The ceremony had been formal, somber, and silent, a contrast to the turbulent emotions on the watchers' faces as they dispersed. Most shuffled away to privately nurse their pains, but a few remained, among them Berimund's firstborn son. Watkin knelt as close as he could without being singed, down on one knee, head bowed, shoulders shaking ever so slightly. Berimund stood behind him and laid a hand on the crown of his head.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, the comfort small and weak and wholly inadequate, the stale platitude the only thing he could think to utter in such a dark moment. His gaze moved to the bier once more, and his mind to a memory of the man it burned for...
"Excuse me. I don't mean to intrude, but I believe you are Berimund."
Berimund had just finished assigning the duties of his new roster to the guards under his command. For a month now he had been the officer in charge of the west wing of the citadel, and had redistributed the guards after a recent reevaluation of security. He turned to see Sir Lancelot, one of Arthur's newest knights and a commoner.
So much had occurred in such a short time. The Lady Morgana had been taken from them for almost a year, and when she had been found there had been great rejoicing in her return. Little did they know she had been twisted by evil. With Cenred's army and the witch Morgause at her back, she had initiated a coup. Berimund had spent the duration in the cells of the dungeon with all the other guards that had survived the fight to take the citadel. He didn't lay eyes on Morgana once. He sometimes wondered how she could have turned so viciously upon them. Uther had loved her as his own. Magic was the only explanation.
In spite of the forces that supported her, she had been defeated after a short time. Prince Arthur had escaped her take over and recovered his kingdom, quite handily as the stories said. Uther was broken after, and Berimund felt a twinge of pity every time their king came to mind. He could only imagine what it would do to him if one of his own children turned on him so. At least, the Lady Morgana claimed to be Uther's child when she assumed the throne. Lively debates among the people still popped up now and then concerning her parentage.
"I am, Sir Knight," Berimund replied.
"Just call me Lancelot," the dark haired man smiled kindly. Berimund hadn't interacted much with the new knights yet, but every time he did felt happily at ease. Without the barriers of nobility between them, he seemed to be more respected. "I wished to speak to you," the knight glanced around, "privately."
Berimund bobbed his head and motioned to the hall. They settled in a solitary alcove. "Do you have a task for me?"
Lancelot smiled again and shook his head. "It's more personal."
"Oh?" Berimund raised an eyebrow. If Lancelot had come to him in need, he couldn't fathom why. The man was considered Arthur's best knight―highly skilled, dependable, and even better, humble. He'd already gained the praises of most men in Camelot despite the status of his birth. Well, perhaps not some of the younger men; he'd captured the admiration of too many young ladies.
"It concerns your son." Lancelot's dark eyes searched Berimund's, calculating a response, and even though the soldier tried not to, he bristled all the same.
Watkin had desired the life of a knight since a child, and after Morgana's attack, had spent even more time hanging around the training grounds. Elyan had invited him there, taught him some new skills, and that was fine with Berimund. Until Watkin began to talk of the prince opening knighthoods to other commoners, expressing his intention to try out, and Berimund had argued against it.
His objections were sound. Watkin hadn't been a squire of any kind, and he'd come of age, too old to begin. Of course, his boy argued back it didn't matter, that Prince Arthur's chosen knights were young as he and hadn't been squires either. Berimund countered with his apprenticeship, and Watkin ranted over his disdain for carpentry, how he wouldn't ever be happy pursuing it further. Anything Berimund said after that was met with stony silence.
"I'm not normally one to interfere with a man's affairs. I apologize if approaching you is an offense."
The knight's apology disarmed Berimund. "It's not an offense."
"I've spent time with Watkin," Lancelot went on, assuming Berimund's reply granted him a hearing. "He has a natural talent for swordsmanship. I've been impressed as have many of the others. Even Arthur has mentioned him."
Berimund couldn't help pride welling in his chest, but his resistance wasn't toppled. "He's surprised even me sometimes, but I've never wanted him to be a soldier."
"Why not?" Lancelot's question contained no challenge, just a desire to understand.
"May I speak freely?"
Lancelot raised a willing hand. "Nothing we say between us will pass my lips."
"For a long time, our prince was not so noble."
Lancelot slowly grinned. "I've heard stories."
"I can't guarantee all of them are true," Berimund hurriedly amended, "but he wasn't a prince I wanted my son beholden to."
"And now?"
"Prince Arthur has changed much since his childhood and youth. Still, Watkin's been apprenticed under a carpenter since he was ten. It's a solid craft and he's good at it. To waste all these years isn't right. We've already discussed him opening his own shop."
"But he doesn't want to," Lancelot's soft voice countered.
"He's told you that?"
"Only me. We've come to know each other quite well."
Berimund stared. He hadn't known that. He'd thought Watkin stuck more to Elyan and sometimes Leon, of course, their family knight.
"We have much in common. He's longed to be a knight like I once did. I never thought it possible, and yet, here I am."
Berimund crossed his arms over his chest. "So you're appealing to me so I agree to let him seek knighthood."
