—before the trees who witnessed my fall, who still whisper tales of my deeds to the wind. You will go now and reveal to the world your truth. Who are you, Knight, without your King? Show us, show the trees and the wind and the soil. Show us and, in a year’s time, meet me. Meet me where the light dances, and what you give will in turn be given.
a queer fantasy project by @thegreatbeargod-writes
Welcome to the blog for Where the Light Dances, previously known as Project Lantern! This project is what I’m working on between bursts of inspiration for my more structured WIPs, which is why it gets its own space. I’ll be sharing scenes as I go—this means they’ll be out of chronological order, but since most scenes will be more slice-of-life than anything else, this shouldn’t be too big of a deal.
But what is Where the Light Dances, I hear you asking. Well, if you really squint, it’s a retelling of Sir Gawain & the Green Knight set in a fantasy world with modern(-ish) technology. Like, if you really squint. It’s also a story about devotion, identity, and hope. It’s a love letter to rural life. It’s an exploration of learning to rest after years of service. It might also be about a werewolf and a vampire having gay sex, sometimes. Most importantly, I’m having fun writing it, and I hope you’ll have fun reading it, too!
Also, there’s a dog and his name is Huckleberry.
Inspirations: Arthurian legend (and especially @camlannpod—please everyone go listen to Camlann immediately, it’s so good and—sorry I’m getting off track), Greek mythology, Yumi and the Nightmare Painter by Brandon Sanderson, Stardew Valley, Monk & Robot by Becky Chambers
Playlist! (I will never stop adding songs to this)
The lush grass muffled Altair's heavy footsteps. Plant life was not especially common in the city, but the palace courtyard felt less like the rooftop garden his parents had frequently hosted parties in and more like the sprawling woods surrounding his family’s summer home in the country. If he didn't know better, he might assume he was in an endless forest, rather than a space the size of his childhood bedroom.
The trees that rose from the ground here were older than the palace itself. This was the only piece of forested land for miles around that had been left undisturbed by the exponential growth of the city over centuries past. The walls on all sides were mirrored and the glass ceiling high above allowed gentle sunlight to filter in. What could not be achieved by infrastructure was carefully cultivated by a combination of magic and the work of several gardeners, meticulously maintaining the illusion of untouched nature.
Altair was pleased to find that none of the singers or the gardeners were present now. It was rare to find a moment alone in the bustling palace, even in his own apartment, but he desperately needed a moment of solitude now. Each of his movements echoed off of the mirrored walls, the soft clink of his ceremonial armor magnified by the silence of the trees. Slowly, he made his way to the center of the courtyard, his feet carrying him to the Watcher.
No one knew the story of the knight whose armor had guarded the palace since it was built, but Altair had always felt a strong kinship to him. The rust and moss threatening to overtake the metal once polished, the grass and wildflowers that grew up through gaps in the joints—eternal, yet reclaimed by the earth. He often thought that this would be him some day. Dead and gone, still loyally defending his King. This was his purpose, this would be right.
Altair fell to his knees before the Watcher. His future, his antithesis. Here he knelt, shining in the filtered sunlight, tension held in every muscle of his body. There, the knight laid peacefully, dull in the shade. How must it feel, to be at rest?
A single drop of blood slid from his brow onto the soft soil before him. Altair took a deep, steadying breath.
“Lend me your strength,” he whispered. “I know you had it once. They built the walls of this palace around you, they did so for a reason. Help me to be what he needs, even when I am weak.”
His words were met by the tranquil silence of the forest. A light breeze picked up, carrying upon it a strong, earthy scent that he couldn’t quite place, laced with the familiar sharpness of magic. His head snapped up and he looked about the courtyard, expecting to see one of its attendants.
He saw no one.
The scent and the breeze grew stronger, the branches of the trees stirring in a manner Altair had never seen before. The sound of rusty metal scraping against itself filled the air, and he fell forward onto his palms, looking on incredulously as the Watcher sat up.
He stared, dumbfounded, as it considered him.
“What—“ Altair managed to start, before he was cut off by a hoarse whisper, carried on the wind that now circled around them.
“Hear my oath before the trees who witnessed my fall, who still whisper tales of my deeds to the wind. You will go now and reveal to the world your truth. Who are you, Knight, without your King? Show us, show the trees and the wind and the soil. Show us and, in a year’s time, meet me. Meet me where the light dances, and what you give will in turn be given.”
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the armor fell back as if it had never moved, the scent dissipated, and the air stilled.
Altair sat rigid, his eyes fixed on the Watcher. No one would believe this. No one would believe him.
But maybe, for once in his life, it didn't matter what anyone else thought.Â
He clambered to his feet in a burst of manic vitality. Who are you, Knight, without your King? He didn't know. He didn't know. But for once, for once, he would set aside his guilt long enough to let the catalyst take hold.
