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"Lancelot. A long time ago, my name was Lancelot."
He doesn't know why he tells the boy. It seemed the rational thing to do. Certainly, after saving his life, Lancelot could offer his name to the boy. After all, he had told him his name when Lancelot had asked.
"Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy."
The Monk could hear Father Carden's voice in the back of his head. It felt good to confess his name. His wounds still bled, and his head and side and back still throbbed in agony with every step Goliath took, but the snakes curling and twisting with excitement in his belly had calmed since he confessed his name. The snakes were the devil, at least, that is what Father had said. But they seemed pleased that his name was no longer his and his alone. Now another person knew his shame.
The snakes that writhed inside of the Monk's gut were a side effect of his abominable nature. They were the one thing of his foul nature neither he, nor Father, were able to cleanse. No amount of lashings, of prayers, of pleading, or weeping, had dissolved or silenced the roiling creatures inside of him. It was his greatest shame, and perhaps, his only hope at forgiveness.
The two rode in silence for a while. The Monk wasn't sure how much time had past. His eyes would droop for a moment, and then when they opened again, the sun appeared in the sky and climbed higher and higher each time the Monk blinked.
"Hey," the boy - Percival - called to him as the Monk began to sink forward onto the boy's back. "Tell me honest - why did you save me?"
The Monk straightened himself, ignoring the fire in his side and the bright colors swaying before his eyes. It was a question that the Monk had asked himself repeatedly. He had knelt before the Cross and whipped himself bloody, begging God to speak to him. He had begged and pleaded for a sign, for a single glimpse of God's Grace to touch him.
Please, he had begged, I fear I am not strong enough. I am weak and I need my God's strength. Hear me this once. I do not deserve your Grace, I am not worthy. But if I am to continue down this path, I need to know that You are with me.
The Green Knight's words, as much as it pained him to admit, had reignited a fire in the Monk that he had thought cooled and died long ago. Father had tried for years to cleanse him of his weakness, of his sin, but nothing had worked. It was as Father said, he could not walk the path for him. It was up to Lancelot to cleanse himself of this evil. But when the Green Knight called him a 'lost brother' something deep in the Monk's chest had awakened.
The Monk did not belong with the Red Paladins. He was an abomination. He couldn't risk getting too close to them - not only to protect his secret shame - but to prevent him from spreading that corruption and filth to them. The Monk had been alone for so long, and yet, the Green Knight, his sworn enemy, a man whom the Monk had crippled and dragged to his death, had offered him such a precious gift - forgiveness.
And then Father had found him. Just as Lancelot had given up on feeling the gentle hand of God, Father had spoken the words. He had spoken the sign that the Monk had begged God for.
"You have to have the will to do what is necessary. Do you have the will, my son?"
The Monk had thought of the Green Knight, eyes so full of understanding and sympathy and pity. He could almost hear the words from the bloodied lips of the Green Knight himself.
Do you have the will, Lancelot?
The answer had been yes. He had the will to turn on his brothers. He had the will to seek out those who were like him. He had the will to cut down his brothers and spill their blood if he must. He had the will to turn his back on Father's kindness and mercy. He had the will to accept the forgiveness the Green Knight had offered him. The snakes in his belly had squirmed with glee and for the first time, the Monk had felt God's warm Grace burning through the slashes on his back.
" 'Discipline your children, for in that there is hope; do not be a willing party to their death.' " the Monk replied to the boy.
"What?" the boy said incredulously, as if hearing for the first time the ramblings of a mad man.
"Proverbs 19:18," the Monk muttered. "Killing children displeases God. Father was willing to displease God to get information out of you. I was not."
Percival was quiet for a few minutes, long enough for the shadows to swim back into the Monk's vision.
"Is that why you didn't kill me in the forest too?" the boy said suddenly, his small head turning just enough to fix the Monk with a hard stare.
The Monk nodded.
"I don't harm the children," the Monk repeated as he had told the Green Knight. "I spared them whenever I could."
"I remember you twisting my head pretty good outside the Sunken Temple," Percival grumbled, turning to face front again.
"I am sorry for hurting you," the Monk spoke softly after a few minutes.
Percival was correct. When the Monk had found him outside the ruined village of Dewdenn, he had been thrilled. His blood always ran hot and fast during the hunt. Father had been so angry that there were so many in the village who escaped. As much as Father preached that the Fey creatures were incapable of love or feeling, the Monk knew that wasn't true. Fey were very protective of their children. Finding the wide-eyed, startled boy in that Temple was almost a gift from God, the Monk had thought.
Percival hadn't given him any information, even under the Monk's firm hand. It spoke volumes of the loyalty and kinship of the Fey people. Even their children were defiant. But the Monk was nothing if not creative. Though, it did make the Monk wonder, while he had walked the boy behind Goliath through the dark woods, if he had always been that way.
His memories before Father Carden were vague and blurry. Had the Monk been as loyal to his family as Percival was to his? He couldn't recall. He didn't think so. The Monk was a turncoat, through and through, it seemed. Betraying the Fey, betraying Father, betrayal seemed to be the only thing the Monk was good at. That, and killing.
Percival shrugged at his apology, as if he had already been forgiven and forgotten.
His flippant attitude irritated the Monk, even though he should be grateful for it.
"You should hate me," the Monk said, as if reading lines to an actor on a stage. The boy clearly didn't know any better. One act of sacrifice couldn't wash all of the Monk's sins away.
Percival gave him that hard look over his shoulder again.
"I do," Percival said with a bite in his voice. "But you weren't going to stand by and let me die, so neither could I. I'm a fey knight now. I have to pay my debts."
