month of continuous fighting, battle after battle, until finally, Camelot made a breakthrough and suppressed King Infinite’s army.
Lancelot had just bested an enemy soldier in a clash when a hush and attraction of attention seemed to form behind him. He pulled the limp body off of Arondight, and turned around to catch a glimpse of the gleaming red of the Jackal King’s ruby and the brilliant gold of King Arthur’s armour between the heads of spectators. He would have been lying if he said he didn’t feel at all anxious about that match-up.
As he approached the crowd, two distinct voices rose from the centre of them, one familiar and one foreign.
“You have lost, Infinite. Your conquest is over.” Arthur’s regal voice floated over the crowd to Lancelot’s ears. As he pushed to the front, he could see the Jackal King on his knees, neck mere centimetres away from Caliburn, brandished by King Arthur. “You have committed many heinous crimes, and for this, I cannot spare you. Your siege of terror is over.”
While his voice sounded out, clear and confident, Lancelot noticed the slight quiver of his hand holding the sword.
Infinite must have noticed it too, as his smile stretched wider across his scarred face, staring up at Arthur. “My influence is hardly over now, is it?”
Arthur drew in a shaky breath, and his grip tightened on Caliburn. “Silence. You are to be taken to the dungeons and executed tomorrow morning by public hanging. Your kingdom shall conjoin with my own, and I will take over your reign. You—“
“What a shame this all had to end. I quite enjoyed our time when you were in my cellar.” His voice had a silky quality to it that made Lancelot’s fur stand on end. “I mean, have you really even escaped?”
Lancelot watched Arthur as his eyes widened at the question, panic almost visibly coursing through his body, and his hold on the sword slackened.
Lancelot had never wanted to kill as much as he did now.
He stepped forward, out of the walls of soldiers, and approached Arthur and Infinite. He grabbed the jackal by the scruff of his tunic, beneath the half fallen armour, and said, “That is enough conversing. I will be the one to escort you to the dungeons.” He spared a glance back to Arthur, who stood in the same spot, looking slightly dazed. “You have no right to be talking to the King after what you have done.”
Infinite moved his gaze to look at the knight, eyes narrowing as he analysed his appearance. “…a valiant knight indeed.”
As he walked away with the jackal, Lancelot watched from the corner of his eye Arthur take a deep breath in, and feel his wrists tentatively, the vacant expression not quite leaving his face.
The knight and the fallen king both boarded the prison wagon, Lancelot making sure to firmly shut the door behind them. He set the shackles onto Infinite’s wrists, and then they set off back to the castle.
The first few hours were in silence, but Lancelot was surprised from his light doze by a smooth voice. “So, how has your oh so brilliant Arthur been doing?”
“It is King Arthur to you. And how he has been faring is none of your concern.”
“What, am I forbidden from asking a simple question?” Infinite leaned back against the wooden bench, shackles clanking together. “You all think that come tomorrow morning, all my efforts will be erased, but in truth, they never will. Your king is a fine example of that.” He let out a sickly happy sigh. “The way he trembled before me as he was lost in my illusions was delectable.”
Lancelot was thankful he had kept his helm down, else he would not have been able to maintain a calm expression in front of him.
“You must tell me, does he have night terrors? I remember some nights, as I was in my chambers, I could hear his faint screams all the way down in the dungeons. Arthur really does have a loud voice, doesn’t he?
“He had such peculiar fears too. Are you aware he is afraid of water? I certainly wasn’t. A foolish worry, to be sure, and definitely not one becoming of a King.
“It was so easy to feed him delusions, he was desperate for any kind of sign, any signal to escape, that he fell for almost anything I set his way. He grew wise to some tricks, but others… I wouldn’t be surprised if he still believed them now.”
“Silence.” Lancelot refused to listen any longer to his monologue, though there was something about that last line that worried him.
Infinite fell into silence once more, and continued so for the rest of the journey.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
After Lancelot had finally rid himself of that vile bastard, Sir Gawain had approached him in the hallway, worry showing in his violet eyes.
“Ah, Sir Lancelot, I was looking for you.” He addressed the knight before him. “Sir Percival has requested me to fetch you. I take it, you know what happened?”
Lifting the helm from his face, he looked back at Sir Gawain. “I don’t believe so. Is it to do with Percival?”
“Indeed, she was injured in battle.” Gawain lifted his hands up at Lancelot’s shocked expression. “Not a serious wound! Just a scrape to her side. She had told me her head was throbbing in the morning, so she must not have been at her best.”
