† Day 79 †
The days raced by in a blur. Whenever Lancelot didn't spend his time with training, he strolled across Avalon with Morgan. She provided a much-needed contrast to the cold with which the Lady of the Lake pushed his strength and stamina to their limits. The Lady never gave in, she demanded improvement each and every single day, and when Lancelot failed to meet her expectation, she starved him with silence and forced him to wander through the mist wafts until the end of the day when he would at last find his way back to shore and collapse on the spot. Morgan was in every way the opposite of her. Where the Lady demanded obedience, Morgan offered kindness. Where one twisted Lancelot's words and thoughts, the other listened to his stories of the human world with open ears and a smile on her lips.
But Lancelot had to admit that he never quite figured her out. Her heart was a book locked behind metal doors he could not open. She would often appear out of nowhere at his campsite and talk as though she had never left his side. Sometimes she disappeared for many days on end, and Lancelot turned and overturned the thought that perhaps the Lady had taken her from him as she had done with Jericho.
And yet, Morgan always returned.
This time, Lancelot had missed her for seven days and had gone to sleep with a knot in his stomach that had tightened each night. But when he opened his eyes after a few restless hours of tossing and turning full of memories from home and merciless torrents of rain, Morgan greeted him with a smile. A woven crown of grass and peonies adorned her head.
Lancelot rubbed the remnants of sleep out of his eyes and pulled in a breath when she remained as real as when she had first appeared. No illusion.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"I'm never far," she replied and pulled him to his feet. "But I've discovered something interesting that will cheer you up."
Lancelot grabbed Jericho's sword, but due to a lack of free hands left his spear behind. Thanks to the blade of Iweret's throwing knife, his favored weapon had received a nifty upgrade, and although he would be devastated to lose the spear, another loss of Jericho's sword would be unforgivable. Not for the first time, Lancelot wished for a belt and scabbard. But if the Lady planned to reward him with either, he had yet to earn such valuable items.
Morgan led him past a circle of stone behemoths and an alley of plane trees, both places Lancelot had never seen before. The boulders measured thirty feet in height and more, even he would exhaust himself over their weight to no effect. The trees meanwhile matched the oldest specimens in Benwick based on the width of their trunks. And yet, both stones and plants had sprouted from the ground overnight, as though the vivid imagination of a child had chucked them into the landscape.
"Morgan," Lancelot asked, "are you a Fairy?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Then are you a Giant?"
Morgan raised her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth twitched. "Do I look like a Giant to you?"
"Then how is it that you can make plants and stone formations appear? Fairies can manipulate all matter of plant life, but I think even they would struggle to create a forest of fully-grown plane trees over nights – I've never seen mother do something so impressive. And Giants can manipulate the earth and form a stone circle like this one. But I've never heard of humans achieving anything like that. If you're a human, why can you create these things?"
Morgan first looked at Lancelot before her gaze wandered towards the trees and stone circle. Both had to be her doings. The Lady of the Lake surely lacked the power to form anything pleasant with her hands.
"I want to see myself as human," Morgan said. "Humans more than any of the other clans have a desire to create and shape the world around them. They reach an unmatched balance between light and darkness, don't you think? They truly are the perfect creation…"
"But they kill and steal from those who are too naïve to see through their lies! How can that be perfect?"
"This is exactly what makes them so wonderous – their flaws. You've looked into human hearts, haven't you? Then you must have seen this conflict, this duality in them. Besides, for every human who steals from others, there is a human as kind and heroic as you."
"I'm also half Fairy," Lancelot mumbled.
Morgan, however, had no forgiveness to spare for his comment. With a snort, she shoved him away, and he stumbled, too baffled to defend himself.
"Don't be stupid," Morgan said. "You are human through and through. I don't want to hear anything else."
Lancelot nodded. Benwick seemed to disappear further into the mist, and his memories of his home lost their lively shimmer.
But his assent appeased Morgan as she gave him a smile. This image he would cherish and hold onto whenever doubts would arise on his way. Where this way led… he still needed to figure out. But a source of motivation wouldn't hurt.
"I'm glad that's settled," Morgan said. "As for why I am able to create trees and flowers and buildings, the magic that resides in Avalon is strong. I'm sure you can feel it too, this vortex of power from all clans. Sometime ago, the lake was offered this magic, and ever since then, I've been able to draw out this energy and use it to change Avalon's shape." She held her hand open, with her palm facing skywards, and out of nothing but her willpower, drops of water appeared. They danced and swirled, and each of them caught the light of the pale sun to shine like a diamond. "It's not enough to create me a way out of here, but it helps a little against the boredom. Someday, you'll be able to use the power of the lake as well. And then you'll outmatch all the other clans the way it is supposed to be."