"I was paying a debt by saving you," the Monk said. "Not indebting you to me."
The boy didn't speak for several minutes, but when he did, his little voice was cold, so cold, the Monk felt as though little shards of ice were piercing his skin.
"Gawain is dead because of you," Percival said, his voice hollow and lost. "That is a debt you cannot pay. Not with me."
--
When the Monk awoke he felt as though his blood were boiling.
He gasped and his breath bubbled, hiccupping in his chest. Vaguely, Lancelot was aware that the fever had taken him. It didn't surprise him. He had too many untreated wounds. They were bound to fester. He wanted to open his eyes, but his lids felt glued shut. He body was burning, but his control was weak. His limbs were heavy and barely attached to him.
With great effort, his eyes finally cracked open, tearing up as bright light assaulted him.
It was nearly impossible to make out anything around him. Everything was terribly bright and terribly green.
"Lancelot! You're awake!"
The Monk tried to call out for the boy, but there was too much blood in his throat. Instead he made a pathetic gurgling noise as his eyes searched the green for the boy's face. He felt small hands grasping at his shoulder.
"Easy, boy," said another voice. The voice was familiar and deep. There was a weakness to it as if this person had also just awoken from the grave. The Monk knew the voice immediately, and his heart plummeted into despair.
That was the voice of the Green Knight. Gawain, is what Percival called him. But, oh, the Green Knight was dead. And if Lancelot could hear his voice, that meant he was dead as well. Which meant, Percival…
A strangled noise worked its way past his lips. He had tried so hard to save that boy from death. And now, not only did he fail, but the Devil saw it fit to punish him - because surely this must be Hell - with the voices of these two people who had shown him mercy, who had not deserved to die. He was to be tortured with the knowledge that he was responsible for their deaths for all eternity. He didn't want this. He couldn't bear to see their faces and be mocked with their voices this way. He was already dead, he couldn't possibly go mad like this-
"Easy, Asher," came the smooth voice of the Green Knight. There were cool fingers touching the clammy skin of his forehead and he felt a bubbly whimper work its way past his lips.
"You aren't dead," Gawain said, those cool fingers stroking down his face. "Not yet, at least."
"Is he…?" Percival said, his fear betraying his fear.
"Still dying? Yes." Gawain said, a dark hint of amusement in his voice.
There was a pause, and the Monk was hoping the darkness would swallow him and take him away from this place.
"We need to bring his fever down," Percival said, his voice low and serious.
"We need yarrow," Gawain said, his voice equally serious. "Go, boy. Gather as much as you can and bring it back."
"How will I find it?" Percival said, his voice suddenly panicked. "This forest isn't-"
"I know," Gawain cut him off. "Ask the Hidden to show you. They made this place when they brought me back, they can guide you."
Percival didn't answer, but Lancelot assumed he left when he couldn't hear the boy anymore.
His eyes still refused to work. Everything was still blurry and smeared green. Perhaps he was staring up into a kaleidoscope of leaves.
His head was hot and his temple throbbed. His right arm was heavy and numb. He couldn't even feel his fingers on that hand. The lashes on his back burned with flames that were sure to stem from infection. His chest and ribs swelled with jagged pain with every breath. And his left side, close to his hip, ached. He could feel cuts on his thighs, bruises on his shins and aches in his ankles.
Lancelot knew there was nothing that could save him from these wounds. If he wasn't dead already, perhaps the Green Knight would show him one final mercy and send him into the void to receive his judgement.
"Hey, look at me Ash Man," he heard the Green Knight coo, those cool fingers back on his jaw, tilting his head. The Monk forced his eyes open as wide as he could. He couldn't see the man clearly. He was just a wash of pale skin, deep red hair and two bright orbs for eyes, all laid against a backdrop of brilliant veridian.
"You didn't come this far just to die," the man said. The Monk could hear the laughter in his voice. "You want to live, don't you? Tell me. Speak, Asher."
The Monk couldn't speak. Every inhale caused fire to dance on his ribs. The air caught on the blood pooling in the back of his throat and all that escaped him was a wet, crimson cough. The Monk's eyes slid shut as the pain wracked his body. Even when the pain receded enough for the man to take a clear breath before the blood and bile returned, his eyes remained shut, blocking out the brilliant green and the blurry face of a dead man. The Green Knight made a disapproving sound from above him.
"No, no. Stay with me. Stay," Gawain muttered from above him, but the Monk couldn't obey. His limbs were heavy and his mind was growing steadily foggier. He could feel his consciousness unraveling from his body, desperately fleeing the pain of his physical form.
"Lancelot," the Green Knight snarled, snapping the Monk's fleeting mind back into his body. Something about how the man said his name was so familiar, so achingly familiar, he wanted it. He struggled to pry his eyes open again and tried to focus on the face that loomed above him, but it was only an array of fine color.
"Say it," the man said, his voice low and serious. "Say you want to live. Beg me to spare you."
The Monk groaned, his tongue heavy and uncooperative. That voice was so familiar. His head swam with something - a memory? - and he couldn't focus. He grasped with his working left hand. His hand touched something, he wasn't sure what, but he dug his fingers in as hard as he could to ground himself.
"Is that a yes? I can't hear you, boy. Speak up."
Oh, there it was. He understood now. It was Father's voice.
The memory came to him now, much clearer against the bright green. The Monk didn't even have to close his eyes to see it. Father loomed above him, behind the mosaic of color that was the Green Knight's face. His eyes were cold, but eager, hungry. Father had wanted him because he could sense his own kind. He was valuable, but he was worthless if there was any fight left in him. Father had humiliated him, broken him until there was no shame left in him.
