† Day 25 †
Lancelot learned to hate the island. He hated the pale sun and the tasteless air, he hated the black waters and the mist hovering above the surface whenever he dared to venture too far from shore. The ever-same days and the waves washing against the beach at the ever-same pace, silent but the only way for him to tell the time until the sun disappeared from one moment to the next. A strange aura of darkness and deception radiated from the castle ruins, and every morning a cold clung to his bones and a foreignness to his thoughts he could not explain. But no matter how much he hated the island, he learned to adjust and held his head above water.
The Lady's idea of training him consisted of little more than watching while Lancelot trained by himself. She never corrected his stance or gave advice on how to wield his weapon like Jericho used to. But whenever he was tired of the same combinations and about to hurl the sword into the sand, she pressed him to continue. Without so much words than a gesture of her hands, she chased him knee-deep into the water to repeat the chain of strikes until his muscles quivered, and he couldn't have held onto the sword if the hilt were his only lifeline.
And although the grueling hours of training without apparent sense tore him towards the breaking point multiple times, he had to admit that the result made up for the exhaustion. Every day, he held on for a little longer, every day he sharpened the precision of his moves, and every day Jericho's sword felt a little lighter in his hands until it responded to his thoughts with the same obedience as his fingers.
On the morning of the twenty-fifth day, the sword disappeared.
All remains of sleepiness fell off of him as Lancelot failed to feel the leather hilt beside him. He had placed the weapon next to him as he did every evening, but his resting spot beneath a half-destroyed archway, only held upright by goodwill, was vacant of the glistering of metal.
Lancelot crossed his arms and made a face. Fine then. If the Lady liked to play games, he would play with her. But he would make his own rules. If she expected him to meet her unarmed, she would be sorely disappointed.
He picked two stones of decent size and form from the pile of scree beside the nearest moss-covered wall and busied himself with sharpening their tips while he made his way through the ruins. Finding a branch that suited his needs proved a little trickier, but at the foot of an ancient oak tree, he discovered a bough that lay right in his hands once he removed the smaller twigs. As for a cord, he was out of luck. During his previous explorations of the island, he had come across nothing human made beyond the stone monuments themselves, no abandoned camps, no hidden vaults filled with treasures beneath the roofless castle halls, not even the head of an arrow left behind by whoever had last lived in these ruins.
But trouble was the master of ingenuity, and so Lancelot ripped a stripe from his tunic and used the piece of cloth to attach the sharper of his two stones to the end of the branch. His mother would scold him for ruining his best outfit, and a gift from uncle Harlequin on top, but Lancelot would rather stomach her angry tirade than an encounter with the Lady of the Lake unarmed.
He spun the spear around its axis a couple times, satisfied with the result. The weapon paled in comparison to the one he had wielded in Benwick, but for all he knew, the Lady had eaten the thing from butt to head. And she had unfortunately not dropped sick from the less than tasty meal.
The fine contours of the bark hugged his fingertips and transported him back to a forest where the light had filtered through vibrant leaves to color the metal spearhead in green hues as he let the weapon perform artistic maneuvers in his hands.
"What you have there?"
Lancelot jumped, and the spear nearly escaped his palm before he hid the weapon behind his back. "Nothing."
Jericho raised a brow. "That thing is a little unhandy for a five-year-old, don't you think? How did you get your hands on this anyway?"
"I won it. Will you tell my parents, Miss Jericho?"
"First off, drop that Miss Jericho act asap, it makes me feel like a grandma. And second, I will most definitely tell them all about your little secret… unless you're being honest with me and explain how exactly you won that spear."
Lancelot shuffled his feet across the mossy ground. "Today started out as a terrible day. The other Fairies had a picnic up in one of the great trees. But they didn't climb there, they were flying! One of them offered to lift me up. Lift me up! As if I couldn't achieve anything by myself. So I told them that they were all stupid and walked to the edge of the forest. The Fairies don't like to go there because they are boring and stupid. And there I found a group of four knights. Real knights! Can you believe it? They were so much more honorable than my father, they would never slack off during duty. They answered all my questions too. And when one of them suggested to pass the time with a javelin contest, they let me join. That's how I won the spear: I beat all four of them. I think they were really impressed by me. They patted me on the back like they would do with a grownup."
