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the-weeping-monk · 4 years

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visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 1

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The water pulled Nimue down, down, down, greedy in its hold over her body. She was sinking in a shroud of her own blood. Red, red, red. The pain she felt was unlike anything she had experienced before. She would scream if she could, but even that took too much energy.

She was dying. And while she should have been calm, knowing that death was inevitable—that she would be able to see her mother again—she could feel nothing but agony. There was so much she had to do. Were the Fey safe? Did they make it to the ships? What of Pym and Squirrel and Arthur? What of Morgana and Merlin?

Merlin. Her father. The man who had tried to save her despite being near-death himself. A burst of agony flashed through her. There had been unadulterated rage in Merlin’s eyes toward Iris as he had flung himself forward and caught Nimue’s hand. And when she had slipped through his fingers, there was only pain, a gut-wrenching agony that she felt in her core.

This couldn’t be the end. Her story couldn’t end here, it couldn’t.

. . . could it?

She had lived her entire life wishing to be accepted, and when that wish had not been granted, she had tried to run. Away from her problems, away from her life. But when she wasn’t running, she had been fighting. She had fought the wolves and had gained herself a name. She had fought the Red Paladins and led her people and named herself a queen. Nimue had run, but she had also fought. And now, as the water slowly stole her breath, she was fighting still.

She did not want to die. She wasn’t ready. There was so much to do, so much she had yet to accomplish.

But Nimue was growing tired and losing consciousness. She could not fight forever, it seemed.

She was about to give in to Death’s call when she felt it: the Hidden. They reached out to her, desperate in their plea. She felt their power flow through her, felt them clamber to the forefront of her mind. Their shouts of desperation pushed her into action, and she called upon the magic inside of her in a last-ditch effort.

Vines and roots alike reached out to her from the darkness of the water, grasping her limbs in an attempt to save her from this watery grave. She was barely conscious when she reached the surface, little more than a deadweight for the Hidden to pull to shore. They laid her gently on the rocks of the beach and slithered away.

Nimue’s eyes shot open and she rolled onto her side, heaving up water. The next lungfuls of air were painful, but they were the sweetest she had ever tasted. The pain meant that she was alive , that she had survived this. The air was sharp and stinging, but Nimue relished in it. Each gust of piercing wind widened her smile. She wasn’t dead.

She pushed herself off of the ground and immediately winced. The arrows stuck in her chest brought a fresh wave of pain over her, and she doubled over. Nimue squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a torrent of curses. She didn’t have any medical supplies or Fey ointments. She was alone without resources and two arrows stuck in her chest.

The Hidden bombarded her mind with unintelligible whispers once more. Nimue had not been able to use their power for anything other than destruction before, except for when she had produced fruit from a barren tree. Merlin had guided her then, but he was not here now.

Anger is your flint to the fire, he had said, telling her something she had already known. But then, There are other ways to access the Hidden. Imagine the result you want.

She was running out of time. If she wanted to live, if she wanted to see her friends again, then she had to try.

Stealing herself, Nimue called out to the Hidden.

Create an intention, and then surrender that intention to the Hidden.

She wanted to be healed. She wanted the arrows out of her chest, wanted her wounds closed. Nimue held onto Merlin’s words, felt their truth in the way the Hidden had once listened to her wishes. The whispers grew.

There were two sharp stabs of pain—one in her left shoulder, one in the center of her chest—and then everything was numb. She heard rather than felt the arrows fall and clatter to the ground. It was only when the whispers receded that Nimue reached a hand up to touch the points where the arrows had lodged themselves in her chest.

Her mouth parted slightly, amazed that instead of two gaping holes, there were only two scars. The Hidden had listened to her, had healed her.

Unable to quench her relief and triumph, she laughed aloud. Anyone nearby would have thought her mad, but Nimue could not care less. She had been given a second chance, and she would not hesitate to fulfill it as she had before. That scared little girl who had tried to run from her destiny was dead. She had died in the lake, and was buried in its depths. Nimue would no longer hide from what she was meant to do. She was the Wolf-Blood Witch, the Fey Queen, and she would not be cowed.

Soaking wet in a mix of blood and water, she glanced around. She was alone, save for Red Paladin bodies littered on the stone bridge above. No Merlin, no Morgana, no Iris with her bow and arrows. No sword.

She frowned. No matter, she would find her friends soon enough. She knew where Arthur and the Fey were headed, knew where the ships had taken them if all went to plan, so that was where she would check first. But there was still something nagging at her, a seedling of doubt.

If the king had not been able to stop the church from interfering with her life, she doubted he would have been able to stop the church’s interference with the Fey.

But before she could do any of that, she needed dry clothes. Now that she wasn’t half-dead, the cold air was beginning to wrack her body with shudders. Biting her cheek against the onslaught of harsh winds, Nimue made her way up the mountainside and toward the stone bridge. It took her an embarrassing amount of time, but she figured it wasn’t too bad since she had almost died mere moments before.