"Don't look at him. Look at me," said the Green Knight, tugging his chin to drag the Monk's eyes back to him.
"If we confess our sins," Father spoke over the Green Knight and the Monk couldn't help but to look to his father, eager for guidance this close to his inevitable end. "He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness."
"Is that so, ash man? I suppose I'm not as kind as your God, then. Your confessions are worthless to me. I want more than words."
"Say you want to live. Beg me to spare you." Father Carden and the Green Knight spoke together, issuing the same demand. He had begged Father once. He had begged to be spared the flames. But now his father demanded more from him. He had betrayed his brothers and disobeyed his Father in the worst way. He should be begging for forgiveness now.
Lancelot could feel the flames licking at his heels, at his back. He was so close to damnation. His eyes found the clear image of Father Carden. He didn't want to burn for what he was. He didn't want eternal damnation. Surely, the Green Knight had to be more merciful than eternal damnation. He wanted to feel what the Green Knight's forgiveness felt like. Would it be warm, like his touch? Would it be the sharp bite of a whip, like Father? Or would it be something more horrifying, like those twisted roots of the Wolf-Blood Witch?
He couldn't face Father again. He was too ashamed. Too ashamed to admit that this single fey man had, with so few words, swayed the Weeping Monk to his side.
"I…I w-want to…live," Lancelot choked out the words. The blood was pooling again, he could feel the liquid flecking his lips. "Please…p-please, sp…spare me."
Father Carden frowned, but the Green Knight growled, something primal and something so very, very pleased.
Something in him twisted at seeing the disappointment on Father's face. He always hated that. He hated when he upset Father, when he wasn't as good as Father had taught him to be. The monk had spent plenty of time in Brother Salt's kitchens, learning just how easy it was for the enemy to pry secrets from reluctant lips. The fey demons could get inside your mind and twist you inside and out, Father had assured him. It was important to be strong.
The Weeping Monk wasn't strong.
The Green Knight had shown him mercy for no reason other than he saw the Monk as a lost fey, a stolen brother. He had seen Lancelot, dressed in the cross and wielding a sword and dagger, had seen him as a child imitating those around him in a desperate attempt to assimilate. A child wearing armor that was too big for him. And he hadn't been angry. He should have been angry.
"Oh, I'm angry Monk," the Green Knight spoke. Could the man hear his thoughts? Or was Lancelot rambling out loud? "And I plan to turn you inside out. But I can't do that if you're dead, can I?"
Lancelot tried to speak, but nothing escaped him but a strangled croak.
He wasn't strong enough to fight against this because he deserved it. Deep inside himself, he knew he deserved whatever pain and torment was coming to him under the Green Knight's careful hand. And not even Father's disappointed face was going to convince him he didn't deserve it.
--
"Tell me," the Green Knight said while he was smearing a herbal paste along the lashes on his back. "Why did you want me so badly? At the mill, I mean. You tried so hard to take me alive yourself. Why?"
The Monk shivered under the warm hands.
The painful truth was that the famed Green Knight had been a thorn in the side of the Red Paladins since they had practically set foot on this part of the world. The Monk had only crossed paths with him a handful of times, and each time, the Knight had surprised him and bested him. Father Carden had seethed at the clever tactics the Green Knight used, such as ambushing from safe spots hidden in the trees. And every time Lancelot returned, defeated or bested by this mysterious green shadow, Father Carden had grown more and more irate and angry and ashamed.
He was ashamed of Lancelot because of the Green Knight. So, Lancelot had taken it quite personally every time he escaped. Eventually, the Monk had seen the Green Knight as a rival, the opposite side of his coin, the only path to redemption in the eyes of his Father and God. The fey was a walking symbol of the failures and shame of the Weeping Monk. A blemish for both him and Father Carden, and an ugly stain on their mission.
The mill…well, that had been the Monk's tipping point.
He had finally caught the Green Knight in a trap, but it hadn't been enough. Sure, the man would have been a valuable captive since he was the leader of the resistance, but Father had made it clear that he wanted the Green Knight, dead or alive. But Lancelot truly didn't want to kill him inside the mill. No, after all the shame and embarrassment he brought Lancelot, the Monk wanted their final clash to have intimacy. He was owed that, at the very least.
Lancelot had wanted to lay his hands on the man. He wasn't going to stop until the man was close enough to touch, and he had been ready to spend hours outside that mill if it meant the Green Knight would give himself over to Lancelot's capable hands. He hadn't really had a plan after that. The whole point had been to get the Green Knight in close quarters where the Monk could beat him once and for all. No tricks, no games. Just steel on steel, flesh on flesh. After that, the Monk would have followed his instincts.
Which instincts those would be - the instinct to maim and tear or the instinct to pull him close and memorize his smell - he hadn't been sure of. Still wasn't sure of, even in this moment.
"You were the only one who could fight me," the Monk said softly, instead of the jumbled mess inside his head. "You were my only threat and my only equal. You were the only one who was worthy of me. And…you were the only thing I wanted during our whole crusade."
"Is that so?" the Knight hummed to himself, sounding almost disturbed by Lancelot's admission. It made his cheeks burn to know that the knight only saw him as the enemy. Nothing special, nothing worth attention or devotion. Only a dangerous enemy to avoid whenever possible. The Weeping Monk didn't mean the same thing to Gawain as the Green Knight meant to Lancelot.
