† Year Three, Day 107 †
Despite his newfound connection to the magic of the lake, Lancelot faced defeat after defeat against Sir Jonathan. He met him with sword, spear, and even unarmed, but his mentor's technique always outmatched his fighting skills. Sometimes he became impatient and tested Sir Jonathan's defenses too soon. Other times he thought to have gained the upper hand, only for his mentor to use a move he had never shown before and end the duel in his favors. And the rest of the times, Lancelot wore himself out until he made a silly mistake.
Sir Jonathan wiped the blood from the blade and raised his claymore. "Again."
Out of breath, Lancelot climbed to his knees to inspect the graze running down his calf. Another set of clothes ruined. One of these days he would get himself a shiny armor, and then Sir Jonathan would have to rub that look of superiority from his face. Until then, Lancelot had to make do with cuts and bruises whenever he underutilized his rear foot while sparring.
He held a hand above the wound and reached out to the bright bursts of magic residing in the cloudless sky. And while the torn flesh tickled when he applied the light, the tissue refused to knit itself back together. With a growl, Lancelot gave up. The energy of the lake didn't respond to his will with flawless results at all times, and while he had forged an adequate connection to the earth and plants around him, the two poles he called light and dark magic proved more stubborn. And healing in particular never worked when he needed the damn spell.
The lake promised ridiculous amounts of magic and an ability to shape and create, far beyond anything the Seven Deadly Sins were capable of – but the accursed body of water only handed out its secret in breadcrumb-sized doses.
When Sir Jonathan spun his claymore in lazy circles, Lancelot made a face and resumed the normal position. Hanging about and wasting time had no place here.
He blinked against the brightness and fought the urge to shield his eyes. From the moment they had begun their training session, Sir Jonathan had called the advantage of terrain his own. He controlled the patch of grass in the shadows of a half-broken wall behind which a haggard acorn tree rose to the sky. The way the light broke on the edges of the highest acorn leaves to paint vivid patterns onto the ground in front of Lancelot worsened his odds of victory – and they had been slim to begin with.
For the umpteenth time, Lancelot raised his sword and charged at Sir Jonathan. Their weapons clashed once, twice, and the loud clatter of metal rung between the ruins. Lancelot circled to the right, but Sir Jonathan blocked the blow with his left arm. The retaliatory swing made Lancelot's blade quiver. The breath rattled in his throat. He thrusted at Sir Jonathan's other side but found no opening to strike, missing a slash into his own shoulder by an inch. The ground under his boots slipped, too dry and too loose. Hit after hit and no progress. Sir Jonathan remained planted on his spot like a rock, ignorant of the waves of the lake washing against his feet.
"You're lacking urgency, my young friend," Sir Jonathan said and met Lancelot with a timely uppercut. "Tell me, do our little training sessions bore you? Have you found other, more interesting ways to spend your time? Perhaps you are doing your utmost to win the affection of a girl?"
Lancelot raked his adversary with a chain of quick thrusts to little avail. Even after all these months, Sir Jonathan's insults made his blood boil.
"I don't want to win Morgan's affection," he said while parrying a blow aimed for his head. "I haven't forgotten that she lies to me about certain things, just like everyone else. At best, she's a better friend than you, nothing more. I won't slack off for her sake."
"Ha! Stronger men than you have sworn to place their responsibilities before their affections, and yet those who boasted the loudest fell for the lures of a lady the fastest. Let me tell you, my young friend, the knight driven by love will first lose his principles and then soon after his life. Too many have fallen into this trap. Too many bind their motivation to a single person. When this lovely light dies, they don't know how to go on, and restlessly they wander from town to town because they see no other sense in life… My lord Deathpierce has his flaws, but this is not one of them."
Lancelot deterred a heavy barrage of hits. Where had he heard the name Deathpierce before? Another knight? If so, he hadn't walked among those warriors Ban had held in high esteem. On the contrary, the name Deathpierce created an uncomfortable hole in his gut. But Lancelot had no time to dwell, as his opponent drove him back into the unfavorable sunlight, and he needed all his focus to uphold his defenses.