“Right. She is in the medical wing?” The echidna responded with a nod. “Then I shall pay her a visit. Thank you, Gawain.”
“Sir Gawain to you, lad.” He huffed, but his voice lacked any bite. Lancelot smiled, and set off for the medical wing, lifting his hand to say goodbye.
Percival was propped up by a multitude of quilts, lying down on a white linen mattress. She waved Lancelot over when he had caught sight of her, and he at once came over.
“What on Earth happened?” He asked. “It isn’t like you to be injured.”
Percival waved her hand dismissively. “It is of no consequence: I wasn’t feeling my best, and I suffered the price for it.” As she lifted her arm, Lancelot caught sight of white cloth bandages around her torso and chest, a small red spot where he assumed the center of the wound was. “I feel fine, so I am sure I will heal quickly.”
“Is it just your side that was injured?”
“Ah, well, I think I hit my head somewhere.” Percival raised her hand to feel the back of her head, wincing as she brushed over a sore spot. “It does sting sometimes. However,” her expression grew concerned as she held her gaze with Lancelot, “That isn’t the reason I asked Gawain to fetch you.
“The truth is… I am worried about the King.” Lancelot immediately stood alert at the mention of Arthur. He could have sworn he saw the corner of Percival’s mouth twitch upwards, but she made no further comment. “He came to visit me earlier. He was certainly worried for me — too much worry for a mere knight, though he wouldn’t hear any of it — but when he saw the wound in my side, he… froze? I’m not too sure what happened myself. He just… stopped mid-sentence and stared at my torso.” Percival let out a soft chuckle. “If it was anyone else I would have suspected lewd intentions, the way he was so focussed.
“In his defence, the gash wasn’t covered up as dutifully as it is now. The bandages were messy and bloody, and the gaping hole was seen quite clearly. Maybe he was shocked at how bad it was?” She shrugged. “I don’t think he would be squeamish, given how hard he fought earlier.”
While Percival spoke, Lancelot’s mind was racing. Was this related to whatever else was plaguing him? It was glaringly obvious it was the result of his capture from Infinite (six months, rang out through his mind), was he doing well now? Was this even a cause for concern?
Nevertheless, Lancelot pulled himself out of his thoughts and addressed Percival. “And you want me to check on him?”
She nodded in response. “I would normally be up for doing it myself, however—“ she gestured to her body. “Certain circumstances rule out that possibility.”
As much as he was itching to go up and see Arthur immediately, he forced himself to say, “I, unfortunately, cannot do it now; I have guard duty this evening, but I will make sure to visit him afterwards.”
“That’s alright, better late than never.” Percival sighed, and leaned back against the quilts. “He’s never been one to talk about his feelings, now, has he?”
Lancelot scoffed at that. “Probably never will be, either.”
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
The sun had set, and Lancelot still wasn’t finished with his duties, to his dismay. He stood at his post, waiting impatiently for the knight who had the next shift to come, occasionally glancing up to the window of the King’s room. The flicker of candlelight, he assumed, meant that Arthur was still awake, though that probably wasn’t a good thing.
Finally, the green parrot he was waiting for came down, and took his position with a nod. He muttered a thanks to Sir Lamorak, and briskly walked away, up to the King’s chambers for the second time in a fortnight. He stood before the closed doors once again, this time knocking gently. “King Arthur? I have come to see you.”
Lancelot heard nothing in response. He pushed at the door, and it slowly creaked open, the loud noise echoing in the quiet. Stepping inside, he at once saw that Arthur was nowhere to be found. Looking over to the window, he spotted the same candlelight he had seen by his post; while sometimes reckless, he didn’t think Arthur would be so foolish as to leave an open flame unattended. Lancelot walked around the room, as quietly as he could in his armour, inspecting everything carefully. Most things were kept messily, but in such a way that he knew Arthur had some semblance of organisation going on. If he had to guess, Lancelot would say things hadn’t even been disturbed since before they had all left for battle. Whatever the state of the room was, it was clear Arthur was not inside.
Lancelot turned to leave the room, but came to a sudden halt in the doorframe. He slowly turned around, coming face to face with a different door, kept so slightly ajar that he had almost missed it; the door led to a small watchtower that had a decent view of the entire grounds from above. Though it probably had a military function, as far as Lancelot was aware the King only used it for sightseeing.
He hadn’t checked there yet.
He briskly walked over to the rusty door and pulled it open, with a surprising amount of effort, and the door scraped across the floor painfully as it opened. Before the knight was a long winding staircase, narrow and tall, leading to the top of the tower.