And here Lancelot had thought their meetings were almost like a dance between them. Something special and private and theirs alone. Stupid, foolish boy.
"Did you think of me often? Tell me." Gawain said.
"When you shot an arrow through the neck of the boy Peter. Father held him as he bled. He held the boy so gently. So, when I was alone, I imagined that your arrow pierced my neck and I bled everywhere. And you held me as gently as Father held Peter." Lancelot replied.
"How do you know it was me?"
"Your smell. I always scented the arrows. It's how I made sure I hunted down everyone. You always escaped. The cloves and the sage. It always escaped."
"Was that all you wanted?" the Green Knight pressed, his hands trailing lower to treat the lashes on his lower back and his hips. His fingers circled his wounds slowly, gently. It cooled the burning on his back, leaving a warmth seeping through his gut. The sudden change made Lancelot's head spin.
"You just wanted to fight me?" the Green Knight murmured, mirth dancing in his voice and his fingers dragged lower and slower. He brushed his palm over his bruised hip until Lancelot shivered under his ministrations. "Is that really what would have happened if Arthur hadn't shot Bergerum? I would have walked down those steps and you would have just walked up and…drew your sword?"
It sounded like the man was amused at the thought. Lancelot shifted as a tingling spread in his belly.
He tried to imagine it. He saw the look of determination and fury that had been on the man's face as he came out of the mill. The way he had looked at Lancelot had made a thrill of excitement jump up his spine. Oh, they would have fought, but he doubted it would have been with swords. Lancelot would have wanted them to fight like the animals they were - with teeth and claws.
"It wouldn't have mattered," Lancelot murmured, pushing the thoughts away. "We had our fight. You proved that you were stronger than me."
The fingers on his back stilled.
"If I remember correctly," Gawain said bitterly, all traces of humor gone from his tone. "You stabbed me in the gut and took my ability to walk. In what way did I prove anything?"
Lancelot shook his head. He didn't answer for a long moment and the Knight eventually continued his work.
"I distracted you," Lancelot finally muttered, allowing the slow, gentle fingers to lull him into some illusion of safety. That fight was meant to be a measure of their worth. No games, no tricks. Even though the Monk hadn't meant to, he had tricked the Green Knight. "You saw…you saw what I can do. If you hadn't seen that, you wouldn't have hesitated and you would have killed me."
"Would I?" the man said. "You think that if I had the mighty Weeping Monk on his knees in front of me, that I would just kill him?"
"Is that what you would have wanted?" the knight asked thoughtfully. "On your knees and at my mercy, would you want me to kill you? Or maybe…"
The knight pressed two of his fingers hard against one of the lashes arcing across his back. Lancelot made a choked noise as his back arched trying to flee the sensation.
"Maybe you would have wanted me to make you suffer instead?"
"I was scared," Lancelot hissed, suddenly desperate under the sharp burning. "I was scared because you had seen me. I hadn't planned on…what happened. I lashed out. I'm sorry."
"I told you that your confessions are worthless to me," Gawain said, his fingers pressing harder into another lash on his back. Lancelot squirmed under the careful prodding, breathing hard as he waited for the Green Knight to be satisfied. When the finger's in his back retreated, Lancelot flushed with warmth, the snakes in his belly twisting with glee. He deserved this. He deserved this punishment. It was familiar and welcome.
"Tell me what went through your head. What were you thinking, down there on your knees in the dirt? What were you hoping I'd do? Did you want me to take you like that, on your knees, face down in the dirt? Or did you imagine something more like this as a punishment? As penance?"
"No," Lancelot snarled. He could hear Father's voice already at the vivid images the Knight's words created. "I wouldn't want that from you."
"If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us."
"My confessions mean nothing," Lancelot reminded the man. The Green Knight chuckled darkly above him, as if he could smell the sins on his skin, the desire that opened in his belly when he thought about the red-haired man taking a firm hand to him.
"That's true," he said, his fingers stroking gently over his lashes, making Lancelot shiver uncontrollably as he waited for the next bout of pain to strike him. The Knight seemed to notice, his fingers sliding slow and gentle over every lash on Lancelot's back, trying to draw out his torment for as long as possible.
"But tell me why you were afraid," the man said gently before digging one of his nails into the tender flesh of a lash wound at the base of Lancelot's shoulder. Instead of pulling away, the Monk simply shut his eyes to the pain and waited for the wave to stop. The only thing, Gawain noted, that gave away the Monk was in pain was his furrowed brow and his clenched hands.
"You…you saw me," Lancelot ground out.
"Is that the secret? It only happens when you're afraid?"
"What?" the Monk gasped as the Green Knights hands left him entirely, leaving him with cold skin and an obvious hardness between his legs.
Lancelot then saw how his fingers were digging into thick green leaves under him, the skin still pale, not green and veiny.
Something in his chest skipped a beat. What if the Green Knight decided he wasn't a fey anymore? Would he kill him quickly, show him some mercy? Or would it be slow and torturous, just as his own end had been? The uncertainty made his breath come faster as he watched his pale hand move in the leaves. Suddenly, he was shivering and shaking and his hand was blooming into green. The green spread quickly over his fingers and raced up his wrist.
"There it is," the Green Knight crooned over Lancelot's shoulder. The man had moved closer, his eyes firmly on the bright green that was struggling to spread to the rest of his arm. "You're scared and you're trying to hide from me."
"Do I scare you, Asher?" Gawain whispered hotly into the Monk's ear, his fingers - the same fingers that had been stabbing into his wounds - reached out to slid along the green pigment taking over his skin. Lancelot watched as the blood - his blood - smeared over the green as the Knight stroked slowly over his skin.
