all-is-fair-in-love-and-war
Gwyn finally looked up at the monk you sat across from her in the small clearing towards the bottom of a slope in the forest. They were hidden for a time from anyone traveling the roads. She stared at him for several minutes in silence before she went back to mashing some herbs into a small bowl with a rock.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t need instructions to not kill your own kind.” She said bluntly and continued to mash up the herbs into a paste. She had found the Monk and Squirrel on a road in the forest, the monk badly wounded, and Squirrel shaking. Gwyn later learned from Squirrel that the monk had sustained the injuries from fighting off the Trinity Guard to save him and got him out of the Red Paladins camp before it fell. Squirrel had also happened to explain who the monk was, or…at least who he used to be. Gawain had told her about the Ash Folk, they had been gone from this land for ages, and many people believed they had gone extinct. She supposed the Red Paladins were responsible for that.
Her brother Gawain was the whole reason she was in the forest in the first place, she had gone scouting and had been captured. Gwyn was in the forest, trying to find the best way to sneak into the Red Paladin camp to recuse him, but before she could the camp went up in flames. But she refused to believe her brother fell victim to them. He was the Green Knight, he got out, and now she was waiting for him. At least that was what she was doing when she saw Squirrel and his companion.
She glanced at the monk and part of her felt bad for her words, for the hate that dripped off of them. Perhaps he was a victim of the Red Paladins just like they all had been…but she knew his hands were soaked in Fae blood. The blood of her family and of her friends. Gawain had always said all Fae were brothers. But right now all Gwyn could focus on was Squirrels asking to help his newfound friend. So she stood with the herbs that she had mashed into a paste and cautiously made her way over to the Monk, stopping a few feet from him.
“I need to clean your wound.” She said firmly, taking in a breath as she gestured to the side of the Monk’s face, “and make sure it doesn’t get infected.”
one would need instructions if they were raised amongst their kind, sure. lancelot would allow that. but he had been a child when he’d been ripped from his village. he hardly remembered the faces of his mother and father anymore. though, he knew of the weeping eyes, so similar to his own. he remembered his mother’s dark hair. her small smile. her comforting hands.
he remembered her screams too. but the horror of it all went away when you purged the thoughts from your mind.
he watched gwyn move about their pathetic makeshift camp. he could see goliath stomping into the dark earth with impatience. lancelot hoped that if he died, his horse would not be treated poorly. goliath was a good horse. loyal.
he looked back to gwyn, and he nodded, pulling back his hood to reveal his face. the cool breeze in the air sent a shiver down his spine as it hit the burned mark on the back of his head. he would forever be marked as a traitor. it seemed fitting now.
“THANK YOU,” is all he says, voice quiet and low. when he thanks her, he does not look at her, guilt making things far too difficult.
“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO HELP US, SO THANK YOU.”
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