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Chapter 3

After his round with the wilddeoran, Lancelot went back to fighting his opponents and giving a good show. It grated on him, but the fact that he won most of his fights meant he didn't end up on Sagra's table very often. He hated it, though, hated inflicting pain and suffering on other prisoners for no other reason than to spare himself the same. But it wasn't like his opponents were holding back in the cage; all of them were equally driven to fight with savage ferocity in the attempt to win. It really was fight to kill in there. Or, to almost kill. Instant death blows were not allowed, but other wounds that would normally be fatal were, as long as there was enough time for the prisoner to be taken to the sorcerer's chambers to be healed. Lancelot learned to start leaving his tunic behind in his cell so it didn't accumulate any more tears.

There was one fighter Lancelot had yet to beat, the current reigning champion who decimated every opponent in the cage. He was covered in scars and fought like a raging bear but never spoke a word. None of the other prisoners even knew his name, he'd been there that long. The guards always simply called him The Beast. And that was how he acted, though whether he'd come to them like that or his time in this place had changed him into the animal he was treated as, Lancelot didn't know.

The hours and days passed in monotonous regularity: fight, eat, sleep, fight again. Then one day two prisoners were taken to the cage and neither returned. Murmurs and speculation rippled among the other prisoners, who normally didn't bother carrying on a conversation with each other. Even Lancelot had been there long enough to know this was unusual, though he had no idea what it could mean.

Finally the guards came and took two more fighters for their turn in the cage. No one bothered asking them what had happened, but when Yvailf returned victorious, he stayed on his feet in his cell until the guards had departed, then pitched his voice loud enough to carry without drawing the attention of their wardens.

"It seems Barad and Horath had worked out a suicide pact. They attempted to deliver death blows simultaneously during their fight. But only Barad managed to die. Horath was taken to Sagra and healed."

There was a chorus of grim whispers and muttered curses at the news.

Lancelot felt a pang of grief, though he didn't know Barad personally. Any loss of life in these circumstances was tragic, though. "If Horath was healed, why wasn't he brought back here?"

Yvailf gave Lancelot a grim look. "He's being punished."

Lancelot dropped his gaze at that. Right, don't kill your opponent.

When it came time for Lancelot's next fight, he walked into the great hall, only to pull up short at the sight of Horath, strung up on the far wall, his arms and legs splayed outward and bound with rope. His torso was covered with dozens of cuts and there was even a knife hilt sticking out of his rib cage that juddered with each shuddering breath.

A guard shoved Lancelot from behind, and he stumbled toward the cage, taking the sword at the door before stepping inside. His gaze kept straying back to Horath and the barbaric savagery. The man had failed in his attempt to die and was now suffering horribly for it.

Lancelot's opponent entered the cage and he had to wrench his attention back to the fight. He was distracted, though, every time he circled around and got a full view of Horath hanging there on the wall. Lancelot earned a few shallow cuts for his lapses but he eventually delivered a deep slice across his opponent's side that brought him down. The spectators roared.

Lancelot returned to his cell where he had to sit with the discomfort of his injuries. Minor ones were left alone unless they became infected; then he'd get a trip to Sagra to take care of it. Or if he lost his next fight and needed healing, everything would get mended in one go. It was nearly impossible to go unscathed for long.

Horath was eventually returned to his cell, oddly on his feet given his treatment of the last few days, though there was an emptiness in his eyes and an almost drunken lurch to his gait. He didn't speak and no one tried to engage with him.

The cycle continued on and on with no end and no respite. Lancelot couldn't see any opportunity for escape. Even if he could get away from the guards before they incapacitated him with the sigil, the fortress inside the mountain was like a labyrinth, and the only paths Lancelot knew by heart were to and from the dungeon to the cage and Sagra's chambers. He'd be lost if he tried to escape and caught for certain. No, help would have to come from the outside.

But therein lay the grim reality that they were so deeply cloistered underground that there was almost no hope of his fellow knights finding him here. Lancelot wanted to believe in miracles, wanted to believe that maybe Merlin could figure something out with his magic. But the more time that passed, the more he began to feel such slim hope draining away and despair taking root.

One day a new prisoner arrived and was thrown into the cell across from Lancelot's. He was a young man with floppy dark hair, barely at his majority. He lay on the floor of his cell where he'd been thrown, shaking, no doubt from the effects of the fresh branding.

Lancelot got up and went to stand at the edge of his own cage. "What's your name?" he asked kindly.

The boy flicked a terrified look at him. "T-Tolu."

"My name is Lancelot." He glanced down the dungeon aisle to make sure the guards weren't nearby. "The pain will fade soon," he told the young man.

"Wh-what is this place?" he stammered.

"A slave fighting ring," Lancelot answered truthfully. "Have you any skill with a blade?"

Tolu looked at him with wide eyes, still lying on his side. "S-some."

Lancelot nodded. "They don't allow killing, so you don't have to worry about that. But the sorcerer, the one who did the branding, he can heal severe injuries, so the fights get pretty brutal."

Tolu stared up at him in horror.

Lancelot sighed. He'd wanted to prepare the boy so he wouldn't be caught off guard, but mostly he'd just served to frighten him more. He thought to offer some measure of encouragement next in the face of Tolu's new reality, but the truth was there wasn't much to be had in this place. So Lancelot retreated to the back of his cell and gave the boy space to recover and collect himself.

Several hours later, or maybe it was the next day, the guards came for their newest fighter to test his mettle. Tolu cowered in the back of his cell as the guards opened his door.