He stayed quiet, not sure how to tell the Knight that the Monk wasn't afraid of him, but rather afraid of disappointing him.
---
It felt like it had been days since he had awoken in the green.
He would hear Percival on occasion, asking the Green Knight questions about Lancelot's obviously declining health. The boy didn't like the answers the Green Knight gave him, as most of them were some variant of 'it's up to him now.' There were many times Lancelot would return to consciousness and know the boy was next to him. He couldn't see the boy, no, his eyes were still too blurred for that, but he could smell the boy. Juniper and salt and something sweet on his skin, like fresh water. The boy always begged him to live, and this was the most confusing part to him.
Why would either of them want him to live?
Lancelot had helped murder villages, families. As the Green Knight had said in Brother Salt's kitchens, Lancelot was responsible for orphaning all the children he didn't harm. He may not have been the only one to blame, but he was still guilty. One good act in saving Percival didn't change anything. And yet, Percival sat with him each night, laying close by when the urge for sleep finally took him. He couldn't have known, but the sweet scent of juniper and salt in his nose had soothed many of Lancelot's fears.
The Green Knight wouldn't hurt him in front of the boy.
It was an odd pattern. It seemed that the Green Knight guarded over him during the day, and Percival stood watch at night. He assumed it would be the other way around, but based on how quickly some nights Percival falls asleep, perhaps the boy the working throughout the day, gathering medicine, wood, water.
Come to think of it, could the Green Knight use his legs?
Lancelot knew that the last he saw of the Knight, his legs had been useless, thanks to a well-placed sword into his gut, curtesy of the Weeping Monk. He hadn't seen the man walk, and he hadn't heard it or felt it either. Yet, the Knight always came to him, moving up and down and around Lancelot's dying body with the ease of a man who had his legs. And that didn't make any sense.
The scent of the sage and the cloves returned to him.
"I can heal you, you know," Gawain spoke softly, his mouth close to Lancelot's ear. "I can take it all away. You don't have to suffer like this."
Now, the man was pressed flush against his side, his flesh molding into Lancelot's as if he were trying to coax their bodies into merging, his fingers swirling gentle patterns in the sweat pooling on Lancelot's chest. Occasionally the fingers would trail lower, dangerously lower, for only a second, before returning to his chest.
Lancelot opened his mouth, trying to tell the Green Knight that he had his chance and that now it was too late. A raspy noise left his throat. Gawain smiled, as if he could hear the words regardless.
"Oh, I can," the man assured him. "But there is something that I need from you."
Lancelot was ready for death. There wasn't anything that he had left that he could give to the Green Knight.
"No, sweetling, you do," the Knight whispered to him, once again, as if he could hear Lancelot's thoughts. His hand slid down to his side where the deepest of the mace lashes were bandaged tight. Against his better judgement, the Monk felt his body tremble under that hand. He didn't want to bargain anymore. He didn't want to fight. He only wanted to slip away into that deep black void he could feel lapping at his consciousness.
"Do you understand what I want?" The Green Knight lowered his head until his lips hovered above Lancelot's. He whispered the words into Lancelot's mouth. Lancelot quivered like a tightly drawn bow, but shook his head. He couldn't speak, even if he wanted to. The blood was pooling again, thicker and heavier this time. It wouldn't be long before he was gone. There was nothing left for him to give.
"No, that's not true," Gawain said softly, the warm air caressing Lancelot's face.
Suddenly the man's fingers were digging hard into the wound on his side.
Lightning shot through Lancelot's body, his muscles seizing hard under the sudden crack of sensation ripping through him. A noise strangled its way out of his throat, the pool of blood in the back of his throat shooting past his lips, flecks landing on the face of the man looming above him. The hand that wasn't numb from nerve damage shot out, scrambling weakly against the man above him, grasping at anything he could touch.
The snakes in his gut squirmed fiercely under the fingers, but instead of squirming away, they seemed to squirm towards the hand causing him anguish.
"That. There it is," the Green Knight hummed, his voice alight with some form of excitement. His hand withdrew and Lancelot sagged as the scorching pain receded into a cool ache.
His body was flushing hot, sweat pouring rapidly from his pores, desperate to cool his burning flesh to no avail. If Lancelot had had the ability to speak, he would have begged, pleaded, for the man to stop and simply let him fade into nothingness. But his mind felt heavy and foggy, his tongue no longer his, only a lump of heavy flesh behind his teeth. It was a wild, terrifying thought, but Lancelot could feel his teeth. His teeth and his jaw were a massive prison of bone, standing guard to block his pathetic pleading. He couldn't open them. Nothing could escape them.
He dragged his eyes open to stare up into the face of his tormentor, but his vision had long been lost to the infection and the fever. The face above him was blurry and warped, backlit by a bright halo of green. The green seemed to shine and sway behind him like stain glass, catching and refracting light in a way that made no sense to Lancelot. His vision swam as if he were floating on a boat in the sea, the world seeming to sway and twist while bile built up in his throat from the nausea pushing upward from his stomach.
All the while, the snakes in his gut roiled and rolled, as if for every second that Lancelot faded, they became stronger, more aware. The bile and the blood and the terror flooded the back of his mouth. Would they burst out of him? Feasting on his corpse as the creature above him devoured his soul?
The world twisted sharply, shattering the careful equilibrium Lancelot had crafted as the Green Knight gripped his jaw and turned his head. The concoction of bodily fluids in his mouth drained out past the bone bars of his prison and spilled past his lips. For a brief second, his mouth was too clogged to let the air into his tattered lungs, and panic gripped him.