The last thing Lancelot had needed was more stairs.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
He ascended the endlessly long spiral stairs, and finally reached the top of the stone tower. He involuntarily shivered; the breeze and the lack of sunlight made the place significantly colder than inside the castle. The room was lit, a long gap around the half of the walls let sunlight stream in, and the room was filled with a pleasant glow.
To his immense relief, Lancelot immediately spotted Arthur sitting by the wall, legs brought up to his chest, his head on his knees. He thought he could hear Arthur saying something, but the knight couldn’t discern the words properly. “King Arthur?”
The king drew in a sharp breath, and instantly snapped his head up to look at Lancelot. “Oh! Lancelot—“ he cleared his throat awkwardly, not moving from his position. “I wasn’t expecting you to— to come here.”
“Sir Percival told me you seemed disoriented. Are you… alright?”
“I am fine.” He was cradling his arm in his lap, hidden by his legs. Arthur clutched it tighter. “Completely fine.”
Lancelot stared at the scene before him, before scoffing at the King’s statement. “If you were fine, I doubt I would have found you up here, muttering— I don’t know— curses or whatever it is you were saying.” He didn’t miss the way Arthur flinched at the word.
“I am telling the truth, Lancelot. I am fine. You are overthinking.” He waved his hand up, in order to dismiss him. “You may leave, and tell sir Percival what I have said.”
“Tell her all you did was lie to me? I’m not leaving until— until…” Lancelot’s voice died away, as his eyes came to rest on Arthur’s outstretched hand.
He briskly walked over to him and grabbed the outstretched hand, earning a yelp of surprise from the blue hedgehog. As he looked carefully at the tips, the pit in his stomach grew.
Congealed blood under his claws, looking almost black against the blue fur.
There was a thick, tense silence between the two of them, where neither dared to speak first.
“…Does this—“ He shook Arthur’s hand roughly. “Also come under your definition of fine?”
“I— it’s—“ For once in his life, the King seemed to be lost for words. He weakly tried to pull his hand out of Lancelot’s grasp. “It is of no consequence. Leave me be—“
“Your arm.”
He froze, and looked up to the knight in slight confusion. “My arm?”
Lancelot kneeled down next to him, and hissed, “Show me your damn arm.”
If Arthur wasn’t pale before, he certainly was now. His expression became guarded, and he turned away slightly from Lancelot. “No. Leave now, Sir Lancelot.”
“I am not leaving until you let me see your arm. Show me.”
“I said, No.”
The knight sighed heavily, partly out of frustration. “Fine. Then so be it.”
Arthur’s shoulders fell as he relaxed, his mouth opening to say thanks, when Lancelot lunged forward, pushing the king down and attempting to reach his hidden arm. “Wh— Sir Lancelot! Unhand me at once!” He yelled, trying his best to push off the knight with only one hand. “I— I am your king, you cannot treat me—“
“All of a sudden now you’re establishing your authority?” He retorted. “I can’t believe you would stoop so low.” On the final word, Lancelot managed to grab his arm by the (concerningly) bloody cuff of his tunic and pulled it towards him, pushing up the sleeve.
Ancient runes in a dark, insidious red lined the inside of his arm, inflamed, some dripping and dyeing his fur a deep purple-black hue.
He froze, and as if responding, Arthur stilled too. Waves of nausea wallowed beneath the surface, as he choked out, “What… what is this?”
“Lance, please—, I’m fine—”
“Fine? Fine?? What in Gaia’s name— How can you— Nothing about this is fine—”
“Well, it is! It has to be fine!” Using what little strength he had left, Arthur pushed Lancelot off of himself, and sat back up again. “This is— was just a slip of my constitution. I haven’t done this since—“ He abruptly fell silent, eyes snapping towards Lancelot’s face as if he said too much.
“You had to have done this before… I refuse to believe that all of this—” He gestured to the mutilated arm. “—was done just now.” Lancelot gently took Arthur’s hand once again, inspecting the welts on his skin despite the sickening grief he felt seeing them. “Please… talk to me. What does this mean?”
“It means nothing, it’s just— it—“ He abruptly stopped talking, a hand flying up to his throat to soothe the lump that had grown. “I’m— I’m fine.” Arthur whispered the last word, as though trying to convince himself more than Lancelot.
“King Arthur— Arthur,” The king brought up his head to look at Lancelot. “Don’t keep this to yourself. If you are hurting, it will only get worse by hiding it. Talk to me. What happened?”
