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THE STONE FLOOR WAS hard and cold underneath Arthur. A shiver slid along his body as he stirred awake, his head screaming at him. Where am I?
Arthur groaned as he got up slowly, his eyes opening and closing as he cleared his tired head, looking around his surroundings. His body felt like it got run over by a carriage. A wind draft crept in from somewhere, sending goosebumps along his arms.
Everything was cast in a deep shadow, the only light coming from a vent high above the wall through the bars on the other side of the room. A pile of hay sat in the corner with a bucket, and that seemed about it. Arthur frowned. The castle dungeons.
“I must say,” a familiar voice said coldly. “Your efforts were impressive, besides getting yourself caught in the end.”
Arthur glared to the right side of the bars, a faint silhouette sitting down on a wooden crate. Golden metal gleamed on the figure's head in the torchlight, the gems catching the fire spectacularly.
“I hope it was worth the risk,” he said. “Helping those refugees out of Londinium to end up exactly where you don’t want to be.”
“You’ve ruined this place,” Arthur growled. “How could you do this?”
"Everything you've seen is the result of collateral damage," Ergott dismissed. "They got in the way, they didn't obey, they suffered for it. They are slowly starting to learn."
“Why ruin a Kingdom?” Arthur asked, sitting himself up against the stone wall.
Ergott leaned forward onto his forearms, his eyes glowing that stark orange Arthur's seen so many times before in his dreams. "What's one Kingdom's downfall if it means to rule the country? What does it matter if you ruin one thing when you've got everything?" he smirked. "Control of the people by force, starting with one Kingdom, will spread like a plague. It will overtake them all until there's no one left to oppose it."
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Arthur growled. “And what you’re doing is horrendous to the role of King; you should know that being a King doesn’t involve terrorism.”
"In order for people to respect you, you must first make them fear you," Ergott growled. "If there is no fear, there is no obedience. The people do not matter as long as they obey. What matters is gaining the power to rule over everything in Braynor."
“Do you hear yourself?” Arthur asked, glaring at him. “You’re telling me that terrorising people’s lives is the best way to rule a Kingdom, just so you gain respect? That's just a way for you to gain more hatred from the people you rule over.”
"The people are learning that obedience keeps them alive. As long as they don't stand in my way, they get to live their lives just fine. You, on the other hand," Ergott clenched his jaw. "Are standing in my way. And I have made it my own personal agenda ever since Benjamin died to get rid of you."
“How could you? How could you try to get rid of your own bloodline and then frame him for a murder you committed?" Arthur snapped, standing up from the ground.
Ergott smirked at him, watching him rise. "Wouldn't you want to get rid of the problem that stopped you from getting what you wanted?" he asked. "Like how you fought to train with that sword, but they wouldn't let you? You disobeyed them to make your own rules. You decided your own ideals were more important than theirs, didn't you?"
Arthur leaned his arms on the bars, placing his head on his forearms. “How do you know what I did at Reigate?” Arthur asked, looking at him warily.
Ergott chuckled darkly, his voice skittering off the walls. "The things you don't observe when you're not paying attention until it's right in front of your face," he laughed. "Do you ever wonder how that wolf grinned at you like it enjoyed it? Thought about whether it was your imagination or a freak accident? Whether your friend was attacked on purpose or not?"
Arthur was taken aback, stepping away from the bars while looking at him. “What have you done?” Did he order Tristan's attack? Arthur's head spun with the impossibility of how the wolves connected with Ergott. Could he shift?
Ergott's eyes flared brighter as he grinned, his teeth slightly sharpened at the tips. "Family ties are one hell of a bond," he growled wryly.
“You’re a selfish bastard, Ergott,” Arthur growled at him. “You’re nothing but a false King, a usurper to Camelot.”
"That may be true," Ergott shrugged, standing up from the wooden box. He prowled over to the bars, standing in front of them with his hands folded behind his back. "But look where we are right now, Arthur. You're in a cage, and I'm on a throne. You can bark all you want, but I've got you trapped beneath my claws, boy. And when you're finally disposed of this cursed land, there will be nothing left to stop me."
Arthur snarled at him. “You’re wrong about that.”
"Really? Take a look around; your closest companions are the fleas in the hay in the corner of your last home. I have Barons guarding the castle at all hours and all throughout Londinium at my beck and call."
“I have Knights,” Arthur smirked at him. “Knights of the Roundtable.”
"As I've heard," Ergott spat through the bars at his feet. "The Knights were supposed to die with your father, but it seems they've made a name for themselves more than what they did before."
“What do you mean, supposed?” Arthur glared at him.
Ergott's teeth bared in a grin. "Did you believe it was an accident that the forest on the edge of the Darklands was destroyed by fire like the rest of the hive minds?" he drawled. Arthur frowned at him, his jaw clenching tighter the longer he looked at his uncle.
Ergott moved closer to the bars, his eyes lit in delighted mischief. "The fires weren't just any match lit wildfire, boy," he smirked, his hot breath washing over Arthur's face.
“How did you know this?” Arthur growled at him.
"You're truly dumber than you seem," Ergott sniffed, looking to the side of the dungeon. "Normal fire doesn't burn an entire forest as savagely as black-"
A sudden hand gripped Ergott's shirt, and he was tugged forwards sharply, Arthur bashing him against the iron bars three times. Heat flared like a brand along Arthur's hand, Ergott's form igniting in black flame. Arthur hissed in pain, flailing his hand around the air like a madman. The heat radiated off Ergott like a second sun, the flames disappearing with an audible whoosh of air, Ergott's skin cracked and glowing with orange spots like hot coal.