Is this how he was meant to die? Choking on his own blood, and bile, and death?
"Cough," the Green Knight instructed in a bored tone, his grip still firm on his jaw.
Frantically, Lancelot tried to obey. He gasped and choked, the blood heavy and foul on his tongue, but the snakes inside him surged upward into his sternum, as if sensing their way out. The sheer panic of the sensation gave him the strength to cough, his whole chest seizing. Splatters of fluids escaped him, some red, some yellow, but mostly black. With each heaving gasp and guttural hack, Lancelot felt the snakes inside him thrash with exhilaration.
"Can you feel it?" the Green Knight pondered, his hand sliding down Lancelot's clammy skin to rest on the spot where the snakes were thrashing. Lancelot shuttered, a warbled cry working its way out of his mouth. Could the Green Knight see them squirming in his chest? He felt the man caress his skin where the snakes were with his thumb, stroking almost lovingly at the creatures inside him.
"You can, can't you?" Gawain crooned when Lancelot jerked uncontrollably beneath him. "That's what I want. You know what it is, you have to."
When Lancelot's only response was a soft whimper, the Green Knight huffed, as if the monk were being ridiculous.
"It's what makes you fey, Lancelot," Gawain murmured into his ear, his voice spreading out and practically swallowing Lancelot's awareness. "It's the only thing you have left to give, and the only thing I'm willing to accept."
Lancelot was vaguely aware of the Green Knight's fingers pulling at the bandage on his side, revealing his wound to the open air.
The snakes twisted gleefully.
"Considering you don't have the faintest idea what is happening, I feel I should warn you. You give it to me," Gawain whispered again, his mouth moving over the salt-soaked skin of his neck, his jaw, his cheek. "And you're mine. You'll take the tight leash Carden kept you on and you'll be giving it right over to me."
To Lancelot's shock and horror, a molten heat bloomed low in his belly, between his hips.
"You've never been left to your own devices," Gawain admonished. "And we can't trust you to start now. You need a firm hand to guide you and I'm going to be that hand."
Lancelot's attention was suddenly on the wound at his side where he felt the knight's fingers probing at the torn edges of the flesh. The Monk could imagine so well what it would look like. The wound would be red and inflamed, the jagged edges of the wound swollen and glistening with shiny, infected skin. He could feel the scorching wet blood dripping from the wound as the Knight probed.
"Please," Lancelot managed to gag out, his body futilely trying to squirm away from the searching hand.
"Please?" Gawain inquired, rearranging himself above Lancelot, shifting his ear closer so he could hear the monk's soft words. He lowered his body down on to Lancelot and shifted back and forth, as if he were just getting comfortable on his bed roll at the end of a tiring day. He was straddling Lancelot's leg, his hip pressed firmly to the vulnerable space between his legs.
"Stop," Lancelot choked out, a fresh wave of black bile oozing from his lips.
"Stop?" Gawain asked with genuine confusion, pulling back a fraction to stare at Lancelot with disbelief. "No, that isn't what you want. You want to be forgiven for your sins, don't you?"
"Die," the monk forced out from behind his teeth. "I w-want to…die."
The Green Knight paused above him, as if thinking over his request.
"No," the man answered him with finality. The fingers that had been probing at the wound in his side suddenly clenched, one of them pushing deep into the wound, forcing itself into the swollen, jagged folds to delve into the bloody, torn muscle underneath.
The pain that erupted in his side was so great, it surprised Lancelot. The sheer agony of the sensation force his whole body to seize, his chest expelling the little air in his lungs out from behind his teeth in an anguished scream so loud it seemed to take them both by surprise. Neither seemed to believe Lancelot was still capable of making such a noise, much less his wild writhing as he tried to escape. The Green Knight didn't seem deterred, rather he seemed emboldened by the response, his arm shifting to force his finger deeper. When sheer force didn't seem to get him anywhere, the finger started to wiggle inside him, urging the torn skin and muscle to yield under him.
"You don't get to die," Gawain said harshly, his teeth practically scraping over Lancelot's ear. His fingers worked relentlessly against his side, sliding and shoving their way deeper into the gaping wound. The snakes in his chest thrashed again, barely noticeable in the sea of agony wracking Lancelot's body. They seemed to curl up on themselves, forming a large, squirming balloon in his chest. Almost as if they were trying to escape the angry, grasping fingers forcing their way in to find them.
"You don't get to die," he repeated, calmer, seemingly soothed by the wails of anguish coming from the body under him. "You have debts to pay, Monk, and I am going to personally see that you pay them."
The fingers inside him stilled, and slowly Lancelot was able to come back to himself. He felt the crushing weight of the knight above him, the deep ache in his side, and the heaviness in his chest where the snakes squirmed, suddenly anxious.
"This is the first step towards your 'salvation,' Monk," the Green Knight said seriously, the hand still holding his jaw firmly stroking at the wet skin, almost soothingly. "The road before you is long, but you can walk it. You give everything to me and I will see you there."
"You've laid the first brick," Lancelot said softly, his voice suddenly finding him as Father Carden's words came back to him. The familiar sensation of dread settled in his chest next to the serpents. "But you cannot walk the road for me. I must have the will to walk it my own, right?"
Truly, trading one master for another.
"No," The Green Knight admonished, his fingers tightening on his jaw, turning Lancelot's face to him, even though the monk couldn't see him clearly. He seemed almost offended at the suggestion.
