you ever think about how lancelot like chronically kills the people he loves? not always in a direct and literal sense but baaad stuff happens (or almost happens) to the people he cares about usually directly because of him
Gawain's obvious with the red-hilted sowrd prophesy and all but honestly that blade could've just said 'Sir Launcelot will kill those he loves most" and still been right on the money.
Galehuant (and one of the Elaine's) dies of grief over lancelot
Guinevere almost gets burned at the stake because of her affair with lancelot and him subsequently not taking her with him when he fled
Galahad gives himself up to the grail quest (something lancelot can't do) so completely it takes him (this is on shaky ground but let me have my moment)
Lancelot kills Gareth in blind rage
lancelot mortally wounds Gawain
Lancelot through his affair and killing half the round table in one go sets the stage for Mordred's usurpation and Arthur's death
“Léoht flānþracu!” Merlin pointed one glowing hand at the tentacle wrapped around the main mast of the ship. A beam of golden light, like a ray from the sun, shot out and struck the tentacle.
The ship bucked as the creature wrapped around it writhed. A strangely distant scream, an inhuman sound that made Arthur’s skin break out in gooseflesh, echoed up from the churning water.
The tentacle ripped away from the ship so quickly it made the Lady’s Maid bob on the water like a cork in a storm. The wounded tentacle, still glowing faintly gold, hit the waves with a thwack that made the ship roll in the opposite direction. The smell of burning and the oddly out-of-place aroma of cooked fish billowed across the deck on the cloud of steam that rose from the waves.
The madly bucking ship sent the men flying like they weighed nothing at all— only Arthur’s grip on the lifeline kept him from rolling down the deck. Bits of timber and God knows what went flying along with the bodies, making Arthur duck his head in defense.
Slack, sudden and unexpected, nearly made him drop the line in shock. He stared at the suddenly loose rope for a moment before reality struck. Seized by a frenzy, Arthur hauled out the line like a man possessed. It moved. Gods above, it moved. Praying it wasn’t just because the line had snapped or the poor bastard on the end hard been devoured by the unknown creature, Arthur hauled on the line like it was his own soul on the other end.
Merlin was firing the golden beams more quickly now, he seemed to no longer need to actually say the incantation; the brilliant energy limned his hands in gold and made his eyes so bright his face was almost totally obscured. Arthur kept his eyes on the water and tried not to think about the wounds he’d wrapped with his own hands only hours ago. How much energy can he expend? Surely this is too much.
There! A dark shape was rising through the water, brought to the surface by Arthur’s manic pulling and the natural buoyancy of a man. It looked large enough to be a whole man. God let him be whole and alive. Please God.
It was Lancelot. He’d known it would be before he saw the mass of dark curls plastered to the man’s forehead but hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to himself.
29. Moruning and Lancelot (as in Lancelot is the one doing the mourning not being mourned)
Hey Nony!!! Thanks for the prompt, I made myself sad while writing this one! (and spent an inordinate amount of time researching the meanings of flowers for mourning, which was only fractionally relevant... 🙈)
Under the cut because of death and grief.
Lancelot stares out at the rising sun; the sky is a deep red that promises rain later in the day. But all the red sky does is remind him of the blood. He stares until his eyes water and he has to look away from the blinding light creeping over the horizon. He is up on the tallest battlement of the castle, tucked against the stone wall with his knees pulled up to his chest.
It is the spring equinox; the welcoming of the light, warmer months, the celebration of life.
But all Lancelot feels is dark and cold, all he thinks of is death.
There is a festival in the lower town today, as well as feasts and parties in the palace, but Lancelot cannot bring himself to go to any of them. His heart is too heavy. For today was the day that his family – his whole village – were slaughtered.
The village was setting up for their own small festival, the food and ale aplenty. Lancelot – aged nine at the time – was helping in the baker’s shop, his sleeves rolled right up to his shoulders as he kneaded dough beside the baker’s daughter. She was thirteen and had a tumble of brown curls framing her rosy cheeks and big brown eyes. In his own childish way, Lancelot was in love with her.
It was while laughing at the fact she had flour on her face from brushing back a loose curl with flour coated hands, that Lancelot had heard the first screams.
His mother ran into the bakery, telling them a group of bandits were attacking the village and to grab weapons. She told Lancelot to hide but he snatched up a knife and followed his mother back out into the street. Just in time to see his father cut down by a man on a horse swinging a huge axe. His mother screamed, snatching the sword from her fallen husband’s hand and flailing it at the bandit, until she too was bleeding on the ground.
The slaughter was quick, the people of the village unused to fighting, many of them without proper weapons. Lancelot tried to fight, wielding his knife frantically at anyone that came near him, but he was helpless. He took a bad cut to his chest and only survived because he surrendered to his mother’s final wish and ran to hide in the cowshed.
He crouched among the large animals, sobbing silently with a handful of straw pressed against the bleeding cut on his chest, for hours, until he could no longer hear the sounds of the bandits ransacking homes.
The horrific image that met him when he left the stable still haunts him to this day. The blood, the fires; his parents, his friends. The pointless deaths that he had been helpless to stop…
Lancelot gasps as his chest heaves with a huge sob as the memories overtake him. He presses his fingers to his lips as if he can hold the sorrow inside. His shoulders shake as he tries to keep the tears at bay, but it is too late. The grief overwhelms him, like it always does on this day.
He bows his head, tucking his face into his knees and lets the tears pour from him, his breath stuck in the lump in his throat.
The sun in well and truly up by the time he finally catches his breath. He can hear people in the courtyard below, their voices so happy and carefree as they prepare for the upcoming festival. He draws in a deep breath through his nose, letting it out again in a shaky, shuddery sigh. Then wipes the end of his sleeve over his face and pulls himself to his feet.
He picks up the bunch of white and yellow chrysanthemums he picked yesterday from the palace garden, then walks over to the other side of the battlement; the side that overlooks the patrol path that heads deep into the woods.
He wishes he had graves for his parents, somewhere to lay the flowers, somewhere to hold in his mind. Instead he gently pulls the petals from the flowers, scattering them over the battlement walls one at a time, releasing a prayer and a memory with each one.
Each petal that floats away on the wind reminding him of the ones he mourns. His mother with her sweet smile, always softly singing as she went about her work. His father whose strong hands taught him so many things. The baker’s daughter and the innocent love he felt for her. And everyone else who lived in the village.
He watches the petals drifting on the breeze through a haze of his tears, before bowing his head and turning away to make his way back to his room.
And later that evening, as he walks to the stables to fetch his horse for a solitary ride, when he spots a few chrysanthemum petals clinging to a haystack, his lips pull up in the smallest of smiles, a loose tear trickling down his cheek. He briefly closes his eyes and whispers a thank you to the breeze.
I will still be accepting prompts until the end of March so please, if you liked this... here is the prompt list! Send me a character and a number and I shall write more little snippets like this!! (I may regret asking for more when there’s only ten days left of March but... meh, I am having fun and want to do more) Also thank you to @whumpster-dumpster for the prompt list!