"Never, ever touch me again," Ergott roared. "The next time you do, I'll burn your whole Gods damned corpse to nothing but cinders!"
Arthur's arm was blotchy with already formed blisters, the skin a bright red. All of his arm hair was signed off, replaced with waves of pain as the air touched the exposed sensitive skin.
“Go to Hell,” Arthur snarled at him. His powers must be extraordinary. Where is he gaining it from? He knew he had to find out and stop it as quickly as he could whenever he got out of here.
"You're already in it, Arthur," Ergott growled, moving back away from the bars, his face swelling red. "Welcome to the rest of your pitiful life."
Arthur bashed his hand against the metal bar with a roar, the heat sizzling against his hand, too angered at Ergott to care about the sensation of his burning flesh.
Ergott smirked at Arthur, turned around, and walked out of the dungeon hallway, shutting the door behind him. Arthur sighed and slid down against the bars, leaning his head back against them, ignoring the stark warmth biting his skin. He looked down at his hand and saw parts of his flesh torn off, hissing at it as the cool air swept over it. If Ergott was right, and he was going to be here for a while, then it was going to get infected in a matter of days. Just great.
Never had Arthur wished for Ms. Enid to come to bail him out and help him or Aunt Guinevere to convince Ergott to let him be. He looked down. Whatever even became of the old Maiden?
Ergott marched up into the castle hallway from the dungeon staircase, passing by a few black cloaks guarding the passage to the dungeons. They regard him with a nod, standing up straight from leaning against the walls.
Ergott nodded faintly back at them, continuing his way back up to the main room of the castle.
That poor fool doesn’t know what will become of him. His plan was falling perfectly into place now that that boy was in his claws. He smirked at his thought as he walked, reaching the main foyer near the High Gates. A few Maidens cleaned around the foyer, one of them being Enid, the older woman cleaning the dust from the engravings on the pillars.
“That dust won’t clean itself, Maiden,” Ergott said from over her shoulder, his presence looming over her.
She jumped in fright, looking at him with wide eyes and a hand over her heart. "Sire, you frightened me half to death," she breathed, a few of the Maidens turning to look.
“Perhaps it would’ve been a favour to you,” Ergott said coldly.
"Pardon?" she frowned.
“I’m sure you’re not deaf,” Ergott rolled his eyes.
"With all due respect, Your Highness," she started. "If I was not here living in this castle, you and your guards would have empty stomachs and no clean laundry. I think it would disadvantage you greatly if I-"
“Speaking of empty stomachs,” Ergott interrupted her. “Our new guest in the dungeons would be hungry. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to feed them now, would it?”
The old Maiden lowered her cloth and sighed weakly. "Right away, Sire," she muttered.
“You’re a lucky woman, Enid,” Ergott said coldly to her. “If you weren’t doing anything for this castle, you wouldn’t be living here; consider yourself privileged.”
Ms. Enid frowned up at him and tucked the cloth into the front of her apron. "It's just your luck that I have nowhere else to go and that you're the King," she mumbled. "If anybody else acted this way towards me, I would've clipped their ears."
Ergott smirked at her lightly, then walked off to the Round Hall, his boots echoing through the foyer. Behind the door sat a hollow room, the once-grand table of legend no longer seated on the dais in the centre of the room.
The Barons had done their job to rid the castle of any traces of the Roundtable, the entirety of their history and presence wiped from existence within the walls. The only thing left behind was their memory and the abandoned cabins in the Eastern Wing.
Ergott smiled at the sight and walked up the stairs, heading to his grand room. The blood had long been cleaned up from the floors, the bodies of dead Barons disposed of only the Gods know where.
Ergott walked into his room, smiling at the sight of Vivien sitting on the edge of the bed. “Hello, my Queen.”
The dark-haired woman turned her head to look at him; her yellow eyes were aglow with delight.
"A fine evening to you, my King," she purred. She wore a devilishly short dress, the material hugging her shoulders up to her neck before stretching to reveal the gap over her chest and extending down her arms with long sleeves, the black material thinner than water. The split along the leg showed an edge of sin, an unconventional garb for a Queen of any Kingdom to be adorned in.
Ergott walked over to her, sitting down on the bed next to her. “Arthur has had his talk,” he smirked.
She turned her body to face him, crossing one leg over the other and leaning on her elbow. "Has he been a good lad while he was down there?" she asked, inspecting the swelling on his cheekbone.
Ergott looked at her, frowning. “He’s stronger than I thought.”
"The Knight Trainer knew what he was doing," she purred, resting a hand on his leg. "They wasted no time, it seems."
Ergott moved his hand over hers, nodding at her words. “They were preparing to make him fit for his destiny.”
"He almost reached it, too," she said. "But now you've stopped it, put a cork in it. But how long will it last, I wonder?" she mused with a smirk.
“The Knights will want to take him back,” Ergott purred. “I can sense it.”
"They will enter their territory just swell," she said, her eyes glinting. "The legend has not yet been extinguished. The future is still written in stone."
“We must make it so it will be extinguished,” Ergott said coldly. “Even if it means sacrifices.”
"You know what to do," she said, her hand trailing up to his chest. "To keep your future the way you want it." A pulse wave flowed through him at her touch, his mind-numbing as his vision turned yellow a moment.
Ergott smirked at her. “I won’t let you down, my Queen,” he said, bringing her hand up to his mouth. For what it is worth, I am sorry, my nephew. But my lead is worth the pain in the end.