There was a long silence where neither of them spoke. Lancelot felt his despair grow stronger each passing second that he didn’t talk, and was on the verge of giving up, when Arthur’s voice cut through the quiet, his gaze turned back towards his lap. “It was the illusions.” The monotone of his voice made Lancelot still, giving his undying attention. “It— it was relentless. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was not. I was fooled so many times by the same damn trick—“ when he looked up once more, the knight saw the painful shimmer in his eyes. “There was always so much blood… you all lying dead before me… and I— I wasn’t fast enough to save you.
“Then, I don’t know how long it was, but Lady Nimue appeared to me in a dream.” He sighed, his hand lining the cuts on his arm absentmindedly. “She gave me these runes, saying if I engraved them somewhere and focused, that the illusions would die away, and I wouldn’t be fooled by them any longer.” Arthur let out a dry chuckle. “Needless to say I was beyond grateful to her for it— I still am.
“So the next time someone came over to ‘rescue me’, I tried scratching it into the wall of the cell I was kept in, and it worked. The second I completed it, they faded away into nothing before my eyes.
“But then—“ his voice grew rougher as he continued. “It stopped being so effective. Instead of disappearing, it would merely flicker, until it got to a point it wouldn’t do anything at all. I— I was desperate, I kept trying, scratching the runes on anything I could find, until— well—“
He cut himself off, but Lancelot understood. “Until you turned to your wrists?”
Arthur gave a mere nod, whispering. “And it all went away instantly.”
As he fell silent, Lancelot stared at him with almost pure shock at what he had shared, as well as a deep hatred for Infinite that was only intensified by Arthur’s predicament.
“I don’t know why Lady Nimue would have a spell that works better on flesh… maybe she hid that fact because it was dangerous?” He curled up tighter, withdrawing his hand from Lancelot’s grip. “I guess it didn’t matter in the end…”
“King Arthur…” Lancelot inhaled deeply, trying to reign in his emotions, before continuing, “Do you do this every time something reminds you of… before?”
He let out a murmur of assent, face hidden by his arms curled around him. “Most of the time...”
Lancelot had no idea how to handle the situation, staring helplessly at the hedgehog before him; he knew he was useless at comfort, but felt conflicted at the idea of leaving Arthur and fetching someone else. Instead, he chose to try probing further. “Have you…spoken to the Lady of the Lake since then?”
“No.” His head shot up, quills bristling. “I am not going to see her when I am like…this. She will worry…” Arthur’s voice wavered, unsure as he spoke — making excuses most likely, Lancelot thought. “…and I don’t want to make her so.”
He scoffed at Arthur’s words. “Of course she will worry. What you are doing to yourself is a cause for worry. But she will worry more if you refuse to even confirm that you escaped in the first place.” Taking a risk, Lancelot gently rested a hand on top of Arthur’s. The king flinched at the touch, but didn’t pull away. “She deserves that much, does she not?”
“I can’t do it, I— I just can’t.” He choked out, “I’m a disgrace of a king. I flinch at loud noises, I can’t stop something as silly as this, I fall into my own delusions, and—
don’t come any closer!” He hissed, scrambling away from Lancelot as he shifted in his position.
Lancelot immediately withdrew his hands, holding them up in the air cautiously. Arthur tried to take in a few calming breaths, hands trembling against the stone floor. Shakily, he stood up, to which Lancelot started to protest, but was silenced by a raised hand. “I— I’m a mess.” Arthur looked off to the side, out of the window that was overlooking the palace grounds, with a grief-ridden expression. “This kingdom will fall if I remain in power, and yet I have no one I can trust enough to take my place.” He turned his back on Lancelot, and headed for the exit of the tower, before halting at the top of stairs. Without looking back, he spoke, “I would recommend you leave while you can.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he swiftly descended the flight of stairs, leaving Lancelot sitting in a corner of the watch tower, blood on his hands.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
Blood, blood, blood, so much blood, pooling by his feet, dripping from his hands, staining the floor below him—
He blinks, and it’s all gone, his blue fur no longer dyed an insidious purple, the stone cracks not flooded and leaking with blood, blood, blood—
He tries to right himself, standing up straight, but the world lurches sideways, and he grabs his mouth, fighting the urge to throw up. He reaches the end of the stairs and grabs his cloak from where it was lying strewn across his bed, haphazardly using it to shield the cuts on his arm. He brushes against one of the open wounds, and the sting sends him spiralling—
The decorated floor turns to cobblestone, the walls covered in vines and stains of dark red, and all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and hope that the footsteps he’s hearing aren’t those of him, that he won’t be hurting for too long after his visit—
“My king?” A soft, juvenile voice calls out. Arthur looks up and sees a familiar white hedgehog, expression laced with concern. “Are you feeling alright?”