Lancelot gaped at the droplets, enthralled by their performance. Magic radiated off of them, a warmth that tickled his bare arms. And the lake promised to hold far greater surprises still. He had taken a small glimpse of the potential when he had first touched the water upon his arrival at Avalon, but how much more had he failed to see? If he learned to wield such power, he might become a stronger knight than his father. He might even defeat the Lady of the Lake and demand Jericho's and Morgan's freedom.
"Can you show me how to do this?" he asked.
"I'm afraid you will have to discover this secret for yourself. Magic like this cannot be taught. But a will strong enough can use the true power of the lake to fulfil all their desires."
"Then I will do everything I can to learn this power and figure out how it works. Nothing will stop me!"
The trail Morgan chose led them to a gentle incline, where the path zigzagged towards the top of the hill. And on the summit, an ancient sycamore looked over Avalon, almost like the Sacred Tree towered over the Fairy Realm. Lancelot had paid visit to this tree a few times, but even from its branches, he had been unable to see the end of the lake. The waters went on and on until the horizon dropped into them.
But when Lancelot and Morgan reached the hillcrest, another person stained the picturesque scene with their presence. The man leaned against the tree trunk with his eyes closed, and his shining armor identified him as a knight.
Lancelot's head jerked sideways, in search for the fastest path to escape. Trapped. Stupid, stupid, he had walked right into the arena, an obedient servant to his master. Another trial.
Another Iweret.
But Iweret had looked nothing like a knight, and he hadn't held himself like a noble either, while this man commanded a respect even the best of Liones' Holy Knights failed to match. A criminal would wear a darker aura around him. Lancelot didn't dare to read this knight's emotions to the fullest, not after the horrors Iweret's heart had hurled at him, but a short glimpse exposed a strange serenity. This knight was at peace with the world. And Morgan had taken him here, so Lancelot had no reason to expect danger. Adults allowed for caution but never for fear to guide their hand.
Lancelot's curiosity wrestled down his hesitance, and he placed another step towards the foreign knight. Morgan made no move to accompany him.
"Aren't you coming?" he asked.
She shook her head. "It's your choice whether and how you want to approach him. I only brought you here. The rest is up to you."
And with these words, Morgan waved him goodbye and disappeared behind the crest. Lancelot stumbled after her, but when he looked down the side of the hill, the short grass bore no trace of her. As though a gust of wind had carried her away. If invisibility belonged to the magic skills the lake granted, Lancelot needed to learn them more than ever.
But beforehand, he would have to decide what to do with the sleeping knight. He couldn't belong to the same rank of escaped criminals as Iweret, not in a million years. Then what other reason had brought the knight here if he was not meant as another trial? He was armed, by the looks of the hilt and scabbard with a shorter-than-usual claymore, complete with the distinct, forward-sloping cross guard. In a fight, he would have the range advantage on his side. If the blacksmith had forged the blade well, the knight might only need one hand to guide his claymore and would further increase his agility. A dangerous combination.
Lancelot shuffled his feet across the ground. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek. Neither the knight nor any other higher force appeared to make a decision for him.
But Lancelot had sworn to figure out the mysteries of Avalon, and no knight in this world scared him. If necessary, he would fight the sleeping knight as he had fought Iweret. The comforting weight of Jericho's sword in his hand gave him the final push, and he tiptoed towards the stranger. But before he could nudge the knight awake, he jumped to his feet, and faster than Lancelot's eyes could see, he drew his claymore and disarmed him. Jericho's sword sailed through the air; the steel clattered on the ground behind Lancelot.
"How bold of you to creep up on a knight with bare steel," the stranger said and eyed his opponent from head to toe. "But I assume little more can be expected from a child."
"I'm not a child!" Lancelot shouted and raised his fists. If the knight wanted a fight, he would take him on, with or without weapon.
"You're not? Then an ill-behaved and wingless Fairy perhaps? Now, if you claim to be a warrior or, the Goddesses forbid, an adult, prove your words and face me with that sword of yours."
Lancelot growled. That stupid human thought himself so high and mighty, but he hadn't escaped the fangs of the Lady of the Lake with any more success than Lancelot had. Stupid, stupid human. Lancelot dove into a roll, reached for his weapon, and returned to his feet, ready to duel.