Vivien smirked and leaned against him, tilting her head up to look at him. "I'm counting on you," she whispered.
Ergott leaned down to her and kissed her lightly, a zap of electricity jolting him slightly. “You have my word,” he whispered back.
The horses' hooves crunched the gravel loudly in the bunched group, the sound harsh to Edward's ears. Nightfall was beginning to follow the dusk, the forest turning a deep shade of green and gray. The breeze was beginning to turn warmer; Winter was starting to end.
Beside him, his father rode emotionless, his eyes set on the path forward. They hadn't spoken a word since they left the cave, and Edward knew it had something to do with what he said. Publicly outing his father or any other Baron was extremely taboo. The repercussions would come eventually. Edward wasn't so much a fool to believe he'd escape them.
Barons rode behind them, silent as the wind that blew over them. Their hoods and masks were still fixed in place despite the darkness that cloaked them all around. The masks are insufferable. I have no idea how you tools handle them for longer than you need to. Come to think of it, he wasn't overly sure if he'd ever seen another Baron without their mask off.
Jackseye’s horse began to slow down on the path, his hand patting its mane softly. “Take a break,” he grumbled, dismounting his horse. “We’ll head out in fifteen,” he told the group behind him.
The Barons slowed their horses, a few of them dismounting almost instantly and left them on the path; the horses were trained well enough to know not to flee from the group, and they didn’t bother to tie their reins up to a tree or somewhere secure because of that reason. Edward rode his horse closer to the treeline, dismounting his horse beside a tree. He ruffled the hair between its ears, petting along its forehead.
“Edward,” Jackseye said with a growl in his voice. He flicked his eyes to look at his father over his shoulder. Judgement day already.
“You’re aware of what I’m about to tell you, aren’t you?” Jackseye said, standing behind his son.
You should know. "Read me the riot act," he muttered, looking back at his horse.
“You are not a Baron,” Jackseye growled. “Neither you nor your brothers were.”
"Oh?" Edward said flatly, turning back around slowly with low brows. "Should I bother asking exactly what we were then, or should I make the assumption you're drawing out your words for your own dramatic flare?"
“A disappointment.”
"Yeah, 'cause that's new." Get on with it.
“You’re not fit to be a Baron,” Jackseye huffed. “Nor will you ever be. You’re relieved from your duty, son.”
Edward chuckled softly to himself. Oh, the immense amount of shit. "You know what's funny, dad?" he asked. "The fact that you, the self-proclaimed great Baron leader, was never a true Baron. No, you came from a position where everybody in this league hated you. The Knight Commander for King Benjamin, you were the number one enemy once. But now look at you," he smirked. "The one who can fling away a perfectly good thing just because titles empower you to do so, even though I have been a part of this far longer than you.
"Interesting how it works, how you can just dispose of something because it decided it was pure mutiny to murder a child for information, to lead you to a royal you're tasked to kill. Which, ironically, is illegal. But the laws don't apply to you, do they? You enforce them yet don't follow them."
“Silence!” Jackseye interrupted him, glaring at his son.
"I'm not finished," Edward growled. "And the worst part is, you lie and cheat, and others lie and cheat for the sake of that Gods damned usurper-"
“I don’t care,” Jackseye interrupted once again. “Give me your leader’s badge, Edward.”
Come and take it. "Maybe I should take yours instead since you can't use it right. Is this what happens when someone says enough? Did Jase try and say something too?"
Jackseye huffed in amusement, stepping closer to him. “You’ve asked me this before about how your brothers truly died,” he whispered into his ear.
Yeah, and you still refuse to say anything. Anger flooded his chest as he turned around to face his father. Screw the Rites to Hell; he deserves what he gets. "Why don't you just own up to the truth that we've all figured out? Just say it now while-"
A sudden pain shot through Edward's side, the feel of his skin parting like fire ripping up his body. Edward hissed and looked at his side, his hand shooting towards the pain. Jackseye's dagger was buried in past his leather armour, blood gushing out in painful bouts.
“The same way you’re about to,” Jackseye said coldly, shoving Edward to the ground. The horse behind Edward reared with a loud neigh, bucking backwards away from the scent of blood. Edward grunted through his teeth, his side barking in pain and throbbing. He gripped the wound as much as he could, stuffing the material of his cloak against it.
"You backstabbing traitor," he spat, glaring up at his father. No, this man is not my father.
“For what this is worth,” Jackseye prowled over him. “I am sorry.”
"No, you're not," Edward growled, inspecting his face. "I can see it on your face and in everything you've ever done that you never intended to keep your bonds. You're a sadistic bastard; I hate you!"
Jackseye looked down at his son, a small hint of silver glimmering at the bottom of his eyes. He turned away, then stopped. “I’m not the villain of this story,” he looked back over his shoulder.
"Don't you dare walk away," Edward seethed. "You coward! Face the sight of watching your son die!"
“My King is expecting me,” Jackseye said. “And I’ve watched too many of my sons die before.”
"And whose fault is that?" he spat. You are a disgrace. The hatred flowed pure with every drop of blood that left Edward's side, his teeth clenched against the ache of the wound I'm the wind. "What was your motive? You murdered your sons. If I die and I see you murder my sisters, I will haunt you. I will find a way to kill you." His hands started to tremble, his skin turning paler. He would do it. He would find a way to protect Lana from this prick. He would break the Otherworld to break him.
Jackseye turned around to his son, a rare sighting of a tear falling down his face. It was like watching a war unfold before him, the stone-cold face giving way to grief just to flicker back. It made Edward's head swim. Or is that from the blood loss?