A grin spread across Jericho's face. "And now you wanna be a knight like them."
Lancelot nodded. "That's why I'm training."
"Okay, then let me see what you got."
Lancelot's gaze shot from the spear in his hands to Jericho in search of a trap behind her words. She behaved more like a knight than his father, but this was a low bar to leap over, and why should she care about his passion more than the others? But he only found an encouraging smile in her face.
With a deep breath and a puffed chest, Lancelot assumed the normal position and pulled his arm behind his back. Then he arced his right foot, spun counterclockwise, and hurled the spear forward, through the nearest tree and a hundred yards further where it disappeared between the foliage. A gathering of songbirds fled to they sky under outraged chirps.
Jericho stared at the splintered remains of the tree. "Jeez, you're scary. How about you don't play around with sharp weapons until you're a little older?"
"But—"
"No, I won't have that discussion with you. Not for any amount of puppy eyes in this world. When you fetch that spear, you will go straight to your father, tell him everything you just told me, and you will hand him this thing without complaint."
"But—"
"Without complaint. And once you're done with that, how about we meet back up here. Even the best of knights started with a mentor, someone to guide them so that they don't run amuck on the unsuspecting Fairies bustling all about Benwick. What do you say?"
Lancelot gawked at Jericho as though he saw her for the first time. She supported him. She actually and without a hint of deception aimed to support him. Through her, he could become a knight, the best knight Benwick had ever seen.
"Yes, yes, yes please," Lancelot said and hopped up and down. "I mean… I would be honored, Miss Jericho."
Jericho threw her hands in the air. "Not this again! Okay, how about we just go with big sister, or something short like that."
"If you will be my teacher, can I call you master? I heard the knights use this word for someone they respected."
"Fine then." Jericho sighed and ruffed his hair. "Now go to your father, and afterwards we can start your training."
Back then, the world had maintained a clear line between good and bad. And knights, more so than anyone else, stood on the right side.
His new weapon gave Lancelot the confidence to place his steps with a little less caution, but when he reached the spot at the shore where he trained, the Lady of the Lake was absent. In her stead, a human stood around dumbfounded. He sported a shabby doublet and an even shabbier beard, an old geezer by Lancelot's standards. A nasty scar ran across his face to complete his ragged appearance. But the man carried a sword at his side and therefore topped the list of the most pleasant sights he could have imagined. Aside from Jericho.
"Oh, thank the Goddesses, another human face," the man said as he noticed Lancelot. "Hey boy, what is this place here?"
Since Lancelot had no answer to that question, he asked one instead. "Did you come here through a gate in the rain?"
"What? Oh yeah, it was crazy. I've heard of these people disappearing, they can't keep it under wraps at this point, but the stories don't prepare you for the moment you stumble into one. A flash of light and, poof, I'm at this lake in the middle of nowhere. How long have you been here?"
"A few days."
Lancelot studied the man in search for a clue, a sign, something to explain why the man had landed here. Never before had the Lady allowed for him to engage in human contact, and she claimed to have access to other places where she held the disappeared captive. So why did the rules not apply to this man? Had the Lady made a mistake? Or was this a test in the same way as the disappearance of Jericho's sword?
"What's your name, stranger?" Lancelot asked.
"The name's Sir Iweret. I'm a knight of King Arthur of Camelot. You've heard of King Arthur, haven't you, boy?"
Lancelot jerked, and he nearly tripped in his efforts to get a closer look. "You're a knight?"
"Sure am, boy."
With his appearance and the way he held himself, Iweret bared little resemblance to other knights Lancelot had met. Jericho wore an aura of class and competence, not to mention the blinding personas of the Seven Deadly Sins. But all knights were heroes through and through, their title alone ensured their value and good intentions. Maybe his sudden teleportation had shaken Iweret a little. He would no doubt catch himself soon.
"What's it like to be a knight?" Lancelot asked. "Do you go on patrols often? Do you train every day? How many tournaments have you won?"
