Chapter Text
Sonic stood behind one of the many pillaring arches of the castle exterior, slightly peeking from around it. His eyes darted from side to side, surveying the area around him. The autumn breeze brushed past him, cooling and relaxing—despite today being anything but relaxing. Juncos and warblers flew overhead, chirping away as they sang their song. A song Sonic could only believe was a happy one. How could they not be happy? The ability to freely go anywhere they pleased, whenever they wanted. Sure, he was the fastest thing alive; he was able to go anywhere he wanted to, but not freely.
Ever since he found himself stuck in Camelot, the concept of freedom was twisted, stretched so thinly it had become unrecognizable. If he wanted to go somewhere, he had to be accompanied by one of the Knights of the Round Table. It didn't matter if it was a neighboring kingdom far, far away or to the blacksmith’s not even a couple of miles from the castle. There was always someone there with him. Hell, even in the castle it felt like someone was always right there, looming over him, watching every minuscule movement he made. And Sonic knew he shouldn't complain; not like that would stop him though. He knew this rule had been implemented way before he got here by King Arthur, and the knights were simply doing their duties.
Each knight had their own respective duty to attend to, and the thought of trying to understand why one was placed at a certain post at a certain time of day was not something he wanted to figure out. He just left things how they were. It also made it somewhat easier to remember which routes were safe to use when he'd sneak out for a run.
During this time of day, he knew Gawain would be stationed in the north tower, and Lamarok in the south tower. Galahad would be over on the east side, just outside the castle walls. Lancelot near the training hall, watching the shadows move, ready to get more training in the moment his shift was over. Percival would be near the gardens just southwest of where Sonic stood. This meant right now the one place he could successfully sneak away was a very small section on the west side of the castle. And if anyone did catch a glimpse of him, none were fast enough to keep up. Well, Lancelot could hold a steady pace with him, but only when he went at half speed.
Sonic's eyes darted around once, twice, then a third time—doing a final sweep. He lowered himself into a running stance, placing one foot behind him ready to go. He began to lift his leg, ready to bolt out of there as fast as he could, and was stopped, unable to move. Something—someone—was holding onto his cape with an iron grip. He let out a groan as he turned his head to see Percival behind him.
“Going somewhere, your Majesty?” Her voice dropped with a knowing tone. The same tone a mother would use on her child when she knew they were about to do something they weren't supposed to.
“What? No, no, I'm just taking in some fresh air.” A lie, and a very blatant one too. Percival’s grip loosened some, but he dared not try running away now; it wouldn't end well anyway. He turned around to face her, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I thought you were keeping post in the gardens?”
“Usually yes, but we both know, your Majesty, when there's a gala it's my duty to make sure you are properly ready. Also, to make sure you don't try to do anything irrational and stupid.”
“When have I ever done something irrational and stupid?” Even through her visor he could feel Percival's eyes staring at him. “Actually, don't answer that.” There was an awkward pause, thick and palpable, before he continued speaking, “Does there really have to be another gala? We just had one a few months ago. Can't we just skip over this one?”
Percival shook her head. “I'm afraid until you choose an eligible suitor, we both know these galas will continue.”
She might as well have told him to stop whining and just get married already. But the idea of a relationship, let alone marriage, had never been Sonic's thing. Being involved with someone romantically felt exhausting. Always having to be tied down to one person, unable to be free to do as he pleased. Having to worry about every action he made because someone expected him back at a certain time. It seemed quite unappealing. Any form of attraction he felt towards someone back home was always short-lived, gone before it could even blossom into a full-fledged crush. And being in Camelot was no different.
In Camelot, the only difference was instead of everyone having a mutual understanding his job as a hero meant dating was just not doable, it felt like some days the castle staff’s sole mission was to play matchmaker. One of the knights casually mentioning a prince from the western Kingdom of Ascetir or a few maids very obviously talking about the new princess over in one of the kingdoms on Èire island.
Plus, here was only meant to be a temporary thing. Or so he thought. Something he thought would be a few months’ ordeal tops before he was sent back home had now turned into a year and a half. With no sign of any hope of getting back anytime soon, might he add.
“Now, your Majesty, we should be heading off to get ready. The local tailor has already selected your outfit for tonight and has placed it in your bedchambers.”