“I didn’t want to kill you; I didn’t. But as a father, I couldn’t make the same mistakes as I once did,” Jackseye said softly. “I’m sorry, my son.”
Edward laid his head back on the mud, panting through his teeth. "Jase deserved better than a rigid father's murder. Arlo was not ready to die. Was Marley the hardest to fight? Your favourite son?" he huffed.
“No,” Jackseye said. “This... is the hardest one....”
Edward laughed breathlessly. "You never were a good father, you know?" The pain was numbing him, the ground cold underneath him. "You left so many times."
“I know,” Jackseye nodded.
"Was it worth it?" The world was spinning faster than the Earth, faster than a flicked coin. Was all of this pain and suffering really worth the Hell you've put my mother through?
“I wish it was,” Jackseye murmured to himself. “But it isn’t.”
Edward smirked. "Bastard," he huffed. His vision was going all funny, dark at the edges like a burned piece of paper. Breathing became harder; it felt as though he was being crushed beneath his horse.
Jackseye groaned, holding his temple, wincing at the sudden pain. Edward blinked slowly, trying to clear his vision enough to look at Jackseye. Rohin Jackseye shook his head, blinking a few times, his head throbbing. He looked down at Edward and let out a sudden agonised yell, kneeling beside Edward.
“My son! Edward!” Jackseye said, his breath heavy. “What have I done?”
All sense left Edward as he stared at his father. What the Hell? His eye wasn’t the usual amber hue anymore; the old stormy blue-gray that stirred up memories of his childhood replaced it, and both eyes flooded with tears of shock. Shock? He's the shocked one?
Jackseye looked down at his son in agony, tears falling down his rugged and unclean face. Something shifted, Edward knew. Eyes don't change colour that drastically with a whole different attitude.
But it was too late to ask any more questions. He could feel the warmth slipping from him through his fingers. His breath was shallow as a dry creek bed, his vision swimming.
Jackseye’s expression turned into anger, glaring towards the castle just over the hill. “That evil witch.”
Witch... his eyes swam to the back of his head, everything going black.
“You lot! Saddle up!” Jackseye commanded the group. “Your break is over.”
The scuffle of boots turned to the shifting of horses on the ground as the Barons got ready to continue, waiting for Jackseye. Rohin looked back at his son and stood up from the ground, walking back to mount his horse. His eye had returned to the amber hue, all traces of grief dashed from his face, tear trails gone.
Jackseye mounted his horse and rode off towards the Kingdom, leaving his son to the wilds.
The caves sat adorned to the dusk falling overhead, a few of the rebels lit fires in the courtyard in dugout pits. The smell of cooking meat wafted through the air, overpowering the scent of the flowers around the sandstone slabs.
It was enough to draw Tristan out of the cave, following his nose to the source. He hadn't left the infirmary since the Barons came through and took him out, and everything was itchy and sore, but this... he will do whatever it takes to get that steak.
“He’s walking again,” a familiar voice called out to him, Peter walking over to him. “Glad to see you on your feet.”
Tristan paused for a moment, looking at Peter with a slight frown. "You're okay after the attack?" he asked. "I saw you were bound."
“I wouldn’t say okay,” Peter said, lifting his shirt to reveal a massive bruise on his ribcage. “One of the bastards landed a kick.”
Tristan cringed a bit, wincing. "That would be sore," he murmured. He should know; he was peppered with them.
“I guess it’s time to take those bandages off,” Peter said, looking at the bandages along his body.
Tristan quirked his mouth. "I don't know," he said. "Galahad didn't say to take them off yet."
“He is the healer of the Knights; what he says goes,” Simon said from behind Tristan. “It’s good to see you’re up-"
Tristan jumped a mile in the air, spinning around to face Simon. He immediately regretted it as his body barked at him, letting out a small groan. "Gods, why did I do that?"
“I cause scare?” Simon asked, looking at Tristan in worry.
"No, he's just easily frightened," Peter shrugged. "It's always been that way."
Tristan sighed weakly, trying to move his limbs without a dull throb of pain shooting through him. "I know, I'm a scaredy-cat," he muttered.
“Lucy! Where did you put the onions?” an unfamiliar voice shouted across from him.
Tristan froze. Lucy?! He swivelled his head back around behind him, scanning over the courtyard. "Do we have a rebel named Lucy, or am I hallucinating?" he asked quickly.
“You’re not hallucinating,” Peter dismissed.
"They're next to the fire, you tool," a very familiar voice called back. Tristan's heart leapt. It was her! He quickly made his way out of the tunnel entrance, heading towards the sound of her voice.
"Lucy!" he called, looking around in the dark.
A female figure turned to look at him from beside a fire pit, her eyes widening. "Tristan!" she gasped, running towards him.
“He your boyfriend?” Owen asked with a scowl.
Tristan didn't hear him as she barrelled into him, his wounds barking in pain as she squeezed his sides. He didn't care; he wrapped his arms around her too. "I never thought I'd see you again," he said breathlessly to her. "How did you get here?" He flicked his eyes to Owen then, blinking. "Hi?"
“Hi, who are you?” Owen asked.
"I'm Tristan Garrison," Tristan said. "Who are you?" He looked around with more attention, spying more unfamiliar faces. What is going on?
“Owen Lucan, Lucy’s older brother,” Owen said.
Tristan's brows raised, and Lucy pulled back from him, grinning before she spied the bandages on him. "You're hurt?" she blinked, looking up at him. Her eyes widened. "Your eyes! They're blue!"