Galahad reaches out and gently holds his shoulder, a comforting act in order to steady him, but he feels every strand of fur stand on end at the contact, and it takes all of his strength to not sink to the floor crying, he bites his lip aggressively and manages to choke out, “I am fine.” before stumbling away from the knight.
His breathing starts to come out in ragged gasps as he continues to walk down, lower and lower, his mind isn’t entirely sure where he is going, but his feet seem to know the way well enough, so he lets them take him wherever they please, his heart feels near bursting, and he brings a hand to his chest to try and calm it but it only shakes his body further, feeling the beats louder and louder through the palm of his hand—
He stops before a long set of stairs, descending down into the murky depths of darkness. The smell turns from the comforting scent of burning wax to camphor and the air starts feeling stagnant and rotten. Wiping the blood pouring from his abused lip, he shakily descends the steps to the dungeon.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
Sir Lancelot set off at a recklessly fast pace from the castle, riding his signature white horse down the grassy hills leading up to the king’s residence. He had grabbed a map from the knight’s quarters before he left, and carefully tried to both control the horse’s reigns and study its contents at the same time.
He’d never been to visit the Lady of the Lake before, but he figured there was a first time for everything.
There wasn’t even a complete reassurance that he would be able to find her; the myth had stated she would only appear to those whom she chooses. Hopefully she would see his worry and let him speak with her. Wasn’t she magical, or of the like? Surely she would be able to sense why he was here. He looked up from the map and saw they were headed into a forest — probably a good sign as forests were great for concealment. He laid down close to his horse and braced himself for the onslaught of branches and leaves as she raced through the woods. On a normal day, it would have been wiser to slow down, however, Lancelot was in a rush to say the least.
While trying not to get bowled off of the horse, he looked at the map once again. The entire forest was a vague idea of where the Lady of the Lake could be found, so, to Lancelot’s dismay, his best idea was to keep roaming around until she appeared to him, that is to say, if she ever would. He growled as he scrunched the map in his hands. This would never get anywhere unless he took initiative.
Pulling on her reigns to get the horse to slow, Lancelot straightened up and called out, “Dear Lady of the Lake! Please reveal yourself to me! I am in dire need of your help!” He fell silent, listening carefully for any disturbance to the nature around him. He dismounted his horse and absently petted her muzzle, while trying again, “Lady of the Lake, I require your aid at once!” He winced as he spoke: he was being extremely rude towards her, but he couldn’t see another option. “Lady of the La—“
“Just Nimue is fine.” Came an airy, amused voice from behind him.
Lancelot started, and swiftly turned around to see Lady Nimue before him. She took on the appearance of a pink hedgehog, quills curved down towards her neck, where they ended, adorned with a blue headband that rested just behind her ears and ended with gold ornamentation. She had a blue dress, complete with frills and fancies around the waistline, as well as more gold ornaments lined down the middle. She wore long white gloves that reached up to half of her upper arms, and gold rings on her wrists similar to Lancelot’s, as well as a blue veil that stretched up behind her head to around her arms and back. She smiled as she spoke, with a lilt to her voice that put Sir Lancelot at ease instantly, “And who might you be?”
Lancelot snapped out of his stupor and kneeled before her, stating, “I am Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table, and I am here…” he hesitated, before continuing, “on behalf of King Arthur of Camelot.”
Nimue’s face morphed into one of shock as he uttered the king’s name, and she brought a delicate hand to her mouth. “Arthur?… So he is… Oh my goodness…” Her eyes misted over, and she smiled at Sir Lancelot genuinely. “I was under the assumption that he was dead and gone… I am pleased to hear that he isn’t. However… you are here urgently.” She looked at him seriously, and he instantly felt the atmosphere change from warm to cold. “What has happened?”
Lancelot stood up, bringing up a hand to rifle through his quills. “Where do I start… he has been having delusions since he came back from that damn fool’s place… pardon my language.” He apologised, but Nimue shook her head and gestured for him to continue. “He seems constantly reminded of the place wherever he goes, I believe he isn’t eating or sleeping properly, and worst of all, he still chooses to lie to my face and say he is fine.” Airing out his concerns for the first time definitely shrunk a weight off of his back, but also made Lancelot realise how bad Arthur had gotten. “He faced Infinite today, and I saw him, I saw exactly how he reacted and yet—“
“Calm down, Lancelot. Stress will not aid your descriptions.” Nimue cut in, adopting her soothing tone once again. Lancelot looked at her face and saw the tension in her expression. “Please continue.”
