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

62| Son of Ban - 𝐈

═ 𝘚𝘰𝘯 𝘖𝘧 𝘉𝘢𝘯 ═

Lancelot is reunited with the Ash folk and Ari prompts him to make a decision.

Ban. That name faded on the wind.

Lancelot's hand slid from the face of the hound down to his side, stinging pricking at the corners of his eyes. The trees were caving to the ground, weeping lower and lower. Shrinking the trail where the people emerged. Their faces appeared between heads of others, one by one, a shiver spread though his spine and arms.

He could not be seeing this. It's a trick— it must be. He could not be seeing—

"Lancelot?" The man who had called him by his father's name shuffled forwards, his brow pinching as he viewed him.

Lancelot swallowed convulsively. The patches of deep crimson beneath the man's aged eyes were like Hector's. It wasn't possible. No others had survived. His throat went uncomfortably dry.

"By gods!" The man was overcome with recognition. "Lancelot, you are a man!"

The greying elder rushed forwards to him with his arms wide and welcoming but Lancelot stepped back, thrusting his hand out between them. The other palm ghosted over his sword instinctively in warning.

His eyes stung and his nose was stuffy. He did not know these people. All forty or so of them standing behind the one who'd called his name. But their discoloured fingertips and dark under-eyes said that he did. He had to.

They were Ash.

The man came no closer, his eager expression alight with both concern and relief, taking note of the long sword that Lancelot was ready to draw.

In the stillness, Lancelot took his first breath in Hidden knows how long. Staring out at the many faces and standing alone in front of them all. The hound had slipped away without him noticing and sat itself down in the grass at the edge of the trail. Lancelot stared and stared, his body rigid, mouth agape. Then the one who had said his name crept in small steps, closer.

The grip that Lancelot had on his sword tightened and his other palm pushed further out in mid air. Words still were stuck on his tongue. He did not want to draw the blade but right now he had no other way to demand space.

The man took half a step back. Then his throat bobbed. "You were a boy," he said with an imploring voice that had no edge, "you will not remember me but— I am Tomas. I worked in your father's kitchens at Joyous Gard." He added with a throaty, good-natured laugh, "You used to steal my red berry pies each winter."

Pies. Red berry pies... Crisp pastry weaving over the mix in a lattice that looked like a tree— his tree. His family's crest. Lancelot remembered.

"Tomas," he breathed, his brow pulling taut and his heartbeat pounding within his ears.