Lancelot got to his feet. "He'll go peacefully," he said, remembering his first orientation to the fight ring. "You don't need to hurt him."

One of the guards shot him a disparaging look and reached up to touch his pendant. The sigil on Lancelot's chest erupted in agony, yet he managed to keep his feet as he rode out the pain. Tolu's scream reverberated through the dungeon as his sigil was activated as well. Lancelot's cut off, and he heard the guards telling Tolu that was a warning and he should do as he was told. The poor lad was too terrified and shaky to get up, so the guards had to go in and drag him out. Once they were gone, Lancelot went back to slump against the wall.

"That was stupid," Mekin upbraided him.

"The boy didn't deserve it," Lancelot replied. But he supposed Mekin was right; the guards were going to demonstrate their power upfront to dissuade disobedience down the line.

As with Lancelot's first fight, Tolu came back later than his opponent, with a fresh tear in his shirt and scar across his chest. He was still shaking as he crawled toward the back of his cage and curled in on himself. Lancelot waited a few moments before shuffling over to the bars and leaning against them.

"Where are you from, Tolu?"

The boy jerked his head up, eyes wide with shock. "Wh-what?"

"I'm from Camelot. Where are you from?"

Tolu flicked a frightened glance down the aisle toward where the guards were collecting their next fighters for the cage. "Me-Mercia."

"Do you have family?"

Tolu gave a jerky nod. "My parents and two sisters."

Lancelot smiled. "Younger or older?"

"Younger." The young man's face scrunched up in anguish. "My father injured his leg, so it fell to me to take our crops to the next village to trade. But I was attacked. And now they'll never know what happened to me…"

"Tolu," Lancelot said firmly. "You mustn't give up hope. Tell me about your sisters."

Tolu swiped the back of his hand under his nose and angled himself a little more toward Lancelot. "Well, Melia is only a year younger than me, but Celia is three years younger." He let out a broken chuckle. "They both drive me crazy."

"As sisters are wont to do," Lancelot replied, nodding for him to go on.

Mekin shifted next door and Lancelot prayed the man would hold his peace. The boy needed this. But either the hardened fighter was too disinterested or he'd found a sliver of humanity, for he didn't lob any scathing remarks Tolu's way.

"Keep holding onto those memories," Lancelot told the lad after he'd shared more about his family. "Fight for them."

Tolu's gaze turned thoughtful for a moment, and then he nodded.

Lancelot rested his head against the bars and thought of his own friends, his own found brotherhood. Not only were those memories reasons to keep fighting to survive, but they were all they had in this place to remember their own humanity.

.o.0.o.

Merlin stood on the hilltop under a waxing moon, waiting. A shadow briefly blocked it out as Kilgharrah swooped overhead and came in to land.

"Anything?" Merlin asked desperately.

"I'm afraid not," the Great Dragon replied.

Merlin's shoulders sagged. Kilgharrah and Aithusa had searched high and low throughout the land, as had every knight in Camelot. And Lancelot was still nowhere to be found. Merlin didn't know what to do anymore. It had been over a month.

"It is a tragic loss," the dragon spoke again. "You should mourn for your friend rather than cling to useless hope."

Merlin drew his shoulders back. "I will never give up hope," he declared angrily.

But just as quickly as his fiery response came, it fizzled out. Because the hard fact of the matter was hope was all any of them had left. And it was a failing hope. They'd exhausted their search two times over, and there was no sign of their friend anywhere. Lancelot was lost.

Merlin turned and made his way back to the castle, passing through the citadel gate as dawn broke across the sky. He wandered the corridors idly, too restless to sleep, too exhausted to do anything else. He passed by the council chambers and saw Arthur through the partially open door. Apparently he had been up all night as well.

Merlin pushed the door open with a creak, and Arthur looked up from the maps on the table.

"I have to call off the search," he said hollowly. "There's nothing more we can do."

"I know."

Arthur ran a hand down his face. "No funeral pyre. I'm not declaring him dead, not without proof."

Merlin just nodded.

"I want a memorial," Arthur went on. "Something to show we haven't given up hope."

Merlin nodded again. "I'll arrange something."

Later that afternoon, the court and knights and everyone from the lower town assembled in the main courtyard as a pole was erected on one end of the square.

"We grieve the loss of Sir Lancelot," Arthur said, projecting his voice throughout the quad. "But we have not given up hope that he is still out there somewhere. And so we light this lantern so that it will burn without ceasing, not only in honor of our lost friend, but as a beacon of hope that he may yet find his way home."

Merlin's throat threatened to close up at Arthur's speech, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to carry the lantern forward. Raising his hand, he brought forth flame into his palm, then transferred it to the lantern casing. The magic fire needed no wick or oil to burn, and would remain lit until Merlin took it down or the world itself perished in fire and water.

He passed the lantern to Leon, who used a long hook to lift it up and place it on the notch on the pole. Everyone bowed their heads in silence, except for Merlin, who moved his gaze around. Gwen and Elyan were standing close to Percival, Gwen holding tight to the large knight's hand as he stood in stoic grief. Everyone else stood in solemn silence, and while Arthur had been adamant this wasn't a funeral…it still felt like one.

Merlin turned his gaze up to the flame dancing inside the paned glass, which was little more than a paltry offering to a friend he'd utterly failed.

And while that fire would burn with all their hopes, they now had to figure out how to go on without it. Without Lancelot.