Sonic groaned again but made no effort in fighting back. He swiftly followed Percival back inside the castle; back into the cold, uninviting stone prison that was now his home. Walls adorned with paintings of the late King Arthur and previous rulers, and the newest addition of his painting at the end. That day had been one of the worst days ever. He had no idea how anyone could sit for hours on end stuck in one spot while being stared at by someone permanently capturing every feature and flaw he had.
The hallways were a maze that took him months to learn, but now he had memorized them to a tee. Totally not because he wanted the quickest and most efficient escape route for when he went on his impromptu runs. Every corner, every turn they made was greeted by a new member of the staff, bowing down low and either “your Majesty” or “my Liege”. Sonic hated it; it was something he would never get used to. The formality of those names felt obnoxious. Here, he was always something other than himself. Something other than just Sonic. He wished he could just be Sonic again.
When they reached the large wooden doors to his bedchamber, Percival informed him the gala would start in roughly an hour and for him to be ready to go twenty minutes prior. Sonic gave her a thumbs-up and flashed her a wide smile.
She gave him a quick bow and turned on her heels, walking away for a moment before turning back around. “And your Majesty, Lancelot will be here soon, waiting outside your room to escort you. It would be most unwise to try and run off like earlier.”
Sonic still had a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t dare dream of it.” And the moment she turned away, his smile turned to a sour pout.
There went his brilliant plan.
Now that he knew there was no way he could get out of this anymore, he opened the door and made his way inside. The sound of the door creaked as it shut, followed by the click of the latch. The sound sent an unwanted shiver down his spine as it echoed across the vastly large room. He would never get used to how big his room was; it was practically the size of Tails' place back home. And having his own room was something he still had barely gotten used to. Sure, he had a room back home with Tails, but he never used it besides storing trinkets and rewards he got on his many adventures. So, having something like this felt foreign to him.
Sonic let out a third—and definitely not final—groan of the day. His eyes darted over to the dresser, and sure enough, there were clothes neatly laid out for him, just as Percival mentioned. His legs felt heavy like stone, for once not wanting to go fast as he made his way over to take a look at them. He grabbed the white button-up shirt, ruffled slightly at the top. It wasn't anything overly special. His body moved unwillingly as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up to the top. Then his hands brushed against the velvety fabric of the vest. It was the same blue color as his fur, with golden floral patterns woven into it. Finally, the last item, a pair of plain black pants, was put on with many huffs and curses under his breath.
Once he had gotten the clothes properly situated on his body, he took a look in the mirror. Everything, every single article of clothing, personally tailored to fit him. Yet none of it felt like it fit right. This wasn't Sonic. This wasn't him. This was an outfit he was forced to wear. It felt like he was playing dress-up to fit into the role of a king.
The shirt was suffocating, too tight around his neck. The fabric itched his fur in all the wrong places. Sonic’s hands came up to unbutton the top two buttons, letting a sigh out. The vest hugged his waist in a way that accentuated it in the worst way possible. He tried to adjust it, only causing it to look worse than before. The pants felt too constricting. He hated pants back home, and he hated them in Camelot as well. They always made it harder for him to move his legs as fluidly and quickly as he liked. And for someone like him, who used his legs a lot, pants had always been a no-go.
There were many no-goes in his life that seemed to have crept their way in as of late. Each one he had no real control over.
Sonic stared back at his reflection. It was him, that's for sure—yet not at the same time. The reflection didn't stare back at him with a sinister or teasing look like the horror movies back home might have one believe. Its expression was the same as his. One he wouldn't dare call depressed or sorrowful; he knew what those looked like, and this wasn't one of them. Maybe grief? Maybe an entirely new emotion? He wasn't sure. The one thing he was sure about was the knocking coming from outside his door.
“My liege, I do not mean to rush you, but we need to be heading out soon.”
He had really spent almost forty minutes in a daze getting ready.
Sonic put on his usual smile, bright and warming, before taking one final look in the mirror. “I’m coming, Lance.”
He made his way to the door, forcing any complaints he had about the outfit, the gala—everything—to the back of his mind. He opened the door; Lancelot stood a couple of paces behind it, already bowing.
Sonic rolled his eyes. “You don't have to bow every time you greet me. Now come on, get up.” After Lancelot stood up straight again, Sonic did a small playful twirl, showing off the outfit. “So how do I look?”