"I know. It took me a while, too," he agreed.
"What happened to you?" she asked, looking at him with worry. She thinks she hurt me.
"I'm okay," he assured. "Just a few scratches."
"Tristan?" an old voice said from beside him. His eyes widened, and he looked toward- Erin Torona!
"Erin?!" he said, astounded. "Holy mother of Gods and the Holy Otherworld, you're here too?"
Erin grinned, moving over to hug him tightly. "It's been a long time," she said.
"I'd say," Tristan grinned. "Around six months now. Are you doing okay?"
Her face dropped slightly. "I still miss him," she said quieter.
He smiled sadly. "I know. I do too." He let her pull back and looked down at the older woman. Samqueel was definitely her son; the same quicksilver gray eyes and straight nose, and her attitude could certainly match the fiery temper Samqueel was known for on the fields when she was particularly fussed about something, too. Although it was a rare sight. "He was a legend."
"I'm sure you'll become one too, by the looks of your wraps and those eyes," she said, looking at him closely. "What happened to earn those scratches you were talking about?"
“Tristan here was brave. He fought off a pack of wolves,” Peter said, walking up to the two.
"Fought?" a voice called from the other side. "More like threw." Kyan walked over to them, holding a mug of tea. "Fought with his arms and sides, no less."
“Ignore Kyan,” Peter shrugged him off. “Tristan was incredibly brave.”
"You fought wolves?" Lucy asked, astounded.
Uh... "Kind of, I suppose," Tristan said slowly, looking sideways at Peter. He thinks I was brave?
Peter looked towards Tristan, winking at him with his right eye. A small smile crept on his lips, feeling a little warm.
"How long have you worn those bandages now, around three days?" Kyan asked, nodding to his arms. "Surely you'd be right by now since you were magically healed."
Tristan hadn't thought of that. But at the same time, he'd thought of what his arms would possibly look like underneath. The images of stretched, mutilated skin didn't really increase his confidence in wanting to take them off. He wasn't sure what to expect, and it kind of scared him. "I mean, I'm still a little sore," he muttered.
"Nonsense," he dismissed. "Go ahead, Pete, just roll them off. Get it over and done with so he doesn't smell like old linen anymore."
Tristan frowned and folded his arms against his chest. "Why does it matter?"
"I want to see the scars," Kyan shrugged. "It makes people look tough, and chicks dig scars, right?" He looked at Lucy, who frowned.
"Go on," Owen nodded. "Let's see if your story is real."
"It is real," Tristan frowned at him. "How would you know if it wasn't?"
Lucy turned to Owen with a scowl.
"If it wasn't real, then why would he lie? And why would his eyes change colour for no reason?" Erin frowned at him.
“What happened? Exact details, please,” Owen said, crossing his arms.
Insecurity flashed in Tristan's chest, looking away from him. "The dogs sprang on me in the woods; what else is there to know?" he protested.
“And for the record, I’ve never met you before, so I don’t know what colour eyes you had before you were attacked,” Owen said.
"He had brown eyes," Lucy said to him.
“Wasn’t asking you,” Owen said to Lucy.
Tristan's jaw clenched. "Oi, watch your attitude," he warned. I've known this guy for five minutes, and he already annoys me.
“Or what?” Owen huffed.
"Or you'll learn to watch it better than what you're doing now."
Owen chuckled at him, shaking his head. “You don’t scare me.”
"I'm not supposed to be scary," Tristan said. "I'm not the violent type. But I would like it better if you showed some respect to your sister instead of just shrugging her off."
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Owen said, walking up close to Tristan. “She’s my younger sister, and I’m responsible for her. If you have a problem with that, say it to my face."
"Okay, I have a problem with the way you think you're responsible for your twenty-year-old sister," Tristan growled. Who does he think he is? He saw Erin shift back away a good distance. Probably a good idea.
“Listen to me very clearly,” Owen growled. “I’ve been looking after her since I was eight years old; both our parents died, and no one was there to look after us until we found our fosters,” Owen bared his teeth at him.
"You lived in a broken-down house on the edge of town with the freshest water source, the river a mile away before that," Tristan said, watching him flatly. "You were repetitively chased by Knights for stealing your food source to feed Lucy; you slept on the floor huddled together for warmth with a stray dog. I know your story because it's hers, too. I understand, Owen. But none of that corresponds with why you treat her like shit."
“How about you keep your opinions to yourself,” Owen suggested. “Just because you can speak doesn’t make you intelligent.”
Tristan's arm lashed out before he realised what he was doing. Owen grabbed his fist and twisted it, pulling him down to the ground. Lucy gasped and moved back as Tristan barked and flipped onto his back, launching his feet up into Owen's stomach with all his force.
Owen staggered back with a whoosh of air, stumbling back to fall only a few inches away from the fire. He got back up and glared at Tristan, stalking over to him. Kyan swore under his breath at the force of the kick but didn't move. Tristan stood back on his feet a moment later, raising his fists, ready to fight. He paused for a moment and looked at Owen's hand, something dangling in his fist. What is that?
“Enough!” A commanding voice echoed through the air. Tristan pivoted to the voice, keeping one eye on Owen.
Lancelot walked over to the two, his hands folded behind his back. “What is the meaning of all this?”
Tristan lowered his arms, the fight dimming in him. "He started it," he frowned. "He couldn't keep his gob shut."
“Not good enough, Tristan,” Lancelot shook his head. “And you, don't you be a rude loudmouth to my trainees.”