"What did I do to deserve this?" Iweret mumbled. "Look, I don't have time for your questions. All I care about is the fasted way to get out of here. I've got places to be, and the last thing I want is another brat who sings all the pretty platitudes about how fantastic the live as a knight must be."
Not the response Lancelot had expected. He brushed the bark of his spear and tried to harmonize Iweret with the picture of a knight Jericho and the higherups of Liones had painted. The result left more holes than similarities. "I apologize if my questions insulted you. It's just that I have heard a lot of stories about knights. I didn't intend to be a nuisance to you."
"Good, because unless you know a way to get me out of here, I'd appreciate your silence."
"But don't you want to save the other humans who were taken from Britannia? What about them?"
Iweret ground his jaw. His hand twitched. "I don't care about them. When push comes to shove, it's every man for himself. The moron who believes in loyalty on the battlefield will earn himself a sword right through his gut. You're a kid, you haven't seen the war. I watched these so-called heroes, the brave idiots of the world who looked after the innocent before they looked after themselves. They would always run headfirst at the Demons when they set a village aflame. You wanna know what their bravery got them? A premature death. Some got ripped to pieces by the claws of the Demons. The really unlucky ones had their souls plucked right out of their body. Gone, just like that. Their families received a medal after the fact, a piece of silver worth no more than a loaf of bread. I made it through the damned Holy War with its gods and heroes because I didn't give a damn about others. If you want some life advice, try to do the same."
A disgusting taste filled Lancelot's mouth. Nothing of what Iweret had said was worth a piece of garbage merchants sold to Benwick's Fairies. Ban had played the role as a hero, he had saved people, and he had helped to end the war. At first, Lancelot hadn't believed the stories either. But his father stood tall as the shining example of a knight, someone people admired and respected. Iweret failed to see the value of Ban's deeds because his own accomplishments paled in comparison.
"You're not a knight," Lancelot said and made a step back. "A knight puts others before himself and does everything to drive out the evildoers."
Iweret showed two rows of crooked teeth as he grinned. "But I am a knight, alright. I wouldn't call myself holy, but I went through the dubbing ceremony and the whole circus. For lousy payment and a frequent motivational speech about honor. Wake up, boy. Being a knight is only fun as long as someone else takes on the duties for you. As soon as the next skirmish calls, you're nothing but disposable cannon fodder for a king who could end the whole conflict at the turn of his hand if he bothered to stand up from his cushioned throne for once."
"Shut up! My father was a knight during the Holy War, and he did outstanding things. And now that he is a king, he would still stand in the first line to deflect an attack, no matter how strong the enemy is."
"That so?" The grin on Iweret's face widened. His right hand clawed as though he intended to strangle a small animal. "Then you must be that Demon halfling of Liones. No, wait, you're the Greed Sin's little bastard. I've heard the talk – you're not as pretty as I imagined, Fairy boy. But I must say, you've come at just the right moment. I've had a score to settle with your daddy ever since he laid waste to Baste Prison. Bet he forgot to mention how many lives his antics costed when he read you a bedtime story."
"You have no right to speak of him like this. My father is a hero."
"Well, congrats to you, little prince. I hope you'll realize how poorly you've placed your loyalty before you stand in the front line of daddy's little army. As a knight of Camelot, I'll look forward to meet you in the middle of the bloodbath. I wouldn't wanna miss out on that look on your face when all the stories your daddy told you about knights and heroes go up in smoke. Then again… I don't think you'll make it that far."
Iweret raised his hands, but before he placed a single step, a roar thundered through Lancelot's head, a voice loud and clear as the bells of Liones during Tristan's birthday.
LIAR.
A chill caught Lancelot's muscles, his breath stumbled in his throat, and out of the lake emerged the Lady. Her hands hovered still by her side and no wind disturbed her locks, but fear nevertheless consumed Iweret. He stumbled backwards with wide eyes and drew his sword. The blade trembled in the air.
"What is this devilry? Answer me, witch, did you bring me here?"
The Lady stood still. "You haven't been a knight of Camelot for a while, isn't it so?"