“You look well, just as you always do, my Liege.”
“Just well? Not going to call me handsome?” He let out a melodramatic scoff.
“It's not fitting for a knight to call their king handsome. However, if that is your order, then I—”
“Lance, I'm not ordering you to do anything at the moment. It was just a joke. Now, I believe you said we need to get going.”
“Yes, my liege, the gala will be starting soon.” Lancelot gave him a small nod as the two made their way out.
Lancelot was a far cry from his counterpart back home. Where Shadow usually greeted him with a scoff, a biting insult, and maybe a well-placed kick to the ribs, this version bowed his head, kissed Sonic's hand with solemnity, and spoke with the composed dignity of a knight sworn to serve. As much as Sonic hated getting the crap beat out of him—as any other sane hedgehog would—this chivalrous devotion made his quills stand on end just the same. Maybe even more.
The two of them made their way out of the castle, past the protective walls, and to the town square. It took a lot of convincing. Okay, it was more demanding for him to not have to take one of the horse-drawn carriages everywhere he went. There was no point anyway. The town square wasn't far from the castle, and he was the fastest thing alive. If it weren't for the necessity of being escorted by Lancelot, he would be there in a few milliseconds.
But Sonic didn't mind a brisk walk every now and then. Plus, he got to have a nice conversation. Sonic would ask Lancelot questions, and he'd get back dry, non-personal responses. If he asked why Lancelot became a knight, he'd get back, “to serve my kingdom”. Or if he asked if he had any siblings, he'd get back, “that is unimportant”. That never stopped him from still asking questions. Maybe it was because one day he knew he would break down Lancelot’s walls and actually get a real answer to one of his many questions.
This conversation was no different from any previous one. The last half of it, Sonic ended up telling Lancelot another adventure he had fighting Eggman. It was harder than one would think trying to explain potential world-dominating robots to someone from medieval times. Lancelot still seemed to listen intently, pretending to understand with the occasional nod of the head.
The sun had begun to set by the time they had gotten there, creating a canvas of rose and fire in the vast sky. A pennant hung high at the arches at the entry, bearing the royal crest, and banners dyed deep crimson, forest green, and gold hung throughout the square. Their edges snapped gently in the evening breeze. The lanterns hung all around created a slight golden wash over everything, casting long shadows that seemed to dance across the area.
Garlands of sage blossoms with marigolds and red camellias woven within were strung from each wooden post. The scent of cedarwood and crushed thyme drifted through the air. Long banquet tables lined with velvet runners stretched across them, overflowing with trenchers of roasted game, bowls of berries glazed in honey, wheels of pungent cheese, and goblets brimming with mead and wine.
Servants weaved between the crowds with practiced grace, balancing trays of steaming food and carafes of dark wine. A few upper-class citizens and the rest of the Knights of the Round Table were already there. Lords and Ladies from neighboring kingdoms wandered through the square, the sound of boots meeting stone and grass alike—a steady undertone beneath the hum of lively conversations. Their words and laughter mingled with the distant notes of a lute and the soft rhythm of a bard’s voice singing a song. A few guards not stationed back at the castle stood around the perimeter, stoic, silent, watching every corner.
Under any other circumstance, Sonic would have loved it and been the life of the party. Now, he wanted nothing more than for all of this to be over. Not even the gala, but the whole king thing.
Percival seemed to be the first to notice their arrival; she cleared her throat, hand lifting with a practiced grace as she gestured toward Sonic.
“King Sonic of Camelot,” her voice rang out, crisp and clear, cutting through the buzz of conversation like the peal of a bell.
All at once, heads turned. The lively murmur of the gala dimmed into a hush as Lords and Ladies, citizens and knights alike turned toward the entrance. Eyes wide with interest, curiosity, admiration settled on the blue-furred king. The crowd gave him bows.
Sonic offered a small, almost sheepish smile at first, lifting a hand in greeting. But then he stood a little taller, shoulders rolling back with that easy, signature confidence, and gave a warm, casual wave.
“Evening, everyone!” he called out, voice light as the breeze ruffling the banners overhead.
Lancelot, ever the shadow beside him, gave a stiff nod before stepping aside. He gave the other hedgehog a bow as Sonic told him to join the rest of the knights, then turned and began weaving through the crowd. As he moved to rejoin the other Knights of the Round Table, already gathered near the dais, Gawain gave him a clap on the shoulder. Galahad raised a goblet in greeting.