"Owen, you are such a prick all the Gods damned time," Lucy sighed frustratedly. "And he's right; I don't need to be looked after. I'm old enough to be left alone now."
Owen scoffed at her and walked away. Lancelot shook his head at him, looking back to Tristan.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Tristan didn't hear him. He was too busy staring at his arm. He was holding the bandage... "What the Hell?" he muttered.
His arm wasn't all twisted and scarred; it was splotchy. His skin was patterned with a paler shade across where there should've been scars, contrasting with his darker skin like marbled chocolate. He twisted his arm around in wonder, the skin still sensitive.
“Galahad did all he could to heal you,” Lancelot said softly, looking at the marks on Tristan's arm. “He wishes he could’ve done more than what he did.”
"He's got vitiligo?" Erin asked softly.
Lancelot nodded. “Unfortunately,” looking down at her.
Tristan grabbed the other bandage off his arm, unwrapping it quickly to find the same thing; white skin where scars should've been. "Is this another side effect?" This is so strange.
“Your eyes changed colour,” a familiar voice sounded from beside the group. Tristan turned around to face Galahad, lowering his hands. “When I heal people, my magic has a few side effects, but they’re different for each person. The closest reason I can come up with as to why you've got vitiligo was because of how much magic it took to knit your skin back together. It must have destroyed the melanin in your skin.”
“If you wish to hide it, we have gloves for you to wear,” Lancelot suggested.
"No," Tristan said. "I don't understand it completely; I'm not sure if I ever will, but... this is better than what I thought." He looked up at the gathered people. "I expected worse. This is fascinating, to say the least. I'm spotty."
“If I'm honest,” Lancelot started. “It gives you a unique outlook, and it looks... quite fancy. I should know about fancy,” he grinned warmly.
“Geraint is the flamboyant one,” Percival chimed in, patting Lancelot’s shoulder as he walked past.
"It looks like you dipped your arms in milk," Kyan said.
"Well, I think it looks cool," Tristan pouted at him. It was odd as heck, but something about it was almost hypnotic.
“If Arthur was here, he’d agree with that,” Lancelot smiled weakly.
Tristan looked at him blankly. "He's not here?" he asked, confused. Well, where would he be if he wasn't here? When did he even leave?
The group fell silent, Lancelot and Galahad sharing the same expressions. Tristan swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. "Why is he not here? Isn't he in his room or something?"
Lancelot glanced at Lucy, his mouth quirked. “Do you want to tell him?”
She shrunk in place, and Tristan looked at her, seeing the guilt on her face. "Huh? You know where he is?" he raised a brow in confusion. "What's all the secrecy?"
She shook her head, looking elsewhere. Something has happened, and Arthur is gone. Did the Barons do something? "Did it happen when we were stormed? Is he lost in the forest or something? We can find him, right?"
“Arthur went to Camelot with the rebels. The rebels returned with Lucy and a few refugees. Arthur didn’t,” Lancelot said softly.
Tristan's brows slowly lowered. "He never told me he was leaving..." he said slowly. He left with the rebels to go- "He went back to Camelot?! Is he nuts?"
“He wanted to know what the Barons were up to in the Kingdom, and he saved the refugees from suffering more,” Lancelot said. “But unfortunately, they got him as they left.”
"Why didn't he take me with him? I would've gone," Tristan brushed his hair back from his face. "The silly tool, he never leaves without me."
“Arthur didn’t want you to worry or end up more wounded than you currently are,” Galahad said.
Tristan turned to him with a confused face. "But you healed me," he reasoned. "I was healed, but I was angry and upset..." he groaned in frustration. "Gods be merciful; why did I shove him away?"
“He was trying to protect you,” Lancelot said. “He cares too much for you, Tristan.”
His mind raced over everything they told him. "Barons caught him, took him away, he's in the castle- he's in the castle!" He looked at them with wide eyes. "We gotta get him out! Ergott will kill him over whatever happened to the Roundtable. We gotta go!"
“The rebels are not invading Camelot,” a familiar deep voice said. “It’s too risky for our alliance to be revealed to them.”
"Gawain, this is Arthur you're arguing about with me," Tristan said. "No matter what anybody says, I'm going to get him. I don't care if I die; I'm getting him."
“Tristan-”
"Don't 'Tristan' me! I know what I need to do, and this time, you lot with your opinions of me not being able to fight, will be shocked when I actually manage to bring him home. I either have you guys with me to go and get him, or-"
“You didn’t let me finish, Tristan,” Gawain frowned.
Tristan paused, his bravado crumbling. "Sorry," he muttered.
“I said the rebels, not us,” Gawain said. Tristan went blank, staring at him dumbly.
“Gawain and I will be leading the rescue. Kay will be staying here and watching over the caves,” Lancelot said, a warm smile going across his face.
“Even though this is a risky and stupid plan, Arthur needs to be rescued, and I can’t break a promise I made,” Gawain said, a small smile forming.
Tristan looked at the lot of them, Lucy's face interested in the conversation, Erin watching him with a small, proud smile. Behind Gawain and Lancelot, the other Knights stood proudly. Peter and Kyan stood by his side, Ector and Maria watching on from beside the fire pit.
“I thought you didn’t like Arthur?” Percival asked Kyan.
"Let's be honest here," he started. "Would you prefer to be led by a bastard King that had black-clad posers in the castle walls or someone the people liked?"
“He’s got a point,” Gaheris nudged Percival. “Let’s get our King back!”
Tristan tried his hardest, really, to absorb everything going on around himself, but... "Huh?" he blurted.