"And what's it to you?" Iweret spat out. An ill-placed spark of confidence entered his voice. "Fine, I quit Arthur's ranks because the way he treats his loyal subjects is unfitting for a king of his caliber. That witch, Merlin, has clouded his mind. I'm guessing she's a friend of yours…"
At the mention of the name Merlin, the water's surface around the Lady began to tremble. The air froze in Lancelot's lunges, and the shadows around him grew, stretched out their fangs, barking beasts about to swallow every living thing.
"Liar," the Lady of the Lake said, and the scree quaked under the might of her voice. Although she did not turn, Lancelot felt the weight of her hollow eyes on him. "He hasn't been a knight since Arthur banished him for his sins. Banishment! For a crime as ghastly as humans can imagine. You see, Lancelot, this man has killed his wife and children for no other reason than his amusement. And once the deed was done, he cut off their heads, placed them on the chairs around his table and proceeded to enjoy his meal. And yet, the sentence he received from Arthur read banishment. This man deserves no such mercy."
Lancelot's grip around his spear loosened. Jericho's voice recited the knight's creed in his head. Your eyes will judge the wicked. Your mouth will speak the truth. Your heart will be filled with justice. And your sword will crush all evil.
What reason could drive a knight to murders? Could he betray his code, his title, and his purpose without a second thought? When a knight could create the very evil he swore to destroy, what constant remained to believe in?
"Is this true?" Lancelot asked.
Iweret waved the accusations off. "And if so? Will you judge me, boy? Perhaps I was tired of my wife's constant complains. Perhaps I couldn't stand the high praise my children besieged King Arthur with every time I came home. You and your shadow creature have no right to place judgement upon me!"
Lancelot looked back and forth between the Lady and Iweret. If he had committed these crimes, he deserved to die. Forget selling junk to unsuspecting Fairies, murder was a sin that earned no forgiveness. Crush all evil. Lancelot could not ignore this injustice, turn a blind eye and allow for this man to take the lives of more innocent humans. But could he trust Iweret's confession when the Lady had forced him?
"You know the truth. Look into his heart," the Lady whispered into his ear. And lulled by her voice, Lancelot obeyed.
Iweret's heart opened its heavy wooden doors of detailed carvings and allowed access to the emotions and intentions beyond. A maelstrom of conflict welcomed Lancelot. Pride over his accomplishments as a knight, fondness for a village that no longer existed, hatred for the Demon Clan and all those who conversed with their kind. Red stains covered Iweret's deepest thoughts, victories over other knights in battle, a kitchen knife buried into the soft flesh of a child, the thought of how he could most easily snap Lancelot's neck if a fight broke out. But Lancelot wandered past images of tenderness too, in this garden of deadly thorns. In some memories, Iweret kissed his wife, in another he placed a flower crown on his daughter's head. He laughed, he loathed, he lived.
But he could not hide his crimes. The daughter's head lay on the kitchen floor, cracked open like an egg. He painted the tiles red.
One of her brothers coughed against the blood in his throat until he too succumbed his father's strokes. He painted the tiles red.
Lancelot witnessed the bitter truth to the Lady's accusation as if he himself wielded the knife. Over and over, he plunged the blade into the bodies of his family. And painted the tiles red.
Remorse failed to hold his hand back, and remorse failed to make itself heard when Iweret's mind drifted to that one bloodstained evening.
When the ocean of images threatened to suffocate him, Lancelot pulled back. He felt sick, could hardly see past the red veil, swayed more than he stood. The spear quaked in his hand. Too much, too much to deny what had happened, too much to ignore the man's wrongdoings.
The Lady caressed the bare skin of his arm. "You see what kind of human he is? He would have killed all your weak Fairy friends if he had been given the chance. And he will kill you too. Now, Lancelot, will you pay the price for Arthur's mercy?"
Lancelot adjusted his stance. His heartbeat raced in his chest. Crush all evil. The spear stopped trembling. And before Iweret could think to defend himself, Lancelot charged.