Nimue blinked. All of the Red Paladins had lightning scars on their skin and charred holes seared straight through their robes. Had there been a storm while she was drowning? She studied the bodies closer and deduced that the strokes were too deliberate to be a coincidence. Merlin must have gained his magic back—that was the only explanation she could come up with.

She combed through the dead Red Paladins, searching for one of their robes that wasn’t completely destroyed. Once she found one that would do, Nimue carefully ripped the fabric off of the man, tearing the seam at its side. She threw the robe around her shoulders, shivering at another gust of wind.

Clenching her teeth, Nimue made her feet move toward the mountain pass where she, Morgana, and Merlin had been headed before Iris had shot her. Though the Hidden had healed her wounds, there was still an ache deep inside of her. She was exhausted from the emotional toll of the day; all she wanted to do was sleep.

But Nimue was a queen with a duty to her people. If the church had sabotaged the Fey, then she needed to save them. She would not let them suffer through what had taken her mother and her village. She would not.

Nimue resolved that she would save her people even if she died trying.

. . .

The moon rose as the Fey made camp along the shoreline and in the surrounding caves of the beach. Arthur and the Red Spear had quickly taken charge. They had gathered those left alive together and debated on their next move: they could either board the ships to the new land, as had been promised to them; or they could stay and rescue Nimue.

Though there were a few who wanted to leave, they were quickly convinced by the consensus to fight for their queen. The Fey had stuck together for a long time before Nimue had made herself their queen, and now was not the time for them to be parted.

It gave Arthur peace of mind to know that he was not alone in his devotion to Nimue, that there were others who would risk their lives for her as she had for them.

He had wanted to go after Nimue immediately, but the Red Spear persuaded him against it.

“The Fey need to rest, as do my people. We’ll figure out our plan of attack in the morning, but not right now,” she had said.

So instead of his instinct to rush into battle to save Nimue, Arthur helped ration out food and water.

There wasn’t much to sort through; no one had thought to bring more than they could carry. They had, after all, assumed that they would be on their way to new lands by now.

The Red Spear worked beside him in comfortable silence. Ever since the battle, an understanding had passed between them. Arthur was not quite sure what that meant, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to fight against her. He considered himself a good swordsman, but he knew, without a doubt, the Red Spear would be able to take him down in an instant.

It was a good thing that she was on their side. They would need her skill if they were going to rescue Nimue from the king and the Red Paladins.

Nimue. He shouldn’t have let her go, should never have let her out of his sight. But he had, and now he was paying the price. If Cumber the Ice King sabotaged King Uther’s plans for the Fey, then who was to say he wouldn’t interfere with Uther’s plans for Nimue?

Arthur clenched his fists. The deal was a fool’s bargain, to begin with. He had to save her. His Nimue.

The Red Spear broke him out of his reverie.

“We should make our way to the caves. It will provide more shelter than out here,” she said once the last of the rations had been passed out.

Arthur murmured his agreement and the two made their way into one of the closest cavities. There were already a few lit fires inside, and Arthur searched for Pym. He had made certain she survived the battle, for Nimue’s sake, but he hadn’t analyzed her for major injuries.

There were not many Fey, though there hadn’t been many to begin with. It was lucky the Red Spear and her army had shown up when they did, or else there might not have been any left. The dead were left out on the beach while the injured were moved inside the caverns.

As Arthur and the Red Spear made their way through the encampment, they made sure to watch where they stepped. It was a tight space, but it was better than leaving the injured out in the open.

His gaze caught on Pym, who was sitting near the back with a group of raiders. He nodded his head in their direction and said, “Let’s head there.”

Arthur didn’t wait for the Red Spear to follow him. When Pym spotted him, she grinned and waved him toward her. He sat beside her on a piece of driftwood, while the Red Spear sat across from him with her comrades. She pulled the tip of her spear into her lap, produced a knife from her boot, and then proceeded to sharpen her spearhead.

He turned toward Pym. “Are you okay?”

“Better than Blondie, here,” she said, gesturing to the other side of her where a burly man with a blond beard sat.

The man had a gash on his temple. The blood streaked down his face and matted in his beard. Upon hearing the nickname Pym had given him, he glared at the petite girl.

“Oh, lighten up,” Pym laughed. “You know you love it.”

The man grumbled something under his breath.

“So you’re not hurt?” Arthur clarified. He had quickly realized that Pym often made jokes to avoid difficult matters or stress in general. Nimue had been good at prying information from her when she was like this, so Arthur took a page out of Nimue’s book.