Everyone looked at him, and the group fell silent. The sound of crickets chirping replaced the crackle of the fire.
“Were you listening to anything spoken for the past two minutes?” Bedivere asked.
"I mean, yes, but actually... no," he said, his face drooping slightly.
“Tell me what’s happening then,” Gawain folded his arms.
Tristan raised his hand and counted on his fingers, "Uhh, Kay is staying here," he said slowly.
"Not to my amusement or willingness, I'm not," Kay muttered.
“Get over it, stumpy,” Percival teased.
"Stumpy? I'm taller than you, midget."
“Not when you’re going to be six feet underground in the next two or so years,” Bedivere chuckled, the other knights joining him.
"Oh, shut your gob, Ryan," he growled.
"...Gawain and Lancelot are leading," Tristan said, ticking off another finger. He then frowned. "Am I gonna lead?"
“No,” Gawain sighed. “You’re coming with us, and you’re going to be with Percival, Maria, Peter, and Kyan to get Arthur out of the castle while the rest of us fight off the Barons and save more refugees.”
Tristan paused for a moment before counting another finger. "You broke something," he said to Gawain. He turned to Gaheris. "You're scary." He pivoted to Kay. "You're short?"
"No," Kay scowled, looking down at him.
Tristan turned to Kyan. "And you like Arthur."
Kyan frowned and went to open his mouth, then stalled. Tristan raised his brows. "Well, you can't say you don't, ‘cause you've stuck around this long," he teased.
Kyan frowned and crossed his arms. "No comment."
Tristan's eyes lit up as he looked at Peter. "And you think I'm brave," he grinned.
"You're getting off-topic," Peter said, his eyes lit in amusement.
Oh. Tristan looked at Lucy, her brown eyes looking up at him in humour. He smiled down at her softly and brushed a stray hair back from her face. "And now I know you're safe here, or as much as you can be."
She smiled at him and flushed slightly. He winked at her and looked up at them. "And the rebels are staying here. That's all I got."
"We're going to get Arthur, Tristan," Maria said behind him.
His eyes lit up. "We're going to get Arthur!" he grinned. The Knights laughed and took up a cheer, the lad finally getting it.
“Finally, he gets it,” Percival chuckled. “So, when are we going?”
“Tomorrow at dusk,” Gawain said, looking at the Knights. “You’ll be needing a different style of clothing, and you lot too,” he looked over at the others.
“What type?” Peter asked.
“Armour,” Lancelot grinned.
“I almost feel sorry for the Barons,” Geraint chimed in. Percival nudged him with his elbow, Geraint rubbing his arm with a frown. “What? I said almost.”
Armour. Oh, how Tristan despised armour. And he'd only worn chainmail. I hope it isn't chainmail...
“Get some rest,” Gawain said to the group. “We’ve got training in the morning.”
Ector looked at Maria. “Are we going?”
"Apparently so," she shrugged. "You might be going with Gawain to cause the distraction." It was a wonder Gawain thought to put her in the search party if she was honest. She would've thought he'd make her stay.
“I’m not much of a fighter,” Ector said. “I don’t find joy in violence.”
"You don't have to fight," she said. "You can just help out with getting the refugees away."
“I’m guessing you’re Arthur’s girlfriend,” Owen said, walking up to the two.
Maria looked over at Owen, a frown on her face. "Here comes trouble again," she muttered. "Have you come back to pick another fight with the rest of us?"
“I’m here to ask questions,” Owen said, folding his arms. “You look a bit like the lad, I must say.”
She raised a brow at him. "Is that because of the hair? Because I don't think so," she said. Arthur's hair looked like it was mud-stained compared to mine.
“You have the same-coloured eyes,” Owen examined.
"So does Kyan, but we're not related." Owen made her feel on edge like he was a thief with a hidden dagger just waiting to spring.
“So, you’re his lover?” Owen asked.
"No, we're just friends," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "What's it to you anyways, stickybeak?"
“Just common curiosity,” Owen shrugged. “I’d be surprised if Arthur was taken.”
Defense stirred through her, and she straightened her back. "Why? Would you be jealous if someone was happier than you?" she snapped. Why am I being so standoffish?
“Who in all of Camelot would date a royal?” Owen asked her. “Queen Guinevere learned that the hard way.”
“Oi!” Lancelot shouted at him, walking over with a frown.
Owen turned and raised a brow, Maria watching on. "Yes?"
“What did you just say?” Lancelot scowled at him.
"That Guinevere took the hard way out of life, chose the tool in the castle like a blind mad-woman," he shrugged. "What's it to you?"
Lancelot glared at him. “You do not talk about her in that way. While you’re here at Reigate, you are to show respect to everyone, especially Arthur and the Knights. If you cannot follow those instructions, then you will be forced to leave.”
Wicked delight entered Owen's eyes, and Maria clenched her jaw. The bastard can't handle shit for brains. "Is Rosaline a touchy subject for you, good Sir Knight? My apologies, really. I wasn't aware the Queen had a concubine."
“You better watch your mouth,” Lancelot frowned at him. “You will learn some respect, or I will show you some,” he said.
"Good luck; people have already told me I'm too far gone," Owen said cheerfully. No kidding. Maria didn't like this tool at all. “Some even tell me my attitude makes me likeable,” he grinned, winking at Maria.
Maria scoffed, cringing back away from him slightly. "Creep," she muttered. She felt Simon's hand steady her on the small of her back in comfort.
“If you want to teach me respect, you’ll have to do it for ten or so years before I start to show it to you,” Owen grinned.