When Sir Jonathan grew tired of advancing, he returned to his spot and looked over Lancelot's stance.
"Your rear foot should provide you with both the stability to enact powerful blows and the option to retreat and dodge strokes. Use this advantage instead of working against your body."
Lancelot followed the suggestion and shifted his weight between both feet. The position, while better fit to support heavy sword swings, robbed him of his flexibility. A terrible tradeoff. So much of his style rested on maneuverability, and unless he adapted his sword technique, he had little to gain.
Despite the urge to fall back into old habits, he held the position to see whether Sir Jonathan planned to test his footing. But his mentor made no move. Lancelot approached him with slow, steady steps.
Sir Jonathan acknowledged his efforts with a nod and a defensive pose to match Lancelot's. When their swords connected this time, the blows spoke of precision rather than a one-sided beatdown, and Lancelot held his own without losing ground. A smile flickered on his lips. The patterns Sir Jonathan relied on were basic but effective, and Lancelot, for maybe the first time, felt like a worthy combatant as he reacted to each move in time. Counter the low slash, sidestep the thrust, and meet the strikes at chest-height from left and right with steel. Steady stance without sacrificing movability.
Each and every one of Sir Jonathan's lectures had eaten its way into Lancelot's muscles and his mind. His reflexes had sharpened to not only react but anticipate each strike from the turn of a wrist or the shuffling of a foot.
They sparred like this for a few more minutes until Lancelot dared to raise his voice. Sir Jonathan used his technique as often as he used psychological warfare to get the better of him; Lancelot sought to try this out himself. Victory was a tempting crown, and its thrill tingled his fingertips.
"If love isn't a good driving force for a knight, what do you fight for?" he asked.
"For the grandeur and honor of my lord's kingdom," Sir Jonathan said. For one short second, his calm expression made his words believable. "And for the simple reason that my prowess surpasses everyone else on the tournament grounds of Edinburgh, and I enjoy to watch the horror of defeat widen the eyes of my opponents. Now tell me, if the heart of lady Morgan doesn't interest you, what do you fight for?"
Lancelot shifted his weight on his rear foot to evade an uppercut. "To defeat you."
A smile curled Sir Jonathan's lip. "A justified goal indeed. But horribly short-sighted for a knight. Try again."
Right clash, left clash, wide swing for his unarmored shins. "I want my father to praise me."
"Pathetic. I told you, you shouldn't tie all your purpose to the favors of one person. It doesn't matter whether they are your father, your king, or your beloved. A goal, the true wish of a knight must lie deeper. What do you wish for?"
What did he wish for? Images of Benwick invaded Lancelot's mind, washed out colorings of tall pines, mighty copper oaks with their wine-colored leaves, and the slender trunks of birches in between, a patchwork of black and white amidst the sea of green. The flowers his mother gardened at the eastern foot of their home tree, a wild bouquet of daisies, roses, and lavender. The scents of the forest, the trails he used to walk, the silly Fairies who would shy away from an adventure even if it knocked on their doors – all of it increased the aching in his chest. But did he wish to return there, was this his one true goal, the reason for his training, his losses, and his small victories in surviving each day? No, and neither did his purpose lie in the liberation of those the Lady of the Lake held captive.
What did Lancelot, prince of the lake, wish for?
Be careful, Master. You see I wanna…
Lancelot freed his sword from the stalemate he had been entangled in. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he threw himself against his foe. Sir Jonathan staggered. A series of fast, daring jabs later, Lancelot claimed the spot his mentor had guarded.
"I want to become stronger than all other knights in Britannia," Lancelot said. "Not for the honor or the fame of some kingdom and their rulers. Not because I enjoy the thought of surpassing those who outmatch me now. I want to become the strongest knight so that no one will be able to stop me from righting all wrongs. People take advantage of the foolish and the weak, and I want them to be brought to justice. The Lady of the Lake has captured humans against their will – she has to pay for this crime. And you, you serve the tyrant of Edinburgh, don't you? You admitted your allegiance with Deathpierce yourself. Once I defeat you in combat, you will pay for this sin too."
