.
.
They dragged the boy through the moor in the middle of the night, his feet dragging uselessly against the dry, dead grass.
"Please!" the boy's voice was shrill and terrified. "Mercy!"
Two older boys gripped him by the arms while two others flanked around him on all sides.
"The devil is in his face! The Lord bless us! The Lord forgive us!"
The boy screamed, body thrashing, as the older boys lifted him and tossed him into a well.
The boy slammed against his shoulder, the water cold and icy against his limbs. He scrabbled forward. His hands clawed against the rock, fingers digging into the stone until his nails were chipped and bleeding. "Please." The boy was sobbing. "Please!"
Above him, there was nothing but blackness, the clouds slowly covering the moon.
xXx
.
Someone was shaking Waver by the shoulder.
"My lord!" Lancer said, and Waver gasped, eyes opening and trying to catch his breath. His heart was thudding in his ears and his skin was clammy with cold sweat.
"You are all right." Lancer looked relieved. Waver shook his head, trying to get his bearings.
"What happened?" Waver said. Lancer sat down next to him.
"It seemed as though you were having a nightmare," Lancer said. "You were crying out in your sleep." He still looked worried. Waver frowned.
"I think I saw one of your memories," Waver said. "Lancer. Have you...have you ever been thrown into a well?"
Lancer looked at him, puzzled. "A well?" Lancer said. Waver frowned.
"I...you don't remember? Four boys dragged you across the moor..."
"Oh!" Lancer brightened. "Yes, indeed I do remember. The older boys were fond of roughhousing, if I rightly recall."
"Roughhousing?" Waver stared at him, incredulous. "Lancer, they tossed you into a well. You were crying..." Waver trailed off when he realized Lancer was looking at him with honest to goodness surprise. "They called you the devil," Waver said. Lancer shook his head.
"Young boys with high spirits, surely. I promise you it was not so terrible."
Lancer sincerely didn't seem bothered at all by the memory. Instead, he seemed puzzled that Waver was so upset. "Did they, uh, roughhouse a lot?" Waver asked, finally. Lancer nodded.
"From time to time. It was the exuberance of youth, after all."
"Huh."
Lancer's left hand was curled serenely in his lap. Waver could see the scars across his knuckles, the white tape of his bandages stretched across pink, translucent skin.
"Lancer."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Your legend said you had a lot of friends." Waver felt stupid but he had to ask. "But the dreams I've been having...I mean. It seems like when you were younger, you didn't."
Waver waited, expecting Lancer to elaborate. But Lancer didn't say anything, just continued looking at him, waiting.
"So, Lancer...?"
Lancer blinked, owlishly.
"Er..."
What the hell was wrong with him? He was his Heroic Spirit, it wasn't like Waver could just go up to him and ask, Hey Lancer, I dreamt you were bullied when you were younger, is that true? And how come Waver was dreaming about Lancer's childhood and not like, Grainne or Fionn or anything important about his legend? It was giving him flashbacks to his own miserable childhood, and Waver was irritated at himself for even thinking about it.
"You know what, nevermind," Waver said, and he wound the bedspread around himself. "I'm going to go back to sleep."
Lancer hesitated. "There isn't anything more you wish to ask me?"
"Not really." He turned his back toward him, pulling up the bedspread closer. "Get some rest, Lancer. Thank you for waking me up."
"Of course." Lancer stood up, still looking a little uncertain.
"Um, my lord?"
"Yeah?"
Lancer hesitated. "I do not mind answering any questions you might have. It seems that you and I had similar experiences, after all."
Waver sat back up. "How did you-"
"Er, I don't think you meant to, my lord, but you were speaking to me telepathically."
"You're kidding."
Lancer smiled apologetically and sat back next to him.
"I believe I understand the question you want to ask," Lancer said, finally. "It is true, I was rather shy as a youth. But I made many friends later."
"How?" Waver said, before he could stop himself. Lancer smiled warmly.
"By fighting side by side, and protecting and helping my comrades, I was able to call the Knights of Fianna my brothers."
"What about your hand?" Waver said. Lancer laughed, warmly.
"My lord. No one cared much about my hand, other than that our elbows occasionally knocked into each other's while eating at the table."
"You fought them, right?" Waver said, and Waver could see Lancer's smile fade. His eyes darkened a little at the memory.
"Yes," Lancer said, softly, and he turned to look at him. "It is true I crossed weapons with my friends. And to them I did nothing but bare my fangs."
Waver could imagine it, the pain and horror of spilling the blood of his friends. But it was more than that - he thought of the ostracism of Lancer's childhood, and knew full well how important the Knights of Fianna must have been to him. They were the first group to truly accept him: he had finally found a place where he belonged, and yet, in the end, he was forced to betray them.
Family, acceptance, loyalty, or love. It finally dawned on Waver just how terrible the choice must have been for him.
"I'm sorry," Waver said. Lancer shook his head.
"Do not be," Lancer said. He smiled, reassuringly. "The whole of my life was not full of suffering and anguish only. I have many happy memories as well."
"Of you and Grainne?"
"Indeed." Lancer smiled.
Earlier that night, Waver had watched as Lancer trained with his new sword. "Beautiful" wasn't the word that came to mind when Waver thought of fighting, but as he watched Lancer, whose movements were imbued with grace and poise and practiced motion, the glint of his blade like whitecaps on a stream of swirling water, he thought to himself that there really was no other way to describe it, so entranced was he by the liquid ease of Lancer's motions, or the quiet grace with which he swung his sword. He thought of this now as he watched him, sitting quietly at the edge of the bed, the image of twin lances tearing through the men he once called friends. Waver looked at Lancer quietly and frowned.
"Ne, Lancer?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"If we win the Grail...don't you think...I mean...don't you see yourself wishing to do it over?"
Waver looked up at him, wonderingly. Lancer gave him a small, sad smile.
"I harbor no ill will toward anybody. But fate simply was too cruel."