"More than that. I would like permission to train him and make him my squire. You might think him too old for the role, but he'll be more than my shield bearer and armor polisher. I think with practice, he could take a place among the rest of Arthur's knights within a year."
Berimund didn't answer, his heart racing. He hadn't confessed the deeper reason he didn't wish Watkin to be knighted, the reason he couldn't even admit to himself―fear. He put his own life at risk protecting the castle at times, but the knights? They risked themselves far more often and many had died during Berimund's years of service.
Lancelot leaned back against one wall of the alcove, folding his own arms. "My father and mother were killed when our village was ransacked by raiders. I held my mother's hand and watched the light of life fade from her eyes. I would have died beside her like my father, but her last words begged me to flee. So I did." Lancelot's eyes had moistened. Berimund held his breath.
"I spent years studying sword craft," the knight went on, "to right such evils in our world. Prince Arthur has seen fit to make me the man I've ever wanted to be. He craves justice and protects his people, whatever their position."
Berimind nodded, assenting. The prince had taken up regency since his father hardly had his wits these days. He had led them well, with honor and courage and self-sacrifice.
"Watkin's talked of you and his mother, his brothers and sisters. It isn't just glory he seeks. He wants to protect his own home and his kingdom. And like me, the fire is in his heart. I do not think you will ever be able to put it out."
Berimund considered the young knight for a time. A few years before he had come to their lands and saved them from a Griffin. He'd been exiled then for lying about being noble. Berimund might have counted that against him, but the young man had acknowledged his fault and accepted its consequence. He had ridden away from them. But everyone now knew that one failing had been just that. This man was an exemplary knight of Camelot.
Berimund sighed. "I see why our prince has chosen you as a knight. Not for just your sword arm, but your skilled tongue as well."
Lancelot's small smile evidenced his humility. "I never thought I had much of a way with words."
"Don't sell yourself so short, Sir Knight...Lancelot." Berimund uncrossed his arms. "I know Watkin's heart. From a young age he's been bent towards taking up the defenses of the helpless."
"He will be a fine knight. I vow to treat him well. You need not fear for him in my hands."
Berimund pursed his lips. How could he not give in now? "Should you tell him or I?"
Lancelot openly smiled and held out his hand. "I think he'd like to hear it from his father." They shared a tight wrist grip...
As Berimund recalled Watkin's overwhelming joy and whoop at the news he'd be allowed to pursue knighthood, his eyes sought out the objects atop the bier darkening in the flames. Not a body, but only a red cape and a sword. Lancelot's.
Almost two weeks ago, otherworldly spirits had infiltrated their lands, translucent white horrors who killed in the moment it took to pass through living flesh. His family had found refuge in the citadel―Miriella, Tamas, Nora, Helene and her chubby little babe along with her husband's family. All except Watkin. His oldest had stayed outside, a torch in hand, fighting off spirits and rescuing those in danger.
Lancelot, Prince Arthur, and his closest knights had departed to discover the source of the curse on their lands. It wasn't until they returned without Lancelot that the true sacrifice for their salvation had become known―the best knight had consigned himself to death, crossing the veil between the living and the dead to seal up the rift between the two.
Berimund's own eyes grew clouded. The man had been true to his word, dying as he'd lived. That this man had chosen Watkin, had seen in his son a heart like his, Berimund couldn't feel more honored even in his grief.
"Watkin," a kind voice spoke. Berimund was shaken out of his reverie to behold Elyan crouched at Watkin's left side, Leon on his right, both with hands on his shoulders. "Lancelot talked of you the night before...he left us," Elyan revealed. "Asked us to see to you. I think he may have known he wouldn't return." The dark eyed knight shared a glance with Leon. Leon wrapped an arm around Watkin's shoulders, encouraging him to stand.
Berimund nodded to Leon as their knight glanced at him, and they walked the boy towards the barracks. As Berimund watched them go, intent on comforting his son despite their own sharp mourning, he thought Prince Arthur's knights were the most noble of the Five Kingdoms.
"Berimund."
Berimund pivoted in surprise to find Prince Arthur standing beside him. "Sire." He bowed his head.
"Your son will be looked after. I'll see to it personally."
"I am grateful, my lord." For this courtesy and your heart and the man you've become.
"Even though...I doubt any of us can replace such a man as Lancelot." The prince's eyes had focused on Watkin being guided by Elyan and Leon.
"I believe, sire, that there is not one man among your knights who is not as good as Sir Lancelot...including yourself."
Prince Arthur rolled his gaze to him, unshed tears glazing his eyes. "Perhaps," he murmured. He bowed his head and moved away.
Berimund pondered as his gaze followed the prince's steps to the citadel entrance. Lancelot had paid for them with his life, but it wouldn't have been his prominent duty. He'd sworn to protect the prince, following his orders, and Berimund couldn't believe Prince Arthur would demand another do what he could do himself. What if there were more to the story? What if their prince had meant to sacrifice himself and Lancelot had gotten in the way?
Berimund let his eyes fall on the bier once more. May Heaven preserve your soul, Sir Lancelot, and make those of us who must live without you as good as you have been.