While Lancelot upheld his defensive position, hellbent to retain his position, Sir Jonathan sheathed his claymore at his side.
"Then I will take on your challenge," he said, "but not today. Let us go for a walk."
For a moment, Lancelot stared at Sir Jonathan as though he had dissolved into a spirit to fly away with the wind. Although Sir Jonathan trained him, they never spent time together outside of combat. Their talks consisted of little more than advices and insults, and Sir Jonathan had certainly never expressed a desire to get to know his apprentice. A mutual feeling. Lancelot respected his mentor, but his life story interested him far less than his swordsmanship. One town burnt during the war was just like the other.
Pleasant talks had no place in his training. Too much praise led to weakness, and to treat his mentor as anything other than an enemy would ensure his defeat. As a child, he might have allowed himself a joke here or a moment to romp about there.
But those days were long gone.
⸸ † ⸸
"Come on, uncle Gil, try harder! How am I supposed to get better if you don't offer me a challenge?"
Ban closed his eyes and tried his utmost to ignore the clangs of swords bound to give him a headache. One of the nasty kind that would throb in his head for the rest of the day. And the day had started out lousy already.
"Why am I here?" Ban asked, a question likewise directed at the universe and at Meliodas.
"Because we need to share our limited knowledge on the missing persons case if we want to bring the people back before Britannia collapses," Meliodas said. "I know you're getting old, but I'd hope to avoid telling you every five seconds where you left your old-man's cane for a few more years."
"No, what I mean is, why am I here?"
Less than ten yards away, behind the wooden fence circling the training ground of Liones castle, Tristan hopped around Gilthunder in their playful duel, despite his twelve years very much a kid. And very much alive.
Meliodas nudged Ban's elbow and aimed for the most jovial tone he could fake. Probably practiced the entire morning. "Cause I needed a reason for you to talk about what's going on inside that big head of yours. And since no friendly invitation did the trick so far, I thought I'd be a little more drastic."
"Okay, my big head is all busy thinking about that Fairy who disappeared. Such a sad event, his family's crying their eyes out, and this'll make for a terrible stain on my resume when I apply for the next kingship. Satisfied?"
"Ban," Meliodas said in that compassionate voice. A couple years ago, Ban would have trusted this voice with all his burdens, convinced Meliodas understood better than anyone else how horrible life can mess you up. "You don't have to act tough. Not for me, not for Elaine, for no one. I want to help you, buddy. We all do."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm as happy as you can get. These days, they call me the Sin of Happiness, haven't you heard?"
Meliodas sighed. Ban could almost hear the army of responsibilities as they placed another ten-ton boulder on top of the pile on Meliodas' shoulders. No amount of admiration from the people of Liones, no amount of friendly waving and sung praises would make that load disappear. Humans loved their leading figures, especially when that leading figure had ended the last war – but they demanded a certain degree of protection in return. And against portals in the rain that swallowed every unsuspecting moron who steered too far from home, Meliodas had nothing to show for.
"Just know that I'm here to listen in case you wanna talk. As always," Meliodas said and returned his attention to the training fight.
Tristan bobbed on his toes, a grin plastered onto his face, and waited for his uncle to initiate the next clash. What he lacked in experience, he made up for with energy, and when Gilthunder charged, Tristan parried the volley of harmless hits with his blunt sword and retaliated without missing a beat. His fast thrusts forced Gilthunder into a retreat until they parted once again. Meliodas watched his son with a small smile. Ban felt the sudden urge to hack the fence into kindling.
"Fine then, let's talk," he said to stop himself from letting his hands do the talking. "You think the Fairy who disappeared experienced the same fate as the humans who got swept from the earth by the rain?"