Lancelot breathed in deeply, before continuing. “I found him earlier. He was in his watchtower, I do not know why, but he was— he was clawing at his arm, and muttering things to himself.” He swallowed. “There was blood all over his arm and hand.” He heard Nimue gasp, but didn’t stop himself. “He said— he said you had come to him in a dream. You had told him the runes needed to fight back against Infinite’s illusions. Why was that spell more effective if he carved it into his arm?” He fell silent as his plea ended, and he looked up again to try and read Lady Nimue’s expression.
Lancelot had been expecting shock, regret, grief, maybe even an uncaring stare (though he had highly doubted it), but what he hadn’t anticipated was the pure confusion and horror on her face. She had brought up her hands to her mouth once more, eyes wide, and she slowly shook her head. “Lancelot… I would never use such magic. Nearly none of my spells require the shedding of blood, my magic is rooted in nature, and would never use such a medium. And… I never did that.”
Lancelot felt his stomach drop at her words. “Did… what?”
She looked ridden with devastation as she said quietly, “I never conjured myself in Arthur’s mind. I— I had believed he was dead until just now.”
“No… no, he said— he said he saw you.” Lancelot grew frantic, bringing a hand to his head to steady himself. “You appeared to him, and you told him— you told him—“ his eyes snapped up to Nimue, wide and panicked. “What if I drew the runes for you? Would you be able to tell me what they were?”
“Almost certainly, my time under Merlin was not for nothing.” She said seriously.
Lancelot remembered mostly what the spell was on Arthur’s arm — who wouldn’t remember the abused skin, the blood leaking, he shook his head to regain himself — and kneeled down to draw out the letters in the mud. He felt Lady Nimue tower over him as he wrote, and saw the edge of her dress in his vision, so he tried his best to not get dirt on her.
When he was finally done, he stepped back, cross checking to see what he had missed, “My apologies, my memory is not the best, I was… preoccupied, with the situation at hand.” He said sheepishly.
Nimue squinted at the writing, ear flicking as she thought deeply about whether she had seen such a thing before. Finally she straightened, and the look she gave Lancelot was not promising. “I was afraid of this.”
“Is it… dangerous?”
“Dangerous? Not to others, you could say…” She sighed, “it’s a bluff. Not a spell. The runes each mean things, yes, but the sequence just… doesn’t do anything.”
Lancelot scrunched his muzzle in confusion. “It does nothing? But then how did—“
“I have a theory.” She went quiet, and Lancelot looked up from the runes to see Nimue clutching her dress, expression pensive. “The Jackal King… what was his Ruby capable of?”
“He was able to conjure illusions, or fabricate memories, I believe. How is this—“ Lancelot paused, a brief memory flashing in his mind.
“He grew wise to some tricks, but others… I wouldn’t be surprised if he still believed them now.”
“No…”
Nimue nodded her head sorrowfully. “I am inclined to believe this was his doing.”
Lancelot inhaled sharply, his hands at his sides balling into fists, trembling with tension. The bubbling fury he felt beneath his skin surfaced, and he let out a frustrated growl, before kicking at the tree behind him, “Damn lowly cur.”
Behind him, Nimue raised an eyebrow. “An interesting choice, to injure the wildlife in the presence of a nature wielding magic user.”
Lancelot stilled, turning to Nimue, then looking back at the tree, now with a large gash in the middle. “Er— my apologies, dear Lady.”
She giggled at him sweetly, “Nevermind that. It would be better if you returned to Camelot, over staying here any longer.”
He nodded purposefully, then mounted his horse once again, stroking her mane free of the mud on his gloves. He looked back up to Lady Nimue and raised his hand in goodbye.
“Wait!” Lancelot had turned to leave, but gazed back towards the Lady of the Lake as she called out. She wore a sad smile as she asked, “Do tell Arthur to come visit me when he feels better... I have missed him very much.”
“Aye, I will, my Lady.” With that, he headed straight back out of the forest, heading up the hill to the king’s castle once more.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
“My, my, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”
Arthur hated the way his quills bristled at the silky voice.