Pym shook her head. “No. I stayed in here, in the cave. And even if I had joined the fight, I have this,” she gestured at an elaborate necklace, “to protect me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Arthur said, his lips quirking up. He did not think that he could manage to produce a real smile, at least not yet. Not until he knew that Nimue was safe.

Arthur looked to the Red Spear. Her focus was on her spearhead, on sharpening its sides. It gave him a chance to study her. The flames cast long shadows across her face, making her look older than her years. Her nose piercing glinted in the light, as if it were made of liquid fire. Her eyebrows were pinched together in concentration. He wondered what she was thinking of, and then he realized that he did not know much about her at all. A thought occurred to him.

“What’s your real name?” he asked, breaking the silence.

The Red Spear glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised. “You can call me the Red Spear.”

Arthur frowned. “Yes, but—”

“I am afraid we don’t know each other well enough for me to reveal my true name to you,” she cut in, leveling him with a harsh look. “So stop asking.”

Arthur closed his mouth and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying more. But as the minutes ticked on, he had to know—

“Why would you help us if you don’t trust us?”

She stopped sharpening her spear, irritated. “Look, we may not be Fey, but that doesn’t mean our names are any less powerful. Do not fault me if I don’t tell you mine.”

Arthur raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Alright,” he said at last. “Consider that the last time I asked.”

The Red Spear met his eyes and nodded, satisfied, before shifting her focus back to her spear.

Arthur did not understand why the Red Spear refused to part the shroud of secrecy surrounding her. It made no sense. In his experience, if you were fighting together, you trusted that person with your life—there had to be no room for doubt. She was a puzzle to him, one that was getting increasingly more difficult to solve.

No one spoke for a few moments. Pym was the first to break the silence, her eyes downcast. “Do you think Nimue is alright?”

Arthur gazed into the fire, watched the flames dance. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. Nimue had sacrificed herself—and for what? They didn’t make it to the ships anyway.

The Red Spear paused in her sharpening once more. Her eyes were gentle, an expression Arthur hadn’t seen on her yet. It softened her features.

“Your queen is most likely being tortured for information. Worst case, she’s already been killed,” she said matter-of-factly.

Arthur’s stomach dropped. Pym’s eyes widened. It was not what she wanted to hear—it wasn’t what Arthur wanted to hear, either. He turned his face away, worked his jaw.

“We have to get her back,” he declared.

The Red Spear’s eyes found his. “No.” It was a simple statement with no room for negotiation.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” argued Arthur, rage flickering inside of him.

“I mean, we can’t do anything about your queen right now—we have more important things to focus on.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“Nothing,” Arthur seethed, voice deadly calm, “is more important to me than Nimue.”

The Red Spear sighed as if she were talking to a child. “Look, Arthur, I know that this is hard for you, but until my father is dealt with, then your queen will never be safe.”

“She’ll be safer with us,” he said, leaning forward. “I know it.”

“Maybe so, but rescuing her from who-knows-where expends more resources than we can afford right now.” She laid her spear on the ground, having finished sharpening it. “Your queen is strong. She has immense power—she’ll be fine, long enough for us to take command of Cumber’s army.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before fixing the Red Spear with a stare. “No. Not going to happen. You can deal with Cumber, but the Fey and I will be rescuing our queen.”

The Red Spear groaned. “Arthur, listen to me: you can’t go up against the king’s army. Your queen was the only one powerful enough to go head-to-head with them. Without her, you will be crushed,” she said, factual. “And then what would her sacrifice be for?”

Arthur hated to admit it, but she had a good point. He couldn’t risk everything that Nimue had done for them on a gamble.

After a moment of tense silence in which everyone in their little group was staring at him, Arthur gave a terse nod. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Alright. But you have to promise me that you will do everything in your power to get her back once you’ve bested Cumber.”

The Red Spear’s eyes were determined when she said, “I promise.”

. . .

“Where are we going to go?” Squirrel asked, cocking his head at Lancelot.

They had stopped along a river to allow their horse to rest. Lancelot had shrugged off his cloak and was kneeling down by the riverbank in an attempt to wipe the blood off of his face and hands.

At Squirrel’s question, Lancelot turned his head toward where the boy stood next to the horse. Something about the child struck a chord with him. Squirrel was too young to lose so much. Perhaps that was why Lancelot had become so protective of him. Or it had been because of something else entirely.

Does he remind you of someone? the abbot had asked.

He hadn’t admitted it, but Squirrel reminded Lancelot of himself. He had only been a boy when Carden ripped him from his home after his disciples had burned his village. Oh, how he had hated Carden for it, how he had despised him.

But as time went on, Lancelot began to forget what it was like to truly be one of the Fey. Memories of his family grew hazy and were replaced by memories of Carden and the Red Paladins instead. They were replaced by memories where Lancelot was the one destroying villages like his own, where Lancelot killed his own kind.