Meliodas side-eyed Ban as though he worried for his mental state. "It's not that hard to imagine, is it? The disappearances have become more infrequent, but as long as the perpetrator isn't caught, we have no reason to believe they'll stop."
"Thing is, the rain only targeted humans so far. Why would they switch up the formula when they've made clear how much they despise humans?"
"But there is no logic behind the disappearances. The victims have nothing in common, neither age nor gender, nor allegiance. One day it's a farmer in Liones, and the next it hits a knight in Camelot. The only commonality between them is that they were all human – except that half-humans fit the bill too. Why shouldn't the kidnapper expand his portfolio onto Fairies whenever they can get their hands on them? Most of them stay in their forests where they're safe, and as long as they do, they have nothing to fear."
Ban flicked a hairy caterpillar from the fence. The insect crash-landed on the cobblestone, wiggled on its back for a moment, and then accepted its fate as a squished blob under the next knight's boot. "I can't remember how often I told them not to leave the borders of Benwick. But there's always that one idiot in the crowd who surpasses the lack of wit of the others."
"And it's that one Fairy who proves that non-humans aren't immune to this kidnapper," Meliodas said. "Maybe they used to have a stigma against humans, but what if they aren't so methodical? What if it's random? What if the person responsible looks down on everyone equally?"
With excessive gestures and under the encouraging smile of Gilthunder, Tristan boasted about his future heroics as a Holy Knight. Ban increased the grip around the upper log of the fence and imagined the sound of breaking china to drown the rattle of metal as the training session resumed. Part of him felt bad for the bottles he had smashed last week while under the suffocating spell of alcohol. The other part cherished the sound when he finally caused a change in his surroundings.
"You know what I think?" Ban said with a surplus of vehemence. "I think this is Edinburgh's doing. Deathpierce made clear how he stands to nonhuman clans. And this isn't the first time he killed one of the little tree-lovers either. While everyone's busy with the disappearing humans, he snags one or two of them from Benwick's borders to appease his crazed lust for vengeance. He can't get to you, and we don't have too many Goddesses running around either, so the Fairies make for the next best item on his hitlist."
"Deathpierce isn't dumb. He knows he doesn't have the manpower to provoke a war. If he started to kidnap Fairies on a regular basis, Liones would overrun him."
Ban huffed. "And for how long? Face it, Cap'n, you're fighting this war with losing numbers. The longer this disappearance streak continues, the more of your men will run over to Edinburgh."
"I know. But I don't have the slightest idea what else to do. If even Arthur with his Chaos powers can't crack this case, how am I supposed to help?"
"What case?" Tristan asked. He had abandoned his duel with Gilthunder to collect a head pat from his father for his performance.
"The none-of-ya-business-case," Meliodas said and made an attempt to shoo Tristan away. But that nosy boy stayed put and pointed an accusing finger at his father.
"You can't hide this from me! I long figured it all out. This is about the humans who vanish in the rain, isn't it?"
Meliodas nudged the back of Tristan's head. "Which part of none of ya business don't you understand? Go train with Lil' Gil, or I'll lock you with Elizabeth in the library for the rest of the day."
The word 'library' produced a terrified expression on Tristan's face, but he reassembled his confidence soon after, struck a pose, and resembled his father to a painful degree. "I will solve this case, just you wait and see! As the great Holy Knight Tristan, I have the duty to save people from evil. I can already take on the Seven Deadly Sins, and they own the title of the most nefarious villains. Whoever harms these innocent humans will have to fight me!"
"The absolute last thing you're going to do is go out there and hunt after some ghosts," Meliodas said. "You asked for this: go to the library and entertain yourself with books. You're the slowest reader I've ever met."
"You're much worse of a reader! Mother said so too." Tristan turned. "You, Ban, you always tell him when he is being an idiot, I've seen it in Gowther's memories. Tell him that he needs my help."
With these terrible, terrible wide eyes, Tristan looked at Ban. So much defiance, so much energy, so much liveliness swam in the green and blue, enough to make him sick. What second rendition of Purgatory did he live in to envy the Captain for this exact expression and the fact that he could see it every single day?