Infinite sat back lazily against the cobblestone wall of the cell he was being held in, shackles around his wrists and his ankle, tying him to the wall. His eyes brightened the second he saw Arthur walk into his view, and leaned forward. “Now what are you doing here, all alone? Not scared… are you?” He narrowed his eyes at the blue hedgehog, a sly grin growing on his face as he saw him twitch at the question.
Arthur hissed at him through the bars, “Shut the hell up, or for Gaia’s sake I will not hesitate to execute you here and now.” He stood tall, trying to present himself as the regal king he was supposed to be, and not the snivelling mess he knew Infinite was more familiar with. “I require you to answer my question.”
“Really? And what makes you think I will do anything to aid you?”
Arthur hesitated, before revealing his bloody sleeve from under his cloak. Infinite widened his eyes slightly at the display. “… And what am I supposed to do about this, Arthur?”
“Do not call me—” He cut himself off, taking in a deep breath, before slowly pulling up the sleeve and revealing the scars below.
Arthur refused to look down at his mutilated arm, and instead chose to look at Infinite, but dread pooled in his stomach as the fallen King stood up in his jail and came closer to him, so close he could almost smell his cell off of him, his face splitting into a maniacal grin. He chuckled to himself, the laughs growing louder.
Arthur felt his face heat up with shame, though he wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed, and attempted to hide his arm, when the jackal snapped, “Don’t hide from me.”
Arthur flinched at the voice, immediately pulling his sleeve up, before the realisation of what he had just done sunk in.
This time his laugh was open and uproarious, leaving Arthur to stand dumbly in front of his cell, trying desperately to stay grounded and not descend into panic in front of him of all people.
“Oh dear, you really know how to entertain me, don’t you?” He sighed, shackles clinking together as he relaxed against the wall. “I’m the one in chains now, and yet, I still have complete control over you.”
Arthur’s eyes snapped up to him at the statement. “No you don’t.”
“Oh but I do. That Ruby was powerful, way beyond anything your precious little head could dream of. All those nightmares of your guard dying, those impersonations of them coming to your aid, their dead bodies lying at your feet as you helplessly tried to revive their rotting corpses, it was all done by my little red friend.” Infinite’s eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze to the injured arm. “And why did you decide to show me your fine handiwork?”
Arthur bristled at the mention of his injuries. “I— I want to confirm if you know what they are, or what they mean.”
Infinite scrutinised him carefully for a long while, the silence stretching to infinity, and Arthur was starting to get nervous under his gaze, before he got a response, a short, breathless, “You actually don’t know.”
“Don’t know what.”
He had his sickeningly happy smile on his face as he said, with an air of commenting on the weather, “I made it.”
“You.. what?”
“That spell. It’s my own creation.” The smile didn’t leave his face. “I. Made. It. It’s mine!” He cackled, “Oh, what I would give to get a mirror so you could see your own face!”
No.
No no no no.
He felt weak.
“You didn’t really believe that the Lady of the Lake visited you in your dream, right? Of course she didn’t! She didn’t care enough to push further, just like the rest of your kingdom, as she believed you were dead like the rest of them! Why would you send a message to a dead and gone king?”
He felt sick.
“I said this to your beloved dark knight earlier: you may think that come tomorrow, you will be able to put everything behind you and begin afresh, but I can tell you right here and now, you will never be rid of me, I may be gone from this world, but I will always live on in your mind, festering away while you live, breathe, until I consume you whole.”
He felt tired.
“You got your answer now, did you not? No need to see me any longer. My only regret in life was that I wasn’t more… audacious with you.” Infinite laughed once more, the sound resonating through Arthur’s ears and bouncing around in his skull, never leaving him be. “Leave while you can, because you will never be good enough after what I have done to you. You are an empty shell, a mimicry of your former self, someone you will never get back.”
Arthur let the first tears fall.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
Lancelot made it back to the castle, mentally apologising to his horse for getting mud on her pristine white coat, before taking off at full speed to the interior, traversing through corridors haphazardly. He mentally kicked himself for leaving Arthur to his own devices; of course it was a bad idea to go off without him, especially after showing such self destructive behaviours, and ending the conversation in a negative tone. He had seen from the outside that Arthur’s chambers had no light in them, which either meant he was asleep, or that he was not present in the room. Lancelot looked to the horizon, where the sun had yet to fall, and decided it was the latter of the two.
He ran through various corridors and corners, checking everywhere he could possibly be, even sparing a glance at the dungeons, before coming to a halt in the palace gardens to catch his breath. Lancelot had not seen him anywhere.