The Green Knight’s words had stuck with him. They had latched themselves onto Lancelot, branded themselves onto his heart.

Why didn’t you tell them? Lancelot had asked. Before . . . you could have told them. But you didn’t. Why?

Because all Fey are brothers. Even the lost ones, the Green Knight had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Lancelot did not want Squirrel to suffer the same fate that he had. He owed that much to the Green Knight.

“We will go to the nearest village to gather supplies, and then I’ll take you back to your friends, wherever they may be,” Lancelot said, rubbing off a splotch of blood on his palm.

Squirrel frowned. “What do you mean ‘wherever they may be’? Aren’t they still at Gramaire?”

Lancelot blinked. He was reminded that this boy had probably been away for the entire time the deal was being made. “The last I had heard, the Fey were being given safe passage off-land in exchange for your queen.”

“Nimue traded herself for the Fey?” There was a note of disbelief in Squirrel’s voice.

Lancelot merely nodded, unsure what to say. He did not know how close the boy and the Fey Queen were—if he should offer words of comfort or simply let Squirrel figure out his feelings on his own.

Squirrel turned away, only to turn back to face Lancelot a moment later. “We need to go rescue her.”

Lancelot’s brows furrowed immediately. “We cannot risk it—it’s too dangerous.”

“Nimue could be hurt!” Squirrel shouted, and then proceeded to attempt to climb onto the horse. “We must go.”

“No, we must not.”

Squirrel gave up trying to get into the saddle and rounded on Lancelot instead. “And why not? Nimue risks herself for everyone else! She’s my friend, and friends help each other.”

“There’s only one of me against King Uther’s army. That won’t end well.”

The boy was indignant. “There's two of us.”

Like that will make so much of a difference. Lancelot bit his tongue against the remark and said instead, “You don’t even know how to fight, Percival.”

Squirrel crossed his arms. “You know I don’t like that name.”

“And you know that it’s too dangerous to go into the king’s camp alone and unprotected. Don’t you?” Lancelot stood from his spot by the riverbank and slipped on his cloak.

Squirrel looked away and remained silent.

Lancelot sighed and stepped toward him, deciding that the boy’s affection for the Fey Queen would only cloud his judgment. He needed to switch tactics.

“How about this: we find your friends and I teach you how to fight. Then we can save your queen. You are a knight, after all,” Lancelot said after a moment of deliberation.

A pair of blue eyes met his own. “You mean it? You’ll teach me to fight?”

Lancelot’s lips quirked up unconsciously. “I mean it.”

Squirrel grinned. “Yes!” he crowed, punching a fist in the air in triumph.

Lancelot liked seeing the boy happy and was glad his promise did the trick. But Squirrel had a fast-track mind and wouldn’t be occupied for long. Lancelot would need to stall for time in order to gather his thoughts.

Though he had promised to teach the boy how to fight in order to placate him, Lancelot knew that he would have to learn at some point. Why not now? The sun was still high in the sky, beating down upon them. They would have time to get supplies later. He searched around the riverbank for a moment, and when his gaze landed on two sticks about the same length, he gave one to Squirrel and kept the other for himself.

Turning the stick over in his hand, Squirrel asked, “What are these for?”

Lancelot had two swords on his person, but he assumed that giving a child a sharp weapon on his first lesson was not the smartest option. Especially when that child was impulsive and accident-prone.

“Lesson one: anything can be used as a weapon.” Lancelot paused, contemplating his next words. Father Carden had taught him how to first use a sword and had guided him through the motions. “Hold the stick like this,” he said, adjusting Squirrel’s grip on the stick as if it were a true sword.

When the boy was holding the mock-sword properly, Lancelot spoke. “Now, I want you to do what you think will disable me the fastest.”

It was something Father Carden had said to him when they first began their lessons. Disable me as best you can. Imagine that I am the enemy.

But Carden and his Red Paladins had always been the enemy, in a way. They had burned his village, taken him from his home. Lancelot’s imagination had not had to stretch far in order to conjure up the memory of his home in flames, of those same flames reflected in his mentor’s eyes.

At first, Lancelot had been Squirrel’s captor—his enemy—just as Father Carden had been Lancelot’s. He had bore witness to the burning of the boy’s home and had captured him for his own purposes.

Bile rose in Lancelot’s throat. Maybe he was not so different from Carden as he had thought.

Squirrel studied him for a moment, unsure. “Okay . . .” he said, glancing between Lancelot and the stick in his hands. And then, true to his nickname, he darted forward and slashed his stick toward Lancelot’s side.

Lancelot blocked the blow with ease, causing the boy to stumble back from the momentum. “Focus,” he commanded.

The boy narrowed his eyes in concentration before running forward again, this time diving for Lancelot’s legs. The monk merely stepped to the side, and Squirrel fell into the dirt.

“This isn’t fair,” Squirrel huffed, picking himself off of the ground.