His first stroke hit air as Iweret stumbled backwards, but a quick turn of his wrist brought the lower end of his spear into Iweret's path of retreat. The man reeled and fought to retrieve his balance. Lancelot dug under his desperate sword swing, aimed a kick against his opponent's kneecap, and hit the back of Iweret's hand. Bones cracked. Iweret screamed, and his sword dropped to the ground.
Lancelot evaded a harmless punch, but the throwing knife Iweret plucked from his belt found its target. A sharp sting of pain throbbed through Lancelot's shoulder, and he staggered back a few feet with gritted teeth. He couldn't feel the fingers of his left hand. His vision drowned in red as the iron taste of blood invaded his mouth.
This was nothing like his duel with Tristan. Every mistake, every misstep, ever second of hesitance could equal his undoing. If he didn't win, he would die.
Iweret climbed to his feet under labored grunts, his sword in hand. He tilted left and right like a ship in an unforgiving sea, and blood ran down the corners of his mouth. But he intended to kill, his heart screamed with this single primal desire to eliminate to survive. His family had received no mercy. Neither would Lancelot.
The tang of iron filled every fiber of his being, the pressure at the back of his head suffocated his thoughts, the shadows urged him forward, guided his hand, and with every ounce of his superhuman strength, Lancelot hurled his spear forward.
A gush of blood poured out of Iweret's mouth. The spear had pierced through the protection of his doublet, had torn through flesh and bone, and had left a gaping hole in his chest. With a final coughed breath, Iweret dropped to the ground.
Dead. The voice of his heart forever silenced.
Lancelot stared at the corpse without seeing the man. He had defeated a knight, had proven his worth – but he had killed to reach there. A life, an entire ocean of thoughts and emotions – gone. With no more effort than a plucked flower. Fairies despised the thought of a plant ripped out by a careless human. They heard the low voices of the trees around them – what did they think about the loss of a human voice? He could not tell – the question seemed so important. Cold waves washed over him, a back and forth between conflicting ideals. Had he done the right thing? Had he avenged the dead family? Or had he become a murderer like this man?
Half in trance, Lancelot pulled the knife out of his shoulder and retched as the stank and the pain overflowed his senses. And while he sank to his knees and hugged himself, as though his arms could keep him together where his thoughts could not, the Lady crept towards the lifeless body. Little by little, the man disappeared beneath her greedy hands until nothing but his throwing knife before Lancelot's feet remained.
"You did well," the Lady said and stroked his hair.
Lancelot had no force left to pull back. "You made me do this. You forced me to do this. I'm not a murderer, you are!"
"No. It was your own sense of justice that was appalled by his deeds. You realized the weakness in Arthur's judgement and took it upon yourself to right his wrongs. No knight, no hero could have made a better decision than you. Your father never hesitated to face the most monstrous of foes. You have seen it. Only the strongest survive, that is the will of Chaos. If Iweret had been stronger or more determined, you would have died in his place. But Chaos has plans for you, my dear. Your victory proves you have his favors. Have your prize."
And with these words, the Lady produced a metal object from the depths of her form. Her countless hands coiled and wounded and placed the object at his feet before they and the Lady as a whole disintegrated.
A hiccup crammed Lancelot's throat, and the traitorous tears welled up in his eyes as he reached out to place a hand on Jericho's sword. His prize. He would recognize the leather hilt anywhere in the world. The blue stone on the rain-guard shimmered like the sky, the real sky out there. For a moment, he hesitated to stain the immaculate weapon with his bloody fingers, but then he closed his hands around the hilt. Calm wrapped its comforting arms around him in an instant. As long as he had her sword, he could hope to find Jericho. No matter the time his search would take. No matter the trials the Lady sent him through until then.
With insecure steps, Lancelot retrieved his spear and made his way to his camp to treat his wound.
⸸ † ⸸
"Do you need help with that?"
Lancelot jumped and reached on instinct for his spear. He hadn't expected to hear any other voice than his own for the rest of the day, and these few soft words terrified him more than the sudden arrival of the Lady of the Lake behind his back. In his hurry to fetch his weapon, the poor bandage he had attempted to wrap around his shoulder slipped, and the blood-soaked cloth sailed to the ground.
But in the face of his company, all other gears of the world blurred to turn without him.
