Hello, thanks for clicking on my little story! This is my very first time writing in English, it's not my first language, so please, if you see spelling mistakes, be kind. If you have watched the show closely, you will certainly find some inconsistencies here and there but, considering the show itself does not make much sense either, I think it's not all that important.
I really like the Weeping Monk's character so I have decided to give him a little backstory. There will of course be spoilers so if you've not finished the show, I suggest that you do before reading. I've already written most of this story so if you like it, leave a review and I'll post the next chapters soon.
Enjoy!
He used to bring me walnuts he would find in the forest. He would come to my little house in the late evening, his trousers stained with mud, and offer them to me like they were the greatest present anyone could ever give. He liked his walnuts; they were the very same shade as his eyes. He would pick them up from beneath the great trees that loomed over the forest surrounding our village. He was brave, far braver than me who never dared to go deep enough into the maze of huge trunks, mossy rocks and thorny bushes to even get a look at the walnut trees.
When he smiled, and he often did, his face would light up and a joyful grin would flourish, splitting his round cheeks with childish dimples. I liked his smile quite a lot, it made my stomach go fuzzy and my neck grow warm. I did not question, back then, why he would bring me such gifts. I would just accept them and when our small hands would touch when passing the precious cargo, I would blush slightly. After his daily visit, he would leave quickly, saying he had other matters to attend to, which was a ridiculous thing to say for a seven-year-old boy. He never forgot to wave one final time before leaving my parents' small plot of land and I always eagerly waved back.
I would sometimes go to his hut and we would play in the many trees that grew around his abandoned garden while singing songs to the wind and to the birds that nested on the highest branches, far from our reach. He was agile and strong, his unruly curls turning a delicate shade of gold when the sun hit them in a certain way. He was proud of the way his skin, the most sensitive of the tribe, the Ancients would say, turned green almost instantly when he touched leaves or brown when he touched bark. Mine did not react so quickly, for I was not entirely fae, but I was not jealous. Seeing small vines and foliage dance on his hands was such a beautiful sight that I could not feel envy, only wonder. To me, he was the most precious thing in the world. He was to me like the sun to a flower; indispensable.
But, one day, he did not come to my house. The sun went down and disappeared behind the horizon, and still, he had not come. His hut was empty, small pots smashed on the floor, linens and sheets scattered around the living quarters; there had been a fight there and for once, I was not sure that he had prevailed. He had not been seen for hours and none knew where he was. I looked for him everywhere except in the forest where I still dared not go.
He never came to see me that evening. But the men in the robes did. They emerged from the tree line, their long robes flapping with each step they took. They looked like the demons from the story the Ancients used to tell us, the ones that came from the deepest hell and were messengers for the Shadow lords. There were dozens of them, some old, some young, but all carried weapons. Their sharp blades shone bright in the dying light and their eyes held an evil, delirious gleam.
They tore through the unsuspecting village like a knife in butter. They swung their blades left and right, stabbed and slashed until their robes turned red and the screams stopped. Blood littered the streets and formed sticky pools in the mud. The air was heavy with the pungent smell of death. I could not see my parents, hidden as I was beneath an overturned cart but I could hear their agonizing screams.
I felt the taste of their burned flesh on my tongue when the robed man lit them on fire. I wanted to move but my legs would not work and my feet stayed glued to the ground. I realised then how powerless I was, how utterly useless. He would have known what to do, he would have taken my hand and told me how to save my family. I was sure of it. But he was not there.
I waited for hours. The sun broke through a patch of heavy clouds, bathing the now silent village in an unforgiving light. Most of the blood had dried by then and the demons were long gone. As I clumsily walked through the streets, I could feel the lifeless stares of all the people I had ever known follow me, judging me, blaming me for being alive when they were not. There was the baker, his guts spilled, his mouth still opened in a muted scream. There was the seamstress who had made my dress, her throat cut, her face frozen in a plea for mercy. And there were my parents, unrecognizable, on the two wooden crosses they had been nailed upon before the men set them of fire.
The walnuts were burned and Lancelot and his golden curls were gone.