“Oh Lancey!” Came a cheerful voice from behind him, the one he had been looking for since the sun had set. He swivelled around to be met with glistening emerald eyes and a confident smile on the blue hedgehog’s face. “What are you doing up so late?”
He grabbed Arthur by the shoulders in his relief, sighing out loud. “Thank Chaos, I was looking—“
To his alarm, Arthur flinched violently at the touch, and Lancelot instantly removed his hands. A moment of silence passed between the two, before Arthur let out a nervous laugh, saying, “Ah, I didn’t mean to— you got me in a ticklish spot!” He laughed again, the usually merry sound feeling hollow.
“Arthur…?” Lancelot looked carefully at him, taking in his vacant, happy expression, his slightly dazed disposition, and—
His shaking hands.
Gently, so that Arthur was aware of what he was doing, Lancelot held one of his hands still, trying to cease the shaking. “Arthur, have you… been drinking?”
“What? No…” He had the decency to look embarrassed at the awful lie. “Well… maybe a bit. It was only a tankard though.” He rubbed his eye, and grumbled, “I think I deserve one after today.”
“…Very well.” Lancelot gently tried to guide the other back inside the castle. He didn’t think he had ever seen Arthur drunk before, usually he had a strong constitution. Lancelot had a feeling he drank more than he was willing to admit.
As they descended up the stairs, Arthur stumbled on one of the steps, colliding with the stone with a painful thud. Lancelot looked back, panicked, and mentally cursed himself for not standing behind the drunk person instead of in front of them.
“Ugh…” Arthur mumbled, clutching his nose. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it is bleeding.” His voice came out slightly nasal, and sure enough, his white gloves were slowly turning a red hue.
“Just pinch your nose, it will go away soon.” Lancelot muttered in response, helping Arthur back up.
Another minute’s worth of silence passed, before Arthur spoke up, “I spoke to Infinite.”
Lancelot froze. Arthur, not sensing Lancelot behind him anymore, looked back to see him staring up from a few steps down. “You did what?!”
“Yeah… it wasn’t the best experience.” He fiddled at his quills, smearing blood as he did so. “It was a stupid thing to do, in hindsight. He laughed at me a lot, ridiculed me, and—” He cut himself off.
“…and?”
“And he—“ Arthur swallowed. “He made up the runes that Nimue gave me. They were fake.”
Ah. So Infinite had told him.
Arthur’s face twisted into one of confusion. “You do not seem surprised… did you—“
“I didn’t know until I came back.” Lancelot corrected him quickly. “Lady Nimue told me.”
“You went to see Nimue? How is she?” Arthur smiled to himself, “Does she seem happy?”
“She was worried about you… she thought you were dead.”
Arthur frowned at the statement. “The same way everyone else thought I was dead?”
There was a thick silence between the two of them, the air turning cold and stagnant.
At last, Arthur sighed, bringing up a hand to rub his eyes again, “I apologise, that was not right of me to say.”
As he lifted his arm, it was revealed that the injuries on his arm had gotten worse; Lancelot really regretted leaving him. “No, it is fine—“
“Lancelot.” Arthur’s voice turned hard and cold. “Leave it be.”
Lancelot could do nothing more but drop the topic as well.
As they finally reached the King’s chamber, Lancelot struck a match and lit a candle, filling the room with a mediocre light. He turned back to Arthur, who was looking at the floor, expression blank.
“King Arthur?”
He slowly lifted his head to look up at Lancelot, smiling weakly, “Back to ‘King’ again, are we?”
Before he could respond, he noticed in the light, the tear streaks down Arthur’s face. His stomach twisted at the sight.
Arthur took the candle from Lancelot. “Thank you, Lance. You can go now.”
He hesitated to leave, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Are you certain? I can…“ his voice trailed off, unsure of where he was going with his proposal.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “You can…? What, lull me to sleep? Accompany me in my bed?” He let out a soft huff of laughter, then his smirk dulled into a slight grimace. “I am sorry, please leave.”
Lancelot nodded in resignation to him, and headed for the steps.
“Lancelot?”
The knight turned back to see Arthur’s face, illuminated by the candlelight in such a way it accentuated his exhaustion, face pulled into a tired smile. “I think I want to die.”
“… I don’t think you should do that,” was the only response he could get out, after a long time.
Another huff of laughter, “I suppose I must trust you now, shouldn’t I?” Arthur fell into a pensive quiet, before speaking softly, “Good night, Lance.”
“Good night… Arthur.”