“And you think that going up against an entire army will be?” Lancelot raised a brow.

Squirrel looked away.

Lancelot’s voice softened. “Sword-fighting took me years to master. I do not expect you to get it right away.” Squirrel met his eyes, albeit reluctantly. “This art takes focus and precision. Every move must be deliberate.”

“But we don’t have time for that. I need to be good now.” Squirrel crossed his arms, indignant.

Lancelot looked out over the empty land stretching out for miles in every direction. He was not good with people, with talking. He hardly ever spoke a word, and when he did, it was usually just reporting to Father Carden or barking out orders. But with Squirrel, Lancelot had to actively think of how to handle the situation and say the right things.

After a moment, Lancelot spoke. “These things take time. No one can simply pick up a sword and instantly be a good fighter.”

“But that’s what Nimue did,” Squirrel pouted. “She’s never even held a weapon before the Sword of Power but she killed those wolves and Red Paladins.”

Lancelot hid his surprise. The Wolf-Blood Witch amazed him the more he learned about her. He was not sure what to make of her, but he knew that she was one of the most powerful beings since Merlin. He knew that she was made to be a queen.

“Your queen . . .” Lancelot trailed off, choosing his next words with care. “Your queen’s situation is a little different. She was forced to become so much in so little time.”

“Why can’t I be as good as her?”

Discarding his stick to the side, Lancelot squatted down to be at Squirrel’s eye level. The boy looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes confused. Lancelot brought his hands to Squirrel’s shoulders and said, “Stop comparing yourself to her. You may not have the skill she does, but you have just as much heart.” Lancelot’s lips quirked. “You sneaked into a Red Paladin camp, completely unarmed, in order to save your friend.”

At the mention of the Green Knight, Squirrel looked down.

Guilt caught in Lancelot’s throat, but he barreled on. “That takes strength, Percival, and I know that your friend would be proud of you.”

Squirrel froze. “‘Would be’?”

Lancelot tensed, realizing his mistake. He did not know for certain if the Green Knight had died or not, but he had assumed that he had based on the severity of his wounds. Lancelot hurried to move on, to distract the boy from his pain.

“What I am trying to say is that you do not need to prove your worth by becoming a knight and fighting in battle. You have already proven your loyalty and strength by doing what no one else did.”

Squirrel did not seem completely deterred from Lancelot’s slip, but some of the tension in his body released nonetheless. He did not speak, only nodded once.

Lancelot figured that was as good as he would get, and stood to help the boy back onto the horse. When they were both situated, they continued on their path in comfortable silence.

#nimulot #nimue x lancelot #cursed #cursed netflix #squirrel #Lancelot and squirrel #the father-son duo we deserve #Arthur x the red spear #arthur x guinevere #the weeping monk #the fey queen #the wolf-blood witch #nimulot fanfic #nimulot fanfiction #cursed Netflix fanfic #visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)#the-weeping-monk writes

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everlastingdreams · 4 years

Text

Weeping Monk x Reader : The City Of Fey Chapter 1

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Notes: ^ my gif. Here it is, the first chapter. I am not truly happy with it and I promise the next chapters are better. This is a slow burn story.

Summary: As a fey queen you are by now used to it that fey come into your woods seeking refugee or a place to hide. Things get complicated however when your knights have not just brought a fey boy but also the red paladins' fiercest warrior into your city.

Chapters: 1/ ?

Word count: 3581 (in this chapter)

Warnings: None yet it think. But there will be in other chapters.

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It had been more then a day since he had saved the boy who was sleeping between his arms as he held the reins. Wanting to create as much distance between him and the camp, he had only stopped when it was necessary.

He knew they would come for him after what he had done, the Trinity guards would not rest until he was dead.

Him as well as the boy.

He felt himself get weaker. His wounds were starting to burn more and soon he stopped and woke the boy.

The boy opened his eyes, still drowsy he asked "Where are we ?"

In truth, he had no idea. At some point he had took a turn and now he was in a forest he didn't recognise.

It was no use to hide the fact from the boy "I am not sure. I don't recognise these woods. Do you ?"

The boy focused his eyes on the trees as he looked around before shaking his head "No."

He helped the boy off of the horse before he descended from Goliath as well.

The moment his feet hit the ground he felt a sharp pain going through the wound on his head. He had to hold on to Goliath to keep his balance.

The boy looked around, touching the trees, looking for signs of other feys nearby but he could find none.

"We'll rest here for now. Keep an eye on our surroundings. We don't know what's in these woods." he told the boy as he tied the reins to a nearby branch.

After gathering some firewood the boy seemed to be quite good at making a fire. They kept it small so it wouldn't be too visible to unwanted visitors.

As they sat by the fire he was aware of his surroundings, he always was, but his mind wandered back to the moment he betrayed those who had raised him.