A young woman stood on the far side of his campfire, dressed in a simple garb of white linen. Her long hair waved around her slender shoulders, and a youthful if a little hesitant smile adorned her face as she regarded the spear in Lancelot's hand.
"Do you need help with that bandage?" she repeated. "Hold still, it will only take a moment."
Perplexed out of his mind, Lancelot lowered his guard and allowed her to step closer to inspect the knife wound. With firm hands, she fished the strip from the ground and wrapped it around his shoulder. She freed a red-woven ribbon from her dark locks, secured the bandage with it, and stepped back to appreciate her work.
"There. That's better, isn't it?"
Lancelot blinked, half expecting her to dissolve. He had outgrown imaginary friends, but in this place, apparitions might emerge at any moment. After all, the Lady could make people appear and disappear with nothing but a thought.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The woman smiled. "You can call me Morgan. You must be hungry. How about we go and fetch us some fruits? I know where the best apple trees grow."
And with that, Morgan grabbed Lancelot's uninjured arm and dragged him out of the relative security of his camp before he could do so much as complain or reach for his weapons. She led him through the ruins with a confidence to suggest she knew every stone around, as if she had known these paths all her life. A part of Lancelot, the part responsible for his voice of reason Jericho urged him to rely on more often, resented the idea of following a stranger unarmed. If Morgan belonged to another one of the Lady's tests, he was sure to have lost the first round from the moment he had set aside his spear. But the soft warmth of another human's hand had never felt so pleasant on his fingertips. The lake, the trial, and even the Lady retreated, and he would hold onto every illusion of normalcy for as long as they allowed him to. Morgan seemed friendly. And she had such a nice voice.
"How long have you been here?" Lancelot asked while he trudged after her.
"For a long time. I've lost count of the days a while ago," Morgan said. "I cannot leave. My entire world is fenced by this lake, the same old lake it's been an eternity ago."
"I've never seen you around here before," Lancelot mumbled.
"Fancy, I've never seen you before either. But I'm glad to have found company after all this time. If you like, we can be friends. You can tell me about your time before you came here, and I tell you all the secrets Avalon has to offer."
Lancelot stumbled, and the heat shot into his cheeks thanks to his inattentiveness that might have sent both of them to the ground. "Avalon?" he repeated to cover up his fluster.
"Of course! Avalon is the name of this island amidst the lake and the impregnable sea of mist. And since no one else used to live here, you could say I'm the princess of Avalon. The princess of the loneliest kingdom… Well, now that you're here too, I guess I have to come up with a title for you. Something fancy like the white knight of the lake or the hero of Avalon. Oh, but in the meantime, what should I call you?"
"Lancelot."
A gleam sparked in Morgan's dark eyes, and Lancelot awed at the beauty of her delight. "I like that one."
They reached the promised apple grove, and Morgan sprinted forward to climb the nearest tree. Lancelot threw his surroundings a puzzled look. He had explored every inch of the island over the past days, and he had crossed this particular hillside on multiple occasions. A mere day ago, nothing had grown here except for grass and clover. And yet, these apple trees looked ancient, their forms crooked and bowed forward under the weight of their fruits like old men. Lancelot crept forward and placed a hand on the tree bark. If this grove was an illusion, his imagination had reached a new peak of persuasiveness. The warmth of the tree seeped through his fingertips, and he stroked the reliefs. Damn convincing illusion. The smell of bark and vibrant leaves could almost pass as the rich tapestry of Benwick. A little washed out, a little faint, but a part of it hung here, between the trunks.
A knock on his head tore him out of his wandering thoughts, and he looked down at a red apple.
"Catch," Morgan said with an unfair delay from the mighty bough of her tree and tossed a second fruit to Lancelot.
This time he managed to fetch it out of the air before he collected additional bruises. The perfect red would make the redcurrants of Benwick blush in envy. Damn convincing illusion. When he bit into the apple, its juicy sweetness filled his mouth, unmatched by everything he could have imagined in his wildest, taste-deprived dreams. How he had missed the perks of real food. The Lady made sure to supply him with bread, or fish if she felt generous, but his past meals matched the pale sky with their lack of flavor.