Ban's voice sounded detached from his body when he spoke. "Do what your father says. If you go out on your own, you'll get yourself beaten to a pulp until you taste the half-devoured remains of your last breakfast in your mouth. They go for your ribs first. Then for your head. You don't register the hits anymore, but you hear the bones cracking. And despite your better knowledge, you hope your father will come for you before you lose all feeling in your face. Maybe you still have the sense to keep quiet, and you better do because when you cry or scream, that's when they're having the most fun. Or you just get killed before you get the chance to say as little as a last goodbye. One well-placed stab with a knife, and your story's over. You never know when they catch up to you. But they sure as hell don't give a damn about your age."
Ban might have conveyed one or two gruesome details too many because Tristan blinked, shuffled a few feet back, and fled to Gilthunder, who had watched the exchange with a concerned frown. After some hushed exchanges, Gilthunder shoved Tristan towards the set of wide stairs leading inside the castle.
Meliodas looked after the pair before he released all tension from his muscles and slacked over the fence. On other days, Ban paid no attention to it, but Meliodas was small. Too small to deal with everyone else's problems on top of his own.
"I would appreciate if you wouldn't talk with Tristan about these things," he said. And although he sounded tired, the order in his words left little room for interpretation.
"I bet you would. You did everything in your might to keep all matters concerning the war from him, all the lovely stuff the Demons did to the humans who couldn't run fast enough. You probably even handpicked the memories Gowther showed him. But with this sugarcoated castle you're building for him, he won't know what's waiting for him outside the walls."
Meliodas clenched his fist and looked into the far distance. "My father did everything to prepare me for what was waiting outside the walls. He made sure that I could kill before I could talk. He pushed me towards the war until all that was good inside me had died. Regardless of what evil is lurking out there, and if it's the Supreme Deity herself, I won't let Tristan go through the same hell. I'm not ready to lecture him about the cruel side of life, the cruelty that forces you to kill or die."
"You know, I would give everything to walk in your shoes – I'll never get the chance to give my kid that lecture."
⸸ † ⸸
Sir Jonathan seemed fond of the human buildings scattered across Avalon and often stopped to admire a brick-built tower or a half-destroyed archway covered with moss. Maybe the decaying structures reminded him of his home. Trees fell with ease, fire, a strong wind, or the hands of a human in search for firewood could bring about their demise. The entire Fairy King's Forest had burned to ash and smoke thirty years ago. But the human halls of stone possessed a remarkable willingness to endure the trials of time. If humans had ever lived in Avalon, they had long passed away without someone left to remember them, but their castles remained.
Lancelot followed Sir Jonathan on one of the many sand trails which led them to the entrance of a great hall. The front stood tall and intact for the most part, only the stained glass above the door frame had shattered. Metal struts crisscrossed in the round hole, defiant to hold onto the colorful pieces long gone.
The inside if the hall showed more signs of destruction. The roof, once made out of wood or shingles, had broken down, and ivy wound itself around the massive beams overhead. One side of the hall opened up to an orchard. But some time ago, the box trees and primroses had outgrown their flowerbeds, and their roots had crept towards the tiles inside to split the carvings once displayed on them.
Lancelot silenced his voice of reason, dropped his guard, and closed his eyes. If he had to name his favorite place on Avalon, his thoughts circled to this hall where the human world and nature met and intertwined. Walls too high and spaces too tight trapped him – in retrospect, his visit to Liones had all the markings of an excursion to a luxurious prison. A prison filled with splendor and more sights to awe at then he could recall, but a prison nonetheless. How long ago these days seemed, almost too long to remember. And while Lancelot had grown up surrounded by the whispers of trees and undergrowth so wild he could lose himself in them, sometimes, the lone sound of his voice had become overbearing. Here, he could pretend to be at peace with himself and the world around him.
But the moment passed as Sir Jonathan raised his voice.