The realisation hit him that he felt just as lost as he felt when he was with the red paladins, with Father Carden. There was little difference there, the only thing being the boy who was now sleeping on the ground at the other side of the fire. The orphaned fey, a mirror of his own past.

The words of The Green Knight repeating itself in his mind

If this is where you belong, then tell them what you are.

In that moment he knew The Green Knight was right. He would never be accepted for what he was. It became clear as day when Father Carden reminded him of his 'demonic' heritage, and how he told him that his path would only lead to salvation if he would do what was necessary when the time came. The Green Knight could have told them what he was but didn't, because 'All fey are brothers'.

Father Carden on the other hand had reminded him that if he were to burn, so would he.

After all these years of serving him loyally, Father Carden truly only saw him as a weapon to wield.

He was fey. A traitor to not only his own kind but now to where he was raised as well.

But as he watched the boy sleep he felt no regret in his decission to save him. He was prepared to die, accepted his faith if that was what it took to save the boy.

He had refused to stand by and watch a child be tortured.

When the boy, Percival, was prepared to fight against the Trinity guards he almost couldn't believe it.

A child, a fey boy, was risking his own life to save him.

Someone was willing to fight for him.

To die, for him.

The Green Knight's words rang through his head as he had picked up a sword and fought the Trinity guards and escaped the camp with the boy.

He didn't know where to go now, only that he would protect the boy with his life.

As the brave boy had done for him.

After being somewhere between asleep and awake, he heard a branch snap. The sound wasn't loud but he was alert immediately.

He stood up with caution and then he noticed the scent.

Fey.

He felt eyes on him, and he slowly went to wake the boy.

"What-" Percival protested but he quickly covered the boy's mouth and hushed him.

The boy understood what was happening and he stood up from the ground.

He pulled the boy to stand behind him, but he felt eyes on him from every angle.

"Born in the dawn..." he spoke the words and waited for a reply.

The forest remained silent for another moment.

Then archers stepped out from behind the trees, bows drawn and aimed at him.

“We don't say it here anymore. Not when we realised you could use it against us.” a man with blonde hair, clearly one of those in charge approached. His sword wasn't drawn, but with the amount of archers it didn't seem necessarry.

He tried to cover the boy as much as he could while he watched the archers like a hawk “I have no intentions to fight you. Or to harm you.”

“I don't believe you. I wonder why that is ?” the man replied, venom dripping from his words.

He knew they didn't have any reason to believe him, not with his reputation. Not after what he had done.

Another man approached on horse back, wearing impressive armor, he swiftly got off of his horse and came towards him and the boy as well. He guessed this man was a knight and most likely outranked the other one.

He stopped next to the blonde man, his eyes landing on the boy right away as he tried to look past him “Born in the dawn ?”

The Weeping Monk noticed how this man didn't come of as aggressive compared to the other one.

“To pass in the twilight.” Percival replied quietly from behind the Weeping Monk.

The man raised a hand and the archers lowered their bows, earning an angry glare from the blonde man.

“What are you doing ?!” he seethed at him “That's the Weeping Monk !”

The man remained composed as he spoke “And behind him is a fey boy. You shoot arrows at him, you'll hit the boy as well.”

The blonde drew his sword and the Weeping Monk saw the other feys do the same, all except the man in the armor decorated with silver.

He noticed how none of them attacked, they all appeared to wait for a signal from the man in the armor.

Percival now moved from behind him, looking at the man in armor “No ! Wait !”

He tried to grab Percival put his grip faltered and the boy walked up to the man in armor.

The tension increased between him and the men.

“Why are you here with him, boy ?” the man in the armor asked him.

The Weeping Monk wanted nothing more then to grab the boy and pull him away from the men, but any sudden movement would escalate the situation.

“He saved me ! Please don't kill him !” Percival pleaded as he stood between him and the men.

The man in the armor frowned and looked at the Weeping Monk in disbelief “What do you mean ?”

“I was captured, he fought the trinity guard to save me ! Please !” the boy pleaded.

The man now looked at him “Is this true ? Did you save this fey boy ?”

“YES!” Percival shouted in frustration.

The Weeping Monk gave a short nod, still not feeling like he deserved the praise for his act “Yes.”

“He's tricking us, Raphael! He'll kill us the second we turn our backs on him.” the blond one interupted.

The man, Raphael, contemplated his next course of action “Silence, Crillan.” he commanded.

He stepped closer to the boy, examining him before looking at the Weeping Monk.

“It's not our decission. She'll decide his faith.” he nodded for the other fey to come closer “If what you say is true, then you and the boy won't mind coming with us. The boy belongs with his kind.”

He knew the man was right, Percival belonged with his kind, not with the one responsible for killing so many fey. But he wasn't just going to abandon the boy so he agreed and let them bind his hands together with ropes. Percival walked beside Raphael with Goliath.