"Ah, so you are a child of your words?" the knight said. "Then I will allow you to strike first. Don't be shy."
Lancelot dug his heels into the earth and then charged. But despite his surplus in strength, the knight deflected each of his blows without dropping his superior grin.
"Good, the force behind your hits will surely make an untrained opponent sweat. And if you land a lucky hit or two, you might even defeat them without losing your arm first."
Instead of an answer, Lancelot gave the knight a diagonal swing intent to cut his opponent in half. The heat of battle boiled in his muscles, increased his strength and speed. Soon the knight would fall silent forever. No more insults. But the knight dodged, and all the force of his last strike turned against Lancelot. His forward momentum delayed his reaction. The next blow came too soon. His wrist creaked as he pushed against his opponent, overburdening the joints. Lancelot swallowed an outcry, tightened his grip, but his persistence earned him nothing but fractured bones as Jericho's sword flew out of his hand.
He had lost. Once again, he had lost. Nothing had changed since his duel with Tristan, he still lacked the strength to hold his own in a fight, to prove himself a worthy son. At least Ban was spared the sight of his defeat – he would have slacked his shoulders, his eyes would have filled with the apathy of a ten-year prison sentence, this cold disappointment which hurt so much more than an angry lecture.
"Kill me if this is what you want!" Lancelot screamed while clutching his wrist. The pain throbbed through his arm, but the humiliation stung far deeper.
The knight sheathed his claymore. "I didn't come here to kill you. Although my victory in this duel would justify me to end your life. No, the lady who watches over this place ordered me to teach you how to become a better knight. It seems I have little to work with so far, so we will have to start from the ground up."
"And you just do what the Lady of the Lake says like an obedient dog?" Lancelot spat out.
"You need to learn to watch your tongue, my young friend. As far as I am concerned, the Lady is master over this place, and as such she has the right to ask a favor of a visiting knight in exchange for her hospitality. You are not the first wannabe knight I have taught, and you are neither the youngest nor the most promising."
Insult after insult after insult; a filthy tactic to kick Lancelot further into the ground. Dark flames born and nurtured from Avalon's shadows burned the pain, and without sending orders to his muscles, Lancelot seized his weapon. "I don't need your help or your advice!"
With his left hand, he lacked practice, but the poor form of his strikes didn't matter as long as he landed a scratch on that stupid human and wipe that smug expression from his face. The knight sidestepped, and his elbow crashed against the back of his head. Stars exploded in his vision as Lancelot bit the dirt.
Defeated. With terrifying ease.
The heat fled his body until only the taste of earth and blood remained in his mouth. He didn't even try to push himself up. Why bother, when he would end up on the ground again? He was worthless, a failure, a stupid child who had chased after the illusion of making a difference. The dust stung in his eyes, tears formed, and he wanted to apologize, but no one was there to listen.
"Get up," the knight said.
Lancelot refused. The fingers of his right hand no longer felt the sand or the dry grass. It was so much easier to lie on his stomach and wait for judgement to strike him down.
"I said GET UP!"
Ban crossed his arms and shook his head. "Come on, Lance, you can't go lying here forever. Do your old man a favor and get up."
"I don't want to."
"You don't want me to carry you back home, do ya? I wonder what Jericho will say if she sees you like this. If you wanna act tough as nails, you at least gotta use your own feet for once."
"I don't want to."
"Hey, it's okay to fall. When I've had two or three mugs of ale, I can't walk straight if my life depended on it. Your mom can tell you how many times I dropped face-first to the floor. What matters is that you put your act together, swallow your pride, and get back to your feet after you've stumbled. I know a bruised knee hurts, and a bruised ego hurts even more. But you gotta keep trying, okay? Now, will you make your old man proud and stand up?"
And Lancelot stood up.
He swayed as pain-infused dizziness clouded his senses, and his right hand hung useless at his side. But he stood.
"Good. Now let me see your hand." The knight took Lancelot's hand in his and pressed a few nerves. Then he tore the wrist sideways, and when Lancelot flinched, he gave him a satisfied look. "It doesn't seem broken. Give it a little rest later but make sure to stretch and flex your fingers every once in a while. For the rest of today, you will have to train with your left hand."
Lancelot glared into the knight's grey eyes but found no humor in them. How was he supposed to fight without his right hand when he could hardly stand? Of course, the Lady of the Lake would show no patience for his excuses, but she had gone to other places, and what the devil didn't know had not to interest her. Everyone talked down on him, even this man who lacked the decency to do so much as introduce himself.