"I reckon you are too young to have witnessed the Holy War and the destruction the battles brought with them?" he asked. The light breaking through the canopy of ivy leaves painted strange patterns on his face. The shadows moved in as if to listen.
A few stories about the Holy War had found their way to Lancelot, but no one at Benwick had been eager to dwell on what had happened, so he had grown tired of asking. His father had committed heroic acts and had fought at the front lines during the war, he had gathered that much through Gowther's memories, but these images didn't make him an eyewitness. The specifics weren't meant for his mentor's ears anyway. Lancelot had boasted about his heritage once – he would not repeat the mistake.
When he nodded, Sir Jonathan continued. "Then I will forgive you for calling my lord Deathpierce a tyrant. It is true that he holds a great many grudges against the other kingdoms, Liones in particular, but he has never treated his people badly. On the contrary, he has created a safe haven for all those who have suffered during the Holy War."
"My father told me that Deathpierce swore to fight all non-human clans," Lancelot said and kicked a loose stone into a sweet briar bush. "He executes the Fairies who are stupid enough to cross the borders to Edinburgh."
"Your words reveal your inexperience. My lord Deathpierce has only once executed a Fairy, and not for trespassing or even espionage. No, the Fairy in question has followed a merchant of Edinburgh into our lands, enamored by the many trinkets he carried with him. The Fairy intended to trade a few sticks or mushrooms, worthless garbage, for a silver cup embellished with rubies and garnets. When the merchant refused, the Fairy grew angry, and a fight broke out. A simple flicker of Fairy magic, a root wrapped around the human's neck, a snap of a finger, and the merchant dropped dead. Humans fall victim to the moods of other clans so easily. The Fairy was executed for murder. You could say he received the justice he deserved. Of course, Edinburgh's neighbors blew the story out of proportion and spread the version you have heard. They are all waiting for a reason to go to war, and if a lie serves their purpose, they see no reason to hesitate."
Lancelot's stomach rebelled. He wanted to throw up. The stone walls, which had seemed calm and pleasant a moment ago, closed in around him. The air fled from his lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull in enough oxygen.
"My father would never lie to me," he whispered, but the words sounded weak, so weak and unconvincing. Everyone had at one point deceived him if the lie suited them. In their eyes, he was nothing more than a child, unworthy of the truth. "Why should I trust your word more than his?"
"Because I was the knight who captured the Fairy. His hands were still clutched around the cup when I brought him before my lord Deathpierce. Perhaps your father didn't know the story either. Perhaps he wanted to believe the lies himself. It matters little."
Lancelot tightened the grip around the hilt of his sword. The familiar leather normalized his heartbeat. "You're right. This doesn't change the fact that Edinburgh wants the destruction of the Demons and Goddesses and all those who side with them."
"But can you deny these people their anger towards the gods who brought war upon them? Can you brush aside their burnt homes, their fallen relatives, the very souls of their beloved eaten by Demons?"
"The people of Edinburgh are considering genocide!"
"And they are justified! You didn't see the war. You have no idea how the people have suffered, how the Demons forced them to abandon their homes and watch as all they had known and loved was consumed by the fires of Purgatory. I haven't forgotten. And as long as I live, I will not forgive. King Arthur's vision of unity and peace between the clans is a lie, the delusive hope of a child. Some creatures cannot be reasoned with. My lord Deathpierce understands this. Perhaps you will too, some day."
Sir Jonathan turned to leave, but whether or not he stayed, his words would not stop to weigh down on Lancelot. His knees trembled.
When was murder justified? What crimes called for a death sentence, for the ultimate atonement of all sins? The Demons had brought harm to humans, a single one of them had destroyed the Fairy King's Forest and all who had lived there. But King Arthur's ignorance, his mercy brought harm to others too. Ban's refusal to protect the Fairies of his kingdom allowed misfortune to come to them. King Meliodas decision to bury the past and take the crown of Liones in spite of the murders he and the Demon Clan had committed might lead to the death of innocents. Where could he draw the line?
And on which side of the line did Lancelot stand?