He tried to remember as much of the path they were taking as he could, all while keeping an eye on the boy. However after a while it got hard to do so as the forest almost felt endless.

There were no fey signs anywhere either.

After a while he spotted tall walls in the distance.

It can't be...

He was leaded right to them and when he got closer he realised the walls held a small city within them. There were archers all over the wall looking out over the forest.

Raphael raised his hand and moments later, the gates were opened.

The Weeping Monk followed the fey inside, but stopped to look around for a second.

Frightful looks were aimed at him from all over. Small fey children who had been playing on the ground closeby now ran away. Percival's eyes went wide, he can't remember the last time he had seen so many of his kind all together like this.

Crillan pushed the Weeping Monk forward, still annoyed that he couldn't just kill him in the woods “Move.”

He glared at him before obliging.

Raphael stopped Percival “Leave the horse here, he'll be taken good care off.”

Percival looked at the Weeping Monk, looking for confirmation and he nodded.

Raphael took the reins from him and tied the reins next to a few others horses.

The man in the armor knocked loudly on the door of a larger building, it was opened right away and he moved aside, gesturing for them to walk inside.

The boy now stayed close to him as they followed the fey soldiers inside.

Raphael walked up to some of the fey soldiers who were inside “Has she returned yet ?”

The fey shook their head, the knight wasn't pleased to hear it.

“She's not here yet ?” Crillan asked him before looking at the Weeping Monk in disgust “Who says this bastard doesn't have anything to do with that ?!”

“I saw no one else in the forest but you.” the Weeping Monk quickly denied the accusation.

“Crillan !” the knight tried to silence him.

Crillan drew his sword and pointed it at the weeping monk, the boy moved to get between him and Crillan but he pulled the boy back to stand behind him.

“Stay.” the tone of his voice leaving no room for protest.

The boy reluctantly listened and stood a few steps behind him.

He didn't know how he should react, his hands were tied but he could easily break free if it was necessary. But then they would undoubtedly attack him, and the last thing he wanted now was to kill another of his kind. Not again, not after the damage he had already caused.

So he showed no intention to move.

The blonde knight scoffed at him “I don't believe a word you say you murdering bastard !” he turned to Raphael “We brought the Red Paladins weapon into our city ! I say we kill him now before he kills us all !”

“No !” the boy shouted at the knight.

Raphael moved but was not fast enough “Stop !”

The fey knight swung his sword, aiming at him.

He found himself unwilling to move out of the way to dodge the sword.

After everything he had done, perhaps this was what he deserved.

They wouldn't harm the boy, why should he continue to fight ?

“STOP !” another voice commanded loudly.

The sword stopped a mere inch away from his neck.

The knight, Raphael, grabbed the sword out of the other's hand angrily “Fool !”

"Is this how we treat our guests now ? And in front of a boy ?!" the voice got closer.

Both Percival and him looked behind them to see a woman approach.

Some of her bloodied (h/c) hair sticking to the side of her head.

The other fey moved aside immediately as she entered the large room.

The blonde bowed his head in shame as she scolded him. It was evident by the reactions of the other fey that whoever this woman was, they respected her.

“Can I not trust you when I leave, Crillan ?” She approached the knight in anger.

He didn't meet her eyes when he answered “Forgive me. But the risk is too high for him to live.”

“That is not for you to decide !” Raphael reminded him once more.

“If you wish to use your sword then go and teach the children how to protect themselves. Get out of my sight.” you walked past him and towards the young fey boy.

The blonde knight was given back his sword and left the room in silence.

You could see the boy was frightened after that display of unnecesarry voilence, only looking at the hooded man for a second before speaking to the boy.

“Don't be frightened, boy. Crillan would not have harmed you.” you tried to comfort him.

The frightened looks in his eyes disappeared “I'm not afraid of that scum !”

As much as he admired the brave side of the boy, the Weeping Monk knew that his use of language would continue to get him into trouble.

A smile played on your lips and you shot a glance at Raphael who looked at the boy in suprise.

It took a lot for you not to laugh at the boy's outburst.

"Even though I find you quite amusing, others might not take kindly to the way you curse them out."