He would give a lot for a slice of Ban's apple pie. No one cooked like Ban, and although he had trouble finding the necessary ingredients, whenever he did get a chance to cook, his dishes surpassed even the most prestigious works of the royal cooks of Liones and Camelot combined. He could have shown him a trick or two in the kitchen if Lancelot had cared to ask.
With another bite of the apple, he swallowed the thought. How childish of him to reminisce about home. He had a mission to fulfill, and all this wishful thinking would only distract him.
"Don't you want some?" Lancelot asked and offered Morgan the second fruit.
She dangled head first from her bough and gave him a wide upside-down smile. "I already ate today. But I'm curious, Lancelot, what have you been doing before you came to Avalon? What sort of life did you live? How is the world out there? Is it as big and full of people as I always imagined?"
And so, Lancelot told her. He talked about Benwick and the Fairies who lived there, he talked about his patrols and how his father refused to take on his job with the needed amount of seriousness. Morgan soaked up every word like a person dying of thirst, but whenever he rambled, she nudged him to tell her more about the larger world outside of Benwick. Everything involving humans fascinated her in particular. Lancelot lacked the knowledge to answer all her questions on who held power where in Britannia, which kingdoms had forged truces and which could call for war at any day. But he retold in great detail his visit to Liones capital and did his best to put all the overwhelming sights into words. The countless houses and massif outer walls, the many people on the streets, and the goods they had sold on Tristan's birthday, from exotic fruits and sugary cakes over gemstones and jewelries to magical items in every size and form. Lancelot praised at length the marvelous works blacksmiths had marketed, and Morgan listened with an infectious smile.
How terrible that she never saw anything other than the boundaries of Avalon.
When Lancelot had talked his voice raspy, Morgan hopped down from her tree and kneeled a few inches away to lock his eyes with hers.
"Where were you all this time? I haven't had this much fun in a million years! I'd like to talk more often, if you don't mind. That's what friends do, right?"
Lancelot lost himself in her eyes for a moment until he found great interest at a blade of grass beside her hand. "I wouldn't know."
"Then you're like me! But I'm sure you had someone back home who you liked to spend time with. I can't imagine that a great storyteller like you doesn't have anyone to listen to him."
"The Fairies didn't care for the same things I did. They would manage to sleep away their life if no one came to wake them up every once in a while. I don't think I've seen any of them step outside of Benwick. Britannia has so many great places, but unless the sights come to them, they don't care one bit. I didn't want to bend into their sense of fun, so they called me an outsider. Not with words. With the voice of their hearts. I've seen how close my father is to his friends, how they talk and laugh together. If that's what friendship looks like, I don't think I have that."
"But we talked together, right? And I saw you smile a couple times, don't try to deny it. I like to think that makes us friends. Will… will you do me a favor?" Morgan asked. "When you eventually get out of here, when you will be able to leave Avalon… will you make sure not to forget me?"
Lancelot fumbled with his words for a moment, distracted by the dark depths of her eyes. The pupils disappeared in a lake of shadows, and a force stronger than gravity pulled him into these black waters. Something about her presence intoxicated him, left him far dizzier and more confused than the mug of ale he had drunk on his last evening in Benwick.
"How could I forget you?" He failed to recognize his voice through the haze of his trance. "You're now part of my memories, just like Jericho, Tristan, and my parents. We're friends, you said it yourself. And when I complete my mission and find the reason behind the disappearances of all these people, I will not only free Jericho, I will free you too. You'll come with me, and then you will be able to see all of Britannia for yourself. We could go on an adventure together, if you like."
Morgan pulled back a little and lowered her gaze to a lonely white peony growing between the grass blades. She stroked the petals like a long-lost child. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. A powerful magic binds me to this place."
"But you've never had my help before. The Lady of the Lake offered me a way to become the most powerful knight in all of Britannia. I'll find a way to get you out of here. Doesn't matter what it takes, I'll do what's right. I promise."
Morgan plucked the peony and placed the small flower in Lancelot's hands. "I take your word for it, prince of the lake."