As the question piled up to bury him, and as Sir Jonathan neared the entrance of the hall, the shadows sprung to life. All sounds of liveliness died out, the plants withered, and out of the earth and the air the Lady of the Lake assembled herself. Her black dress wavered as her hands stretched out to feast on the fear of her surroundings. Lancelot pressed his hands against his head to keep the pressure at bay, but he failed to drive away the voice thundering through the hall and in his head.
"Your lack of progress is disturbing."
"My lady." Sir Jonathan stepped forward. Lancelot had studied his movements long enough to notice the tension in his stance, the slight forward crouch intent on avoiding a surprise attack. "I can assure you that Lancelot has improved dramatically since I first took on his training. For his age, he is quite skillful with both sword and spear. And since you instructed me to turn him into a better knight, I thought he should learn things beyond combat. Therefore, I have ended our training session earlier today."
"Your excuses don't interest me. All your words and deeds will soon fall into oblivion where they belong." The Lady grew, and the ropes extending from her dress and hair stretched to fill the entire width of the hall. The hands searched and curled in the air, hungry for conflict. "If you are unable to present him a challenge, I will."
And out of the shadows to her feet, the Lady produced a humanoid figure. They stumbled forward and fell face-first onto the tiles, where they trembled under fearful sobs. Lancelot's nails dug into his palm. He knew these worn-out clothes, had seen the shabby hat before. Long ago, so long that he had almost forgotten. When the pitiful man raised his head from the ground, the last remains of doubt died. The wide nose, the tiny moustache, the wicked eyes, now filled with tears; Lancelot recognized it all.
The merchant.
The merchant who had tricked the Fairies, the merchant who had tried to kidnap him, the merchant whose disappearance had started the downward spiral. He was the reason why Lancelot stood here in these ruins. And why Jericho no longer could.
Your eyes will judge the wicked.
Still shaking, the merchant crawled on his knees and took in the colors of his surroundings like a man who had been gifted with eyesight after a lifetime of blindness.
"Thank you, thank you, my lady," he said with a broken voice and bowed before the Lady of the Lake. "Words cannot describe how grateful I am. You are truly merciful. Or is this a dream, a terrible dream to make the awakening more painful? Oh, please, don't send me back into the darkness! Anything but that, I will do anything, but please, don't trap me there again!"
The Lady ignored the merchant's shrill pleas and turned her featureless head towards Lancelot. "You fate is not mine to decide."
Dazzled, the merchant took a few moments to realize he and the Lady had company. But when he did turn around, and when he did catch the bare steel in Lancelot's hand, his eyes widened, and he wriggled backwards.
"No, no, no," he rambled, "I've never committed any crime, I haven't rotten in this darkness for all this time only to die! You – you have no right to kill me! The king will hear about this!"
He didn't recognize Lancelot. The feminine boy he had planned to capture and sell no longer existed. The boy had been weak, he would have shown mercy where mercy had no place. But not the prince of the lake.
"What king should help you here?" Lancelot asked and took one step forward.
Pure horror clawed its fangs into the merchant's face, he paled, and his pupils dilated until madness overtook reason. "Arthur, King Arthur! Yes, he – he always meets strangers with kindness. Everyone knows that Camelot welcomes those in need, yes. Have you ever been to Camelot? The streets are paved with gold, they say, and the towers reach higher into the sky than anywhere else in Britannia. Everyone lives in prosperity there, and even sinners are forgiven. Yes, King Arthur won't allow this crime you're about to commit. He is merciful."
Your mouth will speak the truth.
"Arthur has no power here," Lancelot growled. "His mercy allows people like you to take advantage of others. I've seen your heart. I've seen the little evils you abandon yourself to. How many children did you sell away for the sound of gold in your pockets? You have no right to ask for mercy. Jericho is gone because of you!
"Sir Jonathan, lend him your sword."
"No!" the merchant cried. "I know how you knights handle your duels, you high and mighty bastards with all your honor. I refuse to take part in this. Just let me leave, and we'll forget all about this. I won't tell anyone, you won't tell anyone, and then we're even, yes?"