You carefully used your fingers to tilt his chin up to look at the wounds on his face "Looks like you were unfortunated enough to find out." The Weeping Monk watched as you studied the boy's face, he couldn't remember if someone had ever shown such care to him when he was a child. "It's just a scratch." the boy took a small step back as if he didn't want to look weak. You smiled at him before kneeling before him "You're brave, boy. I can see why you were made a knight." The boy looked suprised and wondered how you knew this. Then his gaze fell to his feet at the memory of Gawain. You cupped his cheek with one hand, making him look at you again "And as a queen.." This made the Weeping Monk look at you, he had no idea who or what you were until now. You continued and winked at the boy "..I always command my knights to act carefully." Before the boy could speak you focused on his face and felt your magic glide through your fingers into his skin. Causing the wounds to disappear before everyone's eyes. The Weeping Monk couldn't believe his eyes when he saw it happen, he knew feys could use their skills to make potions and salves to heal others but never saw it being done with nothing but their own magic. He stared at Percival's now healed face, there wasn't a scratch on him anymore. He looked at you, trying to mask how much in awe he truly was of what you had just done. That's when he saw the blood running from your nose and the worried looks of the other feys when they saw it too. The moment the boy's wounds disappeared, your nose had started bleeding. The fight you were in before returning to the city had exhausted you. Using your magic took a toll on you and using healing powers was something that was costly so you used it sparingly. But you didn't want this brave fey boy to be left with scars if you could prevent it. "Welcome home, Percival." you said with a smile before standing up. "How do you know my name ?" The boy asked, shocked. You took a few steps back and wiped the blood from your nose with your sleeve. "My magic allows me to sense certain things." You answered his question with honesty. "He doesn't like his name." The Weeping Monk finally spoke. You looked at him but weren't suprised "Seems like you two have more in common then I initially expected." The way you said it left little doubt that you could sense something about him too. It caught him a little off guard and he narrowed his eyes, curious about just how much you could actually sense.

“My name is y/n.” you told them “There's no need for you to introduce yourself though. Your reputation precedes you.” now directing your attention to him.

His gaze fell to the floor as he remained silent again.

You went to stand opposite of him but kept a safe distance “Tell me, why are you in our woods ? I can make a guess based on that reputation but it doesn't explain why the boy is with you.”

Raphael cleared his throat before coming closer “The boy says he saved his life. Fought the trinity guards to do so.”

You looked at the Weeping Monk, processing the information “Is this true ?”

“YES ! The red paladins were going to torture me !” the boy shouted before he could answer.

“We were trying to get as far away as we could to prevent them from finding us.” the Weeping Monk admits “It wasn't my intention to come here.”

“You ? You saved a fey ?” you stammered the words in disbelief. Your eyes darting between the boy and him.

Why ? Why would he save a fey ? The question repeated itself over and over again in your head.

“I understand now why my knights took a risk bringing you here to see me. You understand that I must protect my people ? I do not know what your intentions are.”

The Weeping Monk nodded in understanding “What happens to me is not important. I only wish for the boy to be safe. Do what you must to protect your people.”

A frow formed on your face at his words, you fell silent upon hearing it. You looked over at Raphael who waited for your instructions.

“You saved the boy's life. And it looks like you barely managed to survive yourself.” gesturing to his bloodied state.

This city was your responsibility and this was no easy decission. But if what you had sensed through the boy was true then you were willing to give the Weeping Monk a chance.

You stepped forward and pulled out your dagger, his eyes were on it immediately and he swallowed but still didn't move.

“Hold out your hands.” you tell him and he looks at you quizzical.

He slowly raised his tied hands.

You held your hand above his for a moment, feeling the magic through your fingers again “Don't move, please.”

What you sensed was what helped you made your decission.

He looked utterly puzzled until you cut the ropes from his wrists in a swift move.

He rubbed his left wrist once the ropes were removed and you took a few steps back again.

"You may stay here as our guest until your wounds are healed. Consider it my way to thank you for protecting the boy."

He noticed how you seemed more determined now. He had seen a hint of fear on your face before but it was gone now, it made him think that you might have used your magic on him just now. “Thank you... I swear I will not bring harm to your people.”

You gave a short nod “Good. Otherwise I'll have to kill you.” then you pointed at the sword he was carrying with him “And I'll take that sword you're carrying and any other weapon for that matter. You will get them back once you leave.”

He blinked a few times but nodded in understanding before he started to throw his weapons on the ground.

“What happened to your head ?” the boy suddenly inquired.

You quirked a brow, shooting a glance at the Weeping Monk who seemed occupied with removing all the hidden daggers he was carrying on him “Ran into some red paladins while retrieving a fey girl.”

“Is she safe ?” he quickly added and you nodded.

“She'll live. Don't worry.” you assured the boy and quickly moved your hand through his hair, rummaging it even more.

He stepped away from you and you let out a soft laugh.

The Weeping Monk threw his last dagger to the ground.

“You however should go to our infirmary with haste, I bet those wounds are burning. Come, I'll show you the way.” your eyes focused on the amount of dried blood that was still sticking to his face.

Raphael picked up the sword and daggers, you stopped him before he walked off with them and took the sword from him. Tucking it behind your back next to your own sword.

The weeping monk watched you curiously.

You shrugged your shoulders “You'll get it back.” tilting your head towards a door at the other end of the room “I'll take you to our healers. Follow me.”

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