"I'm going to have a firm hand around your neck the whole way. We're going to walk it together, and if you ever falter, which I imagine you will, I'll be there to drag you down that road. Kicking and screaming, if I must."
Lancelot shuddered again, although this time, it wasn't from fear, or pain. A second finger was working its way inside the wound in his side, but Lancelot felt himself biting down against the pain, bearing down on it, saying to himself that he could take it. He refused to scream, refused to fight against it. He sucked in breath after shallow breath, fighting against the black bile and blood getting tangled in his throat. Each breath was a struggle, a hiccup, but he found himself fighting to have the will to push through. When Lancelot forced himself to sag against the ground, his abdomen finally unclenching, Gawain's two fingers finally slid through the yielding muscle.
They both gave a breathy groan as the knight's knuckles pressed up against the torn skin.
Lancelot fought to relax against the intrusion, heat pooling lower and hotter in his guts. He shuttered at the unbidden thought that if the Knight wanted to go deeper, he would have to rip open the edges of the wound and force himself inside. Once again, in an uncanny fashion, the Knight seemed to sense his thoughts. The Knight groaned again, his lips sliding roughly over Lancelot's as his fingers flexed and wiggled, his hand pulling back slightly before shoving forward again.
"You're hurting me," Lancelot croaked, his back arching, half of him urging him to try and take the fingers deeper into his side until he could feel them like he had the snakes. The other half of him found himself wantonly pushing up against the hard length pressed against his thigh.
"Good," the Knight groaned back, his hips rolling down against Lancelot. That's when Lancelot realized what the heating pooling in his gut was, sparks of pleasure spreading through him at the friction. He found himself squirming in alarm as his own hardness pressed up into the knight's hip.
"Just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire."
He couldn't see Father Carden, but he saw the red bleed into the green halo around the Green Knight, and he could hear his Father's voice so loudly, so clearly, for a moment, Lancelot forgot the precarious position he was in and thrashed - weakly - and cringed, trying to worm his way from under the Green Knight.
"What do you see?" Gawain asked, his voice steady and firm above him. Lancelot whimpered. He could feel the fires licking against his back again, eternal damnation searching to pull him under. He was foolish to believe that anything - or anyone - could save him from what he was. Here he was, reveling in having a man's fingers inside him in such a way that it put the people of Sodom and Gomorrah to shame.
"I'm going to Hell," Lancelot lamented, letting his eyes shut against the onslaught of feeling. Gawain's fingers were slow as they slid out, dragging the edges of the wound, before inching their way back in. It was no longer lightning that jolted through him, but rather like his body was made of glass and Gawain's fingers were playing him like an instrument, pulling beautiful music out of his throat. When his fingers slid back into his wound, a fresh wave of black blood bubbling around his knuckles, Gawain' hips flexed down, grinding against Lancelot until those sparks of pleasure burst into shocks of lust and desire.
"Oh, no, you aren't going anywhere," Gawain groaned, pressing his mouth to Lancelot's. They started a rhythm then, Lancelot rolling up as much as he could to meet Gawain's movements. He scrambled to keep up with the various sensations his body experienced. No one had ever kissed him before and he wasn't sure what to do other than tremble under Gawain's searching tongue. His whole body switched rapidly from scorching hot to freezing cold, and something told him that the black invading his vision was a bad sign.
"Stay with me, Monk," Gawain hissed, his teeth sinking into Lancelot's lip, the sharp tinge grounding him for a moment. Lancelot opened his eyes as wide as he could to show the knight he was still here. The pale wash of the man's face was being slowly invaded by thick patches of gold. Lancelot was intrigued and tried to lift his arm to touch them. Gawain noticed and grabbed his hand, leading it up to stroke at the blurry, gold-speckled face.
Lancelot was shocked and confused when his hand scrapped against a stubbled cheek. The tips of his fingers were numb and felt nothing, but the short, angry hairs stabbed into his palm. The skin was warm, practically scorching - or was Lancelot cold? Gawain took him by the wrist and guided his hand over his face, letting his palm catch the sensations of his skin, his hair, down his neck and onto the hard muscle of his shoulder.
"Lancelot," Gawain groaned against his palm, hot lips pressing kisses into his palm while his teeth bit down on the soft flesh of his wrist. "Hurry up and come - fuck - before you die."
Lancelot didn't understand what Gawain meant, but he suddenly felt a shard of ice shooting from his numb fingers and arching up into his shoulder. Suddenly, Lancelot became aware of his lack of feeling in most of his limbs. Most of him felt cold and heavy. The green was fading quickly from his vision, giving way to a colorless grey.
The snakes in his chest thrashed against his bruised and broken ribs and suddenly he was choking on blood again. The snakes pushed up against his diaphragm, slithering hard up his throat, searching for a way out of him. He shuddered and flailed again, his hips grinding up as the rest of him fell back. Gawain pressed closer to him, rolling down to meet his weak thrusts. His teeth found Lancelot's lips again, biting and pulling his mouth open, his tongue lapping eagerly at the blood and the bile pushing its way out.
The snakes lunged into his throat and suddenly, Lancelot couldn't breathe anymore. No gasp or cough, no straggling puff of air could fit past the serpents squirming their way out of him. Gawain's fingers clenched inside of him and suddenly, heat was pooling hot and fast in his gut. Suddenly the fire that licked at him didn't feel like hellfire. It felt more seductive, more electrifying, more like the Monk was melting.
He felt the head of the first serpent push up into the back of his mouth.
"There," Gawain gasped against his mouth. "You're so close. Give it to me."