Instead of an answer, Lancelot gave Sir Jonathan a look. But in a fit of defiance, he, as always, stood against Lancelot.
"I doubt this man offers the challenge our lady spoke of," he said. "I may not know who this Jericho is, but your connection towards her weakens you, Lancelot. Your memories of her control your thoughts. Revenge won't lead you anywhere but into an early grave."
Your heart will be filled with justice.
Lancelot didn't waver. Never before had he seen the path with this much clarity. "This won't be revenge. You could say he will receive the justice he deserves. Lend him your sword."
Sir Jonathan's eyes darted back and forth between Lancelot and the Lady of the Lake. If she had wanted, she could have put an end to the fight before a drop of blood was shed. But she refused to raise her voice. With an anticipation that made the air around her stir, she hovered and watched.
Sir Jonathan stepped forward, unsheathed his claymore, and dumped the blade in front of the merchant's feet. A loud clank echoed through the hall as the metal hit the stone tiles, the final bell strike before judgement would be read. The merchant stared at the sword as though Sir Jonathan had asked him to cut his own throat with the weapon, and tearless sobs rocked his body.
"I won't partake in this madness," Sir Jonathan said and withdrew to the far corner of the hall where he took position. Deep furrows ran between his brows.
Lancelot shifted his focus from his mentor to the merchant, and pointed the tip of his sword at him. "Take up your arms."
The merchant fought with himself, fought against the tremor in his hands and the pitiful fear in his heart. But he like most humans stood no chance against his survival instincts. When faced with a threat ready and capable of taking their lives, they chose to defend themselves. The odds of winning didn't matter as long as the illusion of a fair chance existed.
And your sword will crush all evil.
Lancelot waited for the merchant to scramble to his feet and face him with a raised weapon. The dread in the merchant's eyes made him hesitate for a heartbeat, but the evil within the man's heart soon burned and eradicated his doubts. If he showed weakness, who knew how many more would suffer from the merchant's misdeeds. If he had killed him for his crimes back in Benwick, Jericho might still live.
Crush all evil.
The uncounted hands wavered in the air. The shadows crept forward.
And Lancelot hesitated no more.
He charged, and the desperate defense the merchant had put up shattered under the first hit. The claymore dropped to the ground. The merchant's head followed a second later.
Lancelot towered over the corpse. Warm liquid ran down his chin.
Blood.
But not his.
He didn't feel any sort of exertion, he didn't even feel the satisfaction he had hoped for; and still, his breath rattled as though he had run a marathon. The tendrils between the tiles soaked up the blood.
"You passed," the Lady of the Lake said with a voice too smooth to fit her appearance.
One of her hands snaked forward and dropped an item into Lancelot's free hand while the other ropes enwrapped the remains of the merchant until he disappeared in the shadows. With a final cackle and the sound of bones crunching, the Lady dissolved into ash and dust and black water. An ornate pattern of red liquid remained.
As the weight of her presence lifted from his mind, Lancelot inspected the gifts in his hand: a belt and a scabbard, both made out of white leather and adorned with threads of gold. Immaculate embroidery covered the scabbard, mystical runes and symbols and decorations that must have taken hundreds of hours to weave into the leather. The belt's buckle comprised the finest metal, sturdy yet pleasant to look at. Both items had to be worth more than small kingdoms.
For how long had Lancelot wished for a belt and a scabbard to match Jericho's sword? He could no longer tell. But the Lady had plucked his thoughts right out of his mind, and all he had done to receive these awards was pass another trial and end another life. And yet he felt nothing when thinking about the panic in the merchant's heart or the pleas he had ignored or the crimes he had prevented by killing him.
Morgan did not show herself that afternoon.
Sir Jonathan refused to train him for the next five days.
All the while, Lancelot sat in the shadows of his campsite, brushed over the fine decorations of his scabbard, and wondered why he didn't feel anything.