"I want your name first," Lancelot said and readied himself to search in the knight's heart for a lie.
"Sir Jonathan of Liez. And as I have been told by the Lady of the Lake, you are Lancelot without a title and without a house. So, Lancelot, do you want to prove yourself and become a knight others will speak of near and far? Then you will first have to defeat me, for I will be your mentor. Brace yourself."
Lancelot could imagine only one face that kindled more destructive thoughts than the perfect symmetry of Sir Jonathan's features – and that face abandoned all humanity. He had no moral justification for all the blows and enraged affronts he wanted to shower the knight with, not in the same way as with Iweret, his reasons screamed with the pettiness of personal dislike. This superior smile and this stench of cleanness which proved Sir Jonathan had never crawled defeated on the cobblestone, not like Lancelot. When he fought, he won.
Sir Jonathan had earned his title, and he outclassed every other opponent Lancelot had faced before. A mantle of confidence enwrapped this knight, a testimony that no threat in this world possessed the power to bring him down. A mantle he envisioned to wear himself for a fleeting moment.
Lancelot, prince of the lake. A symbol others looked up to, a knight strong enough to match the legendary Sin of Greed.
After fumbling with the hilt for a few moments, Lancelot raised Jericho's sword to meet Sir Jonathan, who had meanwhile shifted his claymore into his left hand. The concentrated weight didn't seem to bother him. Instead of rushing in blind, Lancelot strengthened his stance and waited for his opponent to make a move.
Sir Jonathan acknowledged his change in strategy with a nod and opened the training duel with a slow but precise chain of thrusts and swings. Lancelot struggled to parry and relied more on his feet to bring him out of harm's way. The sword's weight hindered his movement and upset his balance, and he had to readjust his grip multiple times.
"You focus too much on how foreign it feels to fight with your other hand," Sir Jonathan said and pushed Lancelot into an unwilling retreat. "In a fight for life and death, your left hand should serve you just as well as your right one, otherwise you will lose against an opponent with above average training. People, and that includes knights, rarely encounter an adversary who fights with left. Surprise them by switching between left- and righthanded, and the course of battle will fall into your hands."
To prove his words, Sir Jonathan dazzled Lancelot with a mighty blow and then tossed his claymore from left to right while he pursued his student. Lancelot evaded the strike by a hair's width and dropped into a sideways roll in complete disregard of his bruised wrist. Bones, muscles, and tendons protested upon impact, but the maneuver achieved what he had hoped for. A stab for the back of his opponent's knee. Sir Jonathan grunted as the blade gazed his flesh, but he recovered in the same breath. One spin and a kick later, Lancelot lay in the dirt while Sir Jonathan's boot pinned his left arm to the ground.
"Good, you're adapting to your opponent's techniques," he said and increased the pressure on Lancelot's hand until he let go of the sword hilt. "Your unpredictable moves are an advantage, but you won't be able to capitalize on your strength or your ingenuity if you do not have mastered the basics. Alright then, assume the normal position."
By now, Lancelot had lost all feeling in the fingers of his right hand, a numbness more unnerving than the pain, but he nevertheless pushed himself up. Weakness was his death sentence. Maybe not today, but when the next trial came, or the one after that, he would lose if he didn't push through. Keep trying. Like Ban had told him.
They traded a series of precise blows, and metal shrieked each time the two swords connected. Sir Jonathan gave Lancelot the needed time to react to each strike with the corresponding retaliation, and hit after hit, step after step, Lancelot found his rhythm in leading a sword with his left hand. He knew the moves, countless training hours in Benwick and Avalon had ingrained them into his subconsciousness – once he projected his knowledge into his other hand, the reliability of his instincts did the rest.
And as the hours ticked by and the ground beneath the sycamore flattened under their two pairs of feet in an unending back and forth, Lancelot allowed himself an inward grin. Sir Jonathan was another test the Lady of the Lake had set up for him, a ludicrous leap from Iweret's skills. But in addition to his strongest opponent, he might also become Lancelot's best chance. If he endured the grueling training hours, if he studied Sir Jonathan's every move, and if he stayed true to his mission, he might defeat the Lady of the Lake.
And then the missing humans would return to Britannia.
His parents would welcome him as a hero.
He would receive the honorary 'Sir' all knights are entitled to, maybe from Jericho or from King Meliodas himself. No one would dare to do wrong in his presence anymore.
And all the hardship he put himself through in Avalon would be washed away like footprints in the rain.