The air in the square began to buzz again, conversations slowly resuming, but not without the occasional glances toward the freshly arrived king. Sonic moved forward, steps slow and deliberate, as if walking on eggshells under the weight of watchful eyes. He could practically feel each set of eyes cling to him. They measured him, compared him to the ghost of Arthur. They always did.
He hated it.
Still, he kept that stupid grin plastered on his face like a shield, keeping his thoughts to himself. He'd learned how to mask any ill thoughts and feelings pretty well by now. No one here needed to know he was tired, or that the shirt he wore itched like hell, or that he'd rather be running in an open field, wind in his face and grass blurring beneath his feet.
One of the servants approached him with a silver goblet. Sonic took it politely, giving them a brief thanks. He looked down at the contents within it, the smell hitting him hard, vile and sorrow filling his nostrils. He hadn't had any intention of drinking anything that tasted like it had been steeped in tree bark and regret. He sipped away at it anyway, grimacing slightly, then smiled as one of the ladies—from Leyccer if he remembered correctly—approached him. She bowed before him and immediately went into conversation.
And so it began—the endless parade.
They seemed to have started to line up, one after another. Most were old faces, ones Sonic had met at previous galas, and a couple newer faces to add to the list of people trying to have his hand in marriage. Each one the same. Every conversation reworded, but identical. They flattered him with empty praise and cloying smiles, hoping to convince him a marriage between Camelot and their kingdom would be beneficial to all. Each conversation ended the same, with Sonic telling them he'd definitely think about it—a blatant lie. Once he finished talking with them, they never crossed his mind until he saw them again, but they didn't need to know that.
He barely kept track of the names. Half the time, he was nodding through conversations while his eyes wandered—searching the crowd for something more familiar, more real.
His gaze landed on the edge of the square not too far away. There stood Lancelot watching the south end of the square, with Galahad and Gawain trying to pull him into a conversation. One Sonic knew the knight wanted no part of. The flickering torchlight danced across his armor, and though his stance was composed, Sonic noticed the way his hand hovered close to the hilt of his blade. Always on guard. Always ready to protect.
Their eyes met for just a brief moment. Lancelot gave the barest incline of his head. Not a smile. Not even a nod of encouragement. Just presence. Steady. Solid. Something so small seemed to ground him more than any toast or fanfare could.
Sonic didn't remember when the music shifted—only that it had. Something slower now, more formal, more ceremonial. His hands ached from too many handshakes, his jaw hurt from his forced smile. He couldn’t stop fidgeting with the buttons, tugging them away from his fur, trying not to look like he was clawing at himself.
Lords and Ladies still buzzed around him like flies to a fresh kill. Everyone wanted a piece. A word. A promise. A future. Sonic offered all the correct expressions. A tight smile. A diplomatic nod. The occasional joke when the weight of it all started pressing down a tad bit too hard.
His mind had slipped into a repetitive haze. He was mentally tuned out when it happened.
A glint.
A blur.
A whisper of something wrong in the air before a shout rang out.
“My liege, watch out!”
For once, he wasn't fast enough. His brain had barely even rejoined the rest of reality before he had the thought to move.
Lancelot was already there in front of him. Between him and a blade. A blade that didn’t belong to the knight. Between Lancelot and the blade was a man. The attempted assassin strike wasn't calculated, but it was quick and efficient. The sickening sound of metal scraping metal pierced everyone's ears, then something softer. Flesh.
It was quiet at first. Too quiet. Then the gasps hit, one by one, like a rising tide. The crowd parted in an instant as if repelled by the violence. Blood already splattered the stones beneath them, like someone flicked a paintbrush full of red paint onto it.
Sonic's ears rang. His mouth dry. Whole body tingled.
Lancelot staggered once, twice, and then dropped to his knees. His own blade slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a hollow clink. If it hadn't been for Sonic catching him, he would have collapsed face-first into the stone.
“Lancelot—”
The name left his mouth raw, more instinct than anything. He didn’t know what part of him moved first: his hands to the wound or his knees hitting the stone next to him. There was blood everywhere. Too much of it. His gloves were soaked within an instant; parts of his fur not covered by clothing had turned to a muddy brown as it mixed with the blood. He pressed down hard on the gash across Lancelot's side.
