No. 5: I've got red in my ledger / betrayal / misunderstanding / broken nose

whumpee: Lancelot

It was a cold, frosty morning when Lancelot stepped over the eastern border into Camelot's lands once more. It had been years since Uther had banished him, and the embarrassment of being found out as a non-noble knight still haunted him some nights when he couldn't sleep and his mind decided to entertain him with his failings.

He took a deep breath and watched the sun rise against the mountains of Isgaard. Perhaps Uther was gone, and Arthur reigned again – he didn't know how or why, but he felt this urge to try to return to Camelot once more and see his dear friend Merlin. He had gotten a few letters to Camelot, but it was hard to be on the move for so long.

Lancelot walked for most of the day, only stopping once in a while to relieve himself, drink water from a stream, and eat some berries he had found. He missed Cole, his old mount, who he had to give away to an old farming couple just after he left Camelot the first time. Especially at that point, he had barely enough food for himself, let alone another animal.

The day quickly warmed up and Lancelot trudged on, metal armor glinting in the sunlight. The sunlight got less and less as the forest became thicker, and his pace slowed down as he was constantly getting stuck in the brambles. Without him realizing it until it was right in front of him, a cave rose out of the ground to his right. He could see a fire just inside, and realized with a start that it was darker than usual. He needed to get to shelter, and quickly.

When Lancelot first entered the cave, the fire looked as though it had been left unattended. As the shadows grew, he realized that he had walked right into a trap.

"Well, lookee there, boys, seems we caught ourselves a knight," a long-haired moustached man drawled. Lancelot barely stiffened when he heard the words and smelled the ale on Moustache's breath. He seemed to be the leader, as the other four men were lurking in the background like wolves: lean, muscley men with feral snarls on their faces.

"I'm not a knight," he said, trying to loosen up his proper accent. "Just a traveller passing through."

"Oi, he's not a knight!" Moustache repeated. "Ay, you are, actually, you are, yup. Y'look like one and y'talk like one, all proper-like, and y'prolly fight like one, too!" And with that, Moustache pulled a sharp sword and started waving it like a flag. Lancelot had no choice but to pull his prized blade out, and he focused on the defensive maneuvers he'd learned through his years of being a swordsman. He had one focus: get out of the caves and back onto the trail, dark and damp night be damned. He was too tired to play any of Moustache's games.

The cave was darker near the entrance, and Lancelot couldn't risk taking his eyes off of Moustache's blade for more than a few seconds so he could make sure the footing was where he needed to be. It was during one of these glances, no more than 3 seconds, when multiple things happened at once: his foot fell into a small dip of the rock, he felt his ankle roll, pain shot up his leg, and he felt Moustache's blade pierce the side of his cheek. With a cry, Lancelot fell down, immediately focusing on getting back up – but Moustache found his opportunity. He hit Lancelot full in the face, and the crack of his nose breaking echoed around the entire cave. Lancelot pushed through the pain, throwing some dust and dirt into Moustache's face with his short knife into Moustache's side, and made a running limp towards the entrance.

Lancelot's last recollection of the event was hearing Moustache's keening shout. "Git 'em, ya bastards!". And he ran.

Through brambles and bushes, around trees, over roots… Lancelot only had one goal, and it was to get as far away from Moustache and his men as possible. He knew he couldn't run forever, and his eyes were constantly scanning the darkened landscape while his ears were fully focused on the men tracking him. Blood kept trickling into his mouth from his cheek slice, his nose felt all fuzzy, and his vision was starting to blur. Suddenly, a hand shot out and grabbed him, pulling him off-balance into a small leafy pit. Another grubby hand was pushed to his mouth as a young child, no more than 12, frantically started to shush him. Lancelot's vision blurred even more, and his head had a hard time with catching up to his now horizontal state. His eyes slowly blinked, registering the group of five children or so watching him, before the gray and black took over.

When Lancelot awoke, it was in the early morning stages before the sun came up. The frosty ground had started to make itself known, and he shot up, remembering Moustache. In doing so, he dislodged four children of various shapes, sizes, and ages who had been snuggling together around him for warmth.

"SHHH!" the one keeping watch was quick to shush the melee of elbows and harrumphs. "Millinor can't find us!"

Once the group had sorted itself out again and was sleepily reforming its warmth huddle, Lancelot crept over to the blond watchman (watch-child?) with a sheepish smile. "Hi, I'm Lancelot."

"Edwin," was the succinct answer before focusing back on the forest around them, spear at his side. "We patched up your cheek as best we could, but it's worth another check in the daylight. Sorry 'bout your nose." The kid was not going to make any history books for being verbose. "Feel free to leave whenever you'd like."

Lancelot was confused. What was a small tribe of children doing on the forest floor? He looked around for any sort of camp or belongings other than the small packs a few of them used as pillows. "Where are your parents? Do they know you're here, or is there anywhere I could take you?"

Edwin sighed, the weight of responsibility and old memories weighing him down. "They're dead, or gone to Camelot for work. Millinor and his gang came through the area right after they left, and we saw the rest of the camp become killed or rounded up to be sold as slaves." His jaw set. "They won't take us if they can't find us, and so it's important that we not be found."

With a sad, heavy sigh, Lancelot understood all too well. Uther didn't show a lot of attention to the outlying border villages, and so the slave trade still ran uncontrolled and rampant. These children had already seen a lifetime of violence, and he wasn't about to risk them seeing any more. Through the sharp pains in his nose, Lancelot was able to fully register a key fact. "This Millinor", he started, "does he have a large moustache?" Edwin nodded. "Then I may have killed him, or wounded him, last night – when I got this," he motioned a bit dejectedly toward his face. "To my knowledge, his men are still out there – they might be looking for a new leader, or they might try to elect one of themselves for leader."

With that news, Edwin allowed a small hopeful smile. "Millinor was their only leader," he said. "The others were pretty dumb – one wore a shirt backwards for a whole week without realizing!" he started to giggle at the memory, and for a split second, sounded like a child again before immediately sobering up and going back to being too old for his age. He offered a tiny hand to Lancelot. "Thank you," he said. "Perhaps we'll meet again."

With a smile, Lancelot shook his hand, pledging internally to himself that he'd make that a priority. When Arthur created the Knights of the Round Table, Lancelot found himself regularly riding back near the Forest of Isgaard, until he found a village of 30 people or so. Between some of the adults working, he spotted a few teenagers with homemade spears patrolling the outskirts of the village. Between his visits, Lancelot gave them food during wintertime, extra seeds in the spring, and even some pointers on their fighting stance with the spears.

-Fin-