[2] WEEPING MONK║you're not what I was looking for

49| The Pagan and the Priest (Part One) - 𝐈

═ 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 ═
𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘖𝘯𝘦

[TW// Canon-typical religious opinions/racism/prejudice. Blood, gore, moderate violence. Strong language]

Ari is held captive by the Trinity Guard. Chaos ensues.

❖
what you'll see is the worst me
not the last of my kind
❖

Lancelot.

He snapped his face across his shoulder, seeking out who had called for him. Nobody in between the trails and tents were looking at him any more than their usual side eyed glances as they pottered around, going about their morning. The scent of cooked meats beginning to stew for this evening's supper was already drifting through from the cooks' tents. Freshly sliced onion filling the air. But he could not see who had said his name.

It sounded almost like his mother's voice - how she used to call for him through his castle's halls. But it couldn't be her. So perhaps he was simply imagining it. His mind had played tricks on him before, so he didn't doubt that it would do so again.

He turned his attention down to the collection of bows at his feet. Some of the grips had frayed and though the bows were still usable, the falling apart leathers were certainly annoying. Between himself, his brother, and the boy - the trio were cutting new leathers and fabrics to replace the old ones. It wasn't the most interesting task but there was little else that needed doing. Whilst the hunters were out, so were the rest of the bows and arrows. Ari and her convoy had taken them also.

Squirrel was happy just for having something to do since there were no lessons today. Gawain and Elyan were both gone and he wasn't allowed to train with Arthur and the sword folk yet.

Lancelot.

He twisted back again, peering around the edge of his hood. Hearing the same voice twice was not a coincidence. He shifted his eyes between the people but didn't feel that sense of someone watching him. And yet he didn't feel comfortable either.

Lancelot - Lancel - Lan - Lancelot - Lance.

So many came at him all at once. Whispers like slithering snakes. He clenched his fist around the knife in his hand, lifting his eyes to the treetops. Staring into the grey sun. The voice was in his head and on the wind and not coming from any one mouth. They swirled together as they echoed his name.

The Hidden, Lancelot realised. They had not spoken to him for days, weeks even. What could they want with him now?

"Oi, naif? What's wrong with you?"

He didn't hear the boy, or see how his brother was looking at him. He was staring up wildly instead at each distant leaf as it moved on the breeze. With a shudder down his spine he felt as if they grew closer, suddenly swelling their calls in canon until he couldn't take this torment any longer.