Yo, so I don't think I've made an AN on this story before, but I'm not going back to check. I'm just going to say that I'm going back to school tomorrow, so updates are probably going to be scarce. Plus, I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo so that's taking my attention along with my TY portfolio for the entirety of April. Sorry about that, but I'll try my best to have something for the end of the month or a week after.

On a brighter note, thank you all so much for your reviews! They're genuinly incredibly encouraging and I wouldn't have finished this chapter without them. I didn't really expect much attention seeing as this fandom is so small, but it's been brilliant. You're all so detailed with your reviews, it's insane. I'm going to reply to a few after I post this because I've been meaning to but I've been lax, and I'll try to reply to them from now on. Thank you!

(Also, this takes place around the end of Lady Sarah and the Dung-Cart Knight. Enjoy!)

Everything hurt.

Everything.

Lancelot lay in bed, not daring to move a muscle for fear of agitating one of many small nicks (or perhaps of the few larger ones), and simply thought about Sarah. As much as he tried to turn his thoughts to lighter, less bloody topics, he found he'd grown close to the fierce little girl, and so naturally he worried. He was allowed to, after all. Not paternally, of course, but more like an older brother. A really foppish, pathetic older brother.

It was ironic in some twisted way, that he'd been personally responsible for one of the grittiest royal disputes in decades, and yet found himself rescued by a girl with the name 'Princess'. Thinking on what had happened, between him and Gwen, still made him feel sick to the stomach. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to get over it and move on. One part of him didn't even want to, because maybe next time he made a mistake of that magnitude he'd remember the last five or so years, and then not.

"Feeling okay, sir?"

Lancelot did not squeak, thank you. He yelped. In a masculine manner.

"Oh my," Squire Terence smirked, "I suppose your little getaway didn't help your reflexes."

Now it had been a while since Lance had been at court, but surely it wasn't a common thing for squires these days to be so… brave. Younger, more arrogant knights would say insolent, but Lancelot found it almost thrilling, especially coupled with that strange feeling the squire exuded. The lad, or man he supposed, as over the years Terence had grown into an almost regal agelessness, leant against Lance's door with a grin plastered on his face that gave the impression that he knew every single one of the Lancelot's thoughts. Perhaps he really did.

"It wasn't a priority," he mumbled in reply, pushing himself up. The squire walked into the room, tall, taller than Gawain now, with his posture both relaxed and dignified.

"Don't push yourself for me, sir. I've just come to deliver a message, and have a little chat if you wouldn't mind."

Lance raised an eyebrow, considering a theory he'd thought on since he'd met Nimue for the first time since his childhood. After the Lady of the Lake had returned him to his home, his father hadn't spoken a word of her. Every time Lance brought her up in conversation, his father became tight-lipped and worried, and the empty halls had seemed so much larger, and full of nothing. He'd assumed she was some dream, some conjuring of the mind he'd used to comfort himself after his mother's death. Faeries weren't real, after all.

And that's what he'd told himself again, that first time he'd seen Sir Gawain's squire up close. Because there was something about him, something ethereal and brilliant and terrifying, that dragged up memories of a woman who held him through so many storms so long ago.

But faeries weren't real.

Except now, Lancelot knew better.

"It's a message from the Lady Nimue, sir. She's left for the Other World, and sends her love," Terence recited lazily. A rather short message. Lady Nimue had a fondness for getting to the point. He was sure that this wouldn't be their final meeting, anyway.

"Squire Terence…" he began, looking the man in the eye. "Are you, perhaps, a, a faery too?"

He didn't know what he was expecting, perhaps a little bit of confusion followed with the lad announcing his humanity for anyone at all in his room and the corridor behind it, but whatever he expected it wasn't a smirk. And that damned look.

"Half, sir. On my father's side," Terence said, sitting down on Lance's bed. Five years ago he'd have been disgusted, but now he found it was comfier to stop thinking about titles so much, and start thinking about people.

Lancelot broke into a contented smile. "I suspected, but I would not believe it if you told me when I was last at court." Only silence passed between them, until Lancelot worked up the courage to say what he'd been thinking since this whole faery business began.

"Do you know Sir Wozzel? I have always suspected the man to be… more than human," he asked, staring into Terence's eyes.

Terence stopped smiling, but didn't look dour, only interested. "S'pose I do, Sir."

"Then," Lance took a breath. "Tell him I said thank you. If he had not knocked me from my horse that faithful day, I would never have had the chance to finally grow up. That man saved my life."

Terence cracked a smile, and soon his grin took up his whole face. "I'll pass along the message. You get your rest now, and I'll go check on our princess."

The squire pushed himself up and sauntered towards the door, and Lancelot got the impression that maybe the boy wasn't any old faery's son. That was Terence's business however, and if for the rest of his days Lance only knew him to be a squire then so be it. He was a squire. And a damn good one, from what he'd seen, even back when he couldn't give a care to the servants. He'd save them all someday, if he hadn't yet.

Terence stopped in the doorway, and leant back. "Oh, and Sir?" Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "You're very welcome. For me knocking you off your horse. Did you a world of good, I'd say." He smirked again, and was gone, just like that.