“Stay with me,” Sonic hissed, breath catching. “Don’t you close your eyes, do you hear me? Look at me!”
Lancelot did. Barely. Eyes glazed and swimming. Breath hollow, ragged. “My... liege…”
Sonic let out a noise that was half a laugh, half a sob. “Don’t say that! Don’t you start with that formal crap right now, alright? Just—just hold on. You’re gonna be okay. You’re always okay.”
He looked up, frantic as he searched, his eyes landing on Percival. Before he could get a single word out—
“I’m going!” she shouted, the heavy clank of armor pounding against stone as she quickly vanished from the chaos.
Somewhere between the attack and now, Gawain had his sword pressed against the assassin’s throat, just firm enough that any sudden movement would slice right through it. Not that the man could go anywhere, with Galahad holding him tightly, restraining any further movement—any further attacks. They were yelling something, their lips moving, but Sonic couldn't make out a single word, couldn't care to understand them.
All he could do was watch as Lancelot's blood matted their fur, drenching the very ground beneath them. Lancelot's blood was warm. And Sonic had never felt so cold. His legs were shaking, unable to stop them. Tears formed in his eyes, blinking before any threatened to spill out.
“You stupid bastard,” Sonic’s voice cracked. “You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t—I can take a hit, you idiot.”
Lancelot coughed, a wet, awful sound as he tried to speak, coherent thought unable to form as his vision blurred.
Sonic pressed harder, feeling helpless. “Come on, Lance. Come on.” He leaned in closer, voice turning to a hushed whisper. “Don’t leave me here with these uptight jerks and their horrible wine, alright? You gotta stay with me. Please.”
His voice broke at the end.
He didn't realize how long it took Percival, or when she returned with the medics, but it felt like a millennium. They shouted orders, pried Sonic's hands away, lifted Lancelot onto a stretcher. Sonic tried to follow them but was stopped by Percival’s hand grabbing his arm firmly.
“He’s in good hands. Let them work.” Her voice was calm in the storm. It wasn't reassuring in the slightest.
Sonic stared, eyes following them, his chest heaving, ears ringing.
“I have to—”
“No. You need to breathe. You need to be calm for when he wakes.”
Sonic wanted to scream, wanted to run until the world blurred into nothing—until his lungs burned and his legs gave out, and there was nothing left but motion and wind and the ache in his chest. Instead, he nodded. Numb. Empty. Lost.
Percival led him away, a steady hand on his back, guiding him through the wreckage of something he couldn’t name. Back to the castle. Behind them, the blood still hadn’t dried. It clung dark and glistening to the stones, a stain time wouldn’t scrub clean.
After the attack, there were many things he hadn't realized. Like when they had gotten back to the castle. Or when he had gotten back in his room. His clothes torn off haphazardly, not even caring if buttons ripped off; they were damaged beyond repair anyway from the blood.
Sonic paced around the room like he could outrun the guilt bubbling inside him. There was no way he could rest, not with his mind racing through every way he could have helped Lancelot more. How he could have stopped the attack before it had even happened. If only he had been paying more attention instead of zoning out. The only thing that got him to stop for a second was the reflection in the mirror.
The grin he wore was long gone, replaced with a slack line. Eyes bloodshot, lacking their usual sparkle. His gloves, peeled off and forgotten somewhere in the room, had left behind ghost-white marks where the blood hadn’t touched. His fur was a disheveled mess, matted. His quills were tousled from the frantic way he’d run his hands through them earlier. Some stuck out oddly, crusted near the tip. He didn’t know if it was dirt or dried blood, and he didn’t want to check.
His fists clenched into tight balls, trying to hold himself back from punching the mirror in front of him—from throwing and breaking anything he could grab. Sonic clenched his jaw, stepping back from the mirror like it might bite him. His shoulders shook. Not from fear. Not from the coldness. From rage. From helplessness. From the deep, ugly churn of knowing he’d failed to protect the one person who’d never hesitated to stand between him and death.
“I should’ve seen it,” he whispered, voice raw. “How can I be the fastest thing alive and still not have moved quick enough?”
He turned away before the tears could fall. He never liked crying, and he never liked seeing himself when he did. Certainly not tonight. Not like this.