Lancelot gagged around the serpent, his mouth open and wide, trying to expel the creature. Gawain's fingers picked up speed, tearing and ripping the wound in his side while his hips ground harshly against his own. The monk tried to groan, tried to gasp, tried to speak but nothing came out of him except for a sickening crunch as the serpent flexed, cracking something in his throat as its head pressed against his tongue.
Gawain became frantic, teeth snapping and tongue lavishing, searching and reaching and grasping for the creature lodged in Lancelot's mouth. His vision blacked out for a second, and Lancelot tried, gagging until he felt thick, wet tears stream from his eyes and his neck cramped. Then, Gawain made a noise of triumph and pounced.
The serpent poked its head curiously past Lancelot's lips and then Gawain's teeth snapped tight around the beasts head, pulling and yanking.
Shards of glass tore open his throat as the serpent slid out of him, and suddenly the roiling fire in his belly peaked, and everything went white.
For a few moments, Lancelot was sure he had died. Everything was white and silent. He couldn't hear Gawain groaning, he couldn't feel the horrible pain or cold in his body. In a moment of delirium, Lancelot wondered if this was Heaven.
“But our love is stronger than its hate. Eventually love wins. It is our unbreakable chain—our bond—that will choke the Beast in the end.”
Father? Lancelot thought wildly, Father Carden's voice once again coming back to him. He could see Father Carden, staring down at him with eyes filled with sadness and pity. He tried to reach for his Father, but when he lifted his hand he saw, under his skin, the writing tendrils of branches, the same that had been coursing through Brother Odo. All along his hand, his arm, his skin, thick golden leaves unfurled.
"This suffering…it will cleanse you."
Lancelot heard the words spoken in Father Carden's voice, but also his own. A mocking overlap that grew louder and louder as the tendril slid under his skin and the golden leaves bloomed, eating him alive.
No, no, no no nonono-
"Enough, Monk," came the harsh voice of the Green Knight, and suddenly Lancelot was back. His eyes opened and it took him a moment to realize he had been blessed with his vision again.
He was still surrounded by green, but he could see clearly now that they were leaves. Thousands of leaves hanging on thick branches that crisscrossed above him, shielding them from the painful, bright sun. He also saw, for the first time since this had begun, the clear face of the Green Knight.
The man's face was healed of its wounds it had sustained in Brother Salt's kitchen. His hair looked more fiery, somehow. His cheeks were rough with stubble and his eyes were a deep, staggering green. Finally, Lancelot realized that his mouth and his chin were smeared with red and black and the man was biting at-
A thick, root tendril was growing out of Lancelot's mouth, a soft, leafy white flower blooming at the end. Just as Lancelot was just beginning to appreciate the beauty of this thing that he had created, Gawain's teeth came down like fangs, tearing into the flower. Lancelot was filled with horror as he watched the knight's tongue snake out and drag a bloodied petal into his mouth. The man didn't seem eager to pause long enough to swallow, instead tearing and ripping at the root again and again and again, until he had swallowed down the entire flower, and then he started pulling and tugging at the root still in Lancelot's mouth.
They stayed like that for an uncomfortable amount of time, Lancelot gagging and forcing out more root until another flower shoved its way out of his throat, and Gawain gnashing and tearing and devouring every last stem and petal. After swallowing down the last petal, Gawain shifted above him, sitting up to get leverage as his bloodied fingers - the fingers that had been inside of Lancelot - tangled in the roots jutting out from behind his teeth and yanked.
Immediately, Lancelot was choking. The knight pulled so hard on the roots lodged inside him still, that he pulled Lancelot almost into an upright position. It felt like blades tearing through him, but finally, with one last vicious tug, the roots came free and Lancelot collapsed back to the ground, hard. Dully, Lancelot realized it hadn't been serpents inside of him. They had been roots slithering around inside him. Roots that were now being devoured by the Green Knight.
Lancelot's hand flickered up to touch his side where he bloody wound should have been. Instead of a sticky, fleshy, painful wound, Lancelot felt a hard knot of scar tissue. Coughing through the blood in his throat, Lancelot realized he was alive, he was warm, and as he watched the Green Knight chew down the last root, he realized he was a bit scared.
Lancelot was naked, a thin sheet thrown into his lap to give him the illusion of modesty. On his stomach were splatters of a white translucent fluid mixed with the thick red strips of blood. He touched the fluid gingerly, not understanding quite what it was. When he finally did, he felt a flush of shame. He scrambled to wipe the offensive fluid from his body. There was so damn much.
"Here, let me," the Green Knight said, gulping down the last of the roots. Smooth as a leopard, Gawain slid forward, crowding close to Lancelot. The Monk flinched when the man gripped his wrist, his tongue slowly slipping out from behind red-tinged teeth to lap the proof of their sin off his fingers. As guilty as Lancelot felt, remembering with a flush what they had done, he also couldn't help but to intently track the way the man's tongue slipped over his skin, lips closing around each digit. With an obscene pop, the knight pulled away and grinned.
"If that’s how you fuck when you're dying, I can't wait to see what you do when you're alive."
"What?" Lancelot blanched, feeling his face burn bright. For a moment, he thought that maybe his fever wasn't completely gone. "I-"
"Come on," the Green Knight said, gripping his arm and pulling them both onto their feet. "We need to get cleaned up before Squirrel comes back and loses his mind."
boysenberrydecay Thu 01 Aug 2024 06:04AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 01 Aug 2024 06:05AM UTC
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OnCrimsonWings Sat 31 Aug 2024 11:14PM UTC
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