"Is that right, boy?" Gawain walked forwards to him, stopping beside the fire.
Owen turned around to him. “For certain, Sir Knight.”
"Would it be helpful to let you know I can knock ten years’ worth of sense into you at any given time? The people around you have certainly learned that lesson," he said calmly.
“I’m sure you can,” Owen scoffed.
"Test me," Gawain shrugged. Maria smirked. The challenge appears.
“Prove that you can knock sense into me, go on,” Owen challenged, facing Gawain.
"Would you like to learn it the nicer way first?" Gawain unfurled his arms to his sides.
“No,” Owen grinned.
Gawain raised his brows in feigned shock. "Oh? The hard way?" he asked in surprise.
“The hard way, old man.”
Gawain shrugged nonchalantly and walked towards him, his bulk towering over Owen's slim frame. "Okay, but don't forget, you insisted," he said. Owen crossed his arms and nodded.
The trainees and Knights around him started backing up a great deal away, Maria and Simon smirking to themselves as they sat on a sandstone slab. He's got no idea.
Gawain shook his arms slightly, looking around the courtyard. "Have you ever moved at record speed before?" he asked Owen.
Owen looked at him, a confused expression forming on his face. “What record speed?”
Suddenly Gawain barrelled into Owen, driving him across the courtyard pinned onto his shoulder, the breath whooshing from him at the impact. The world disappeared from beneath him as Gawain flung him across the courtyard, landing on the grass and rolling over and over like a loose log down a mountain.
Owen finally came to a stop and groaned on the ground, surprise overflowing his expression. He'd been launched the entire way across the courtyard!
"New record, Gawain," Maria laughed, the rebels around her laughing at the bedraggled Owen.
“What the Hell?!” Owen growled at him, his teeth bared.
Gawain grinned at him widely, amusement on his face. "Come on then," he goaded. "Get back up and fight if you want. You'll end up back in the same spot."
Owen roared and sprinted towards Gawain, curling his hand into a fist, swinging it towards him in a fit of rage. Gawain simply stepped to the side and spun around to boot his behind, sending him stumbling down once more with the momentum. The rebels continued to laugh, cheering and whooping. "See, now you're not learning," Gawain said to him. "You're channelling your anger into your movements and not your smarts."
Owen snarled, standing back up and glaring at him.
"You're trying to fight a man with years of prior experience, son. Is that really a smart move on your behalf?" Gawain raised his brows.
“You never gave me a chance,” Owen said.
Gawain spread his arms wide. "Alright, here's your chance," he said. "I won't move from this spot."
Owen smirked and swung his fist towards Gawain’s jaw, his wrist barking in pain as Gawain's hand squeezed it and pulled his arm to the side, spinning him around and shoving him back.
"Are you trying, Owen?"
“Bastard!” Owen snarled at him.
Gawain beckoned him back and shifted his feet. "One more shot," he growled.
Owen turned back to him, panting heavily. He swung his arm again, this time towards Gawain's side, and was grabbed again. He rocketed his shoulder towards him and barged his chest, the old Knight staggering backwards. Owen's eyes lit in victory, and he spun to launch his elbow into his jaw; he forgot about the arm Gawain held.
Gawain dodged backwards and twisted his arm, Owen barking as he manoeuvred himself to try and stop the pain. His legs were swept out from beneath him, and he went crashing face-first into the dirt, Gawain pinning him at the wrist and back of the neck.
Owen struggled to move against his strength, growling at the mouthful of grass. Gawain leaned down to his ear. "You will learn quickly here that you are not above us," he whispered. "You aren't worth the space you take up here."
“I’m above Arthur,” Owen growled at him.
The pressure on his neck tightened, and he snarled in pain. "You, Owen, are not above anybody," Gawain hissed. "You aren't worth the waste of food that we hunt for the worthy; you don't deserve the life you've gotten right now. Arthur saved your miserable ass from that shithole of a Kingdom. The least you can do is show him some Gods damn gratitude!"
“He left us to suffer!” Owen protested. “He left us to die and be controlled by a man who killed our protectors!”
"He left the Kingdom to prosper," Gawain snapped. "He left so he could come back to save you flea-ridden assholes; he left to train to become the King. He left to protect the city. You just can't see past the self-pitied bullshit you've convinced yourself to believe. Stop thinking of yourself and think of the long run. You want the Kingdom to get better? You need the time to wait for it to do so.
"Arthur isn't a miracle worker; he is human, just like your sulky ass. Be grateful that he'd give you the time of day, ‘cause the rest of us wouldn't."
Gawain shoved him into the dirt before letting him go, standing back up and watching him. Owen sat up slowly and stared at Gawain. The rebels fell silent around them, watching them with interest.
Maria watched Owen's face change, processing Gawain's words. Hopefully, the prick learns not to be a shithead around him now. If he hasn't, then he's a goner.
Owen sighed and nodded at Gawain slightly. “You make a good point,” he said, standing up from the ground and rubbing his neck.
Gawain watched him flatly. "Nobody wanted these circumstances, nobody wanted to go live in a cave for eighteen years, nobody wanted to hide away from the radar or leave their Kingdom they were destined to rule," he said. "But things happen, whether we like it or not. We didn't want to abandon our people," he said, referring to his companions behind him. "We didn't get a choice. Just like you. Just like Arthur. You should learn to accept that life just doesn't work the way you want it to. It's easier to live that way. Do you understand?"
Owen nodded at him. “I understand.”
Gawain nodded and clapped his shoulder. "Good. Now, let's eat."
