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

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

Ari.

He twisted - chest tight and a haze in his wild eyes - seeing her knelt over the dead. Her sword bloodied down the edge in her hands. She was fighting for air but she was alive.

The Fey Queen swallowed down on air, barely. Her head light while she got herself to her feet. She kept her sword ready at her side, not allowing herself to blink at the open entrance. One more. There was always one more. But no more guards came.

Blood pooled and soddened the grass - short red blades instead of green each wet with the victims of this day.

Lancelot kept his eyes on her from beneath his hood for a moment longer, as long as he dared to. The grip that he had on his sword hung down beside him did not weaken. But then he turned his face, sweeping his hardening glare across to the Holy man. And that was the wrong choice.

The fury of the fight in his veins froze to a cold wrath.

He began to step forwards and raised his sword towards the Abbot, staying between him and Ari.

The almost silent sound of movement snapped her attention behind her - her senses still on edge, heart racing like the wings of a hummingbird. Lancelot put himself between where she was and the other man, the point of his sword aimed at his chest. She half turned, keeping an eye on the open veil.

Wicklow was stood far too calmly for someone who had just witnessed a bloody massacre. He could have done something but he just watched it all happen in front of his eyes. If he said one single word that Lancelot deemed wrong, then his sword was going straight through the dirty blonde's chest. No mercy spared.

Ari didn't like this stand off between them. Her lover was more than unpredictable when pissed off.

She watched him - saw how taut his shoulders were beneath his cloak. The square placement of his feet ready to fight. That sword. There was a distance between the two men for now but she didn't know if she could stop him from killing the Abbot.

Lancelot kept his sword steady and his eyes locked with absolute precision. Daring the snake to say something. Anything that would give him cause to make him fall like he did the others around them.

Wicklow tried to keep some semblance of authority. Though without a crown or a blade, he found himself at the bottom of this food chain. "The famous Weeping Monk, it is no surprise to see you here," he said.

Threads of control which Lancelot had over his temper frayed and flared and he did not hold back his tongue. "I will be the last thing that you see."

"You were barely alive the last time that I saw you, betraying your brothers."

Ari turned her eyes to Lancelot. Betraying your brothers? She had never come across the Trinity and Lancelot hadn't either since leaving the Paladin camp with Squirrel. It made sense as she realised now why he was barely restraining himself from killing the Abbot - Wicklow had been there on that night.

"I should have killed you," Lancelot seethed. White knuckles straining around his grip.