Chapter Text
The summons was urgent as the need was indeed dire. Hand delivered by the royal spymaster after receiving word through her network. As messages in whispers traveled faster than a single rider.
Raiders attacking a large village to the north. Normally, a protected stronghold with sturdy high walls and their own militia of well trained men to guard the beloved town. But a plague had struck several months prior, leaving the people weak and many, many more dead. The perfect foothold for an enemy to begin their assault on Camelot.
Or, at least, that's the strategy Arthur would pursue had he the same advantage.
So it was with no hesitation that he gathered his famed knights in the war room to send them on their task. Sir Percival, mind as sharp as her sword and her footing as sure as her resolve. Sir Gawain, his strength matched only by his loyalty. Sir Galahad, unparalleled in tenacity with the uncanny ability to perceive his opponent’s next move. Sir Lamorak, as swift and as cutting as the wind. All of them captained by Sir Lancelot, whose attributes could only be summed by calling him the penultimate knight.
“You have your assignments,” King Arthur dismissed from the head of the table, “Go faithfully serve Camelot and fulfill your vows.”
With practiced stance, the knights rose and each placed a fist over their heart, bowing to their king, “It would be an honor to serve, your majesty.”
There was the sound of wooden chairs lightly scraping across the floor as the group began to depart the war room. Each talking and mumbling amongst themselves, planning already for the journey ahead. Lancelot was the last to the door and about to depart before a gentle sound caught his ear.
“Sir Lancelot, a word if you will?”
Lancelot turned towards his king, letting the door fall shut behind him, “My liege?”
“Come. Sit,” Arthur gestured to the spot at his right hand as he rubbed his tired eyes and the weight of the world settled visibly in his shoulders.
“Are you well, my king?” Lancelot asked as he settled back into his seat, ramrod straight. His voice was even but tight with concern.
Arthur gave a small smile, “Well enough, Lance. Remove your visor. Let us speak plainly, I wish to see my friend before you depart for battle.”
There was a hesitancy but Lancelot would never refuse a request from his lord. The visor was removed and placed on the table. He shook out his quills, letting them fall out into place as he felt air on his face for the first time since he had placed the helmet on that morning.
“Much better,” Arthur sighed in relief on behalf of the knight, reclining into his chair and leaning to the side of his arm rest, “How have you been fairing?”
“Well, m- Arthur,” a slight stumble of the tongue and a visible tinge of blush flooded Lancelot's ears. It was always difficult for him to regress back to their old, more familiar ways as requested of him whenever they spoke plain. The days before duty and responsibility.
“Hmmm,” Arthur clicked his tongue and leaned over to pinch lightly at one of the flushed ears, “I would not surmise ‘well’ given how frequently I find you standing at attention around these halls. You will work yourself to an early grave, Lance.”
Lancelot flicked his ear out of the other's hold and stilled the urge to huff in disagreement, “I find I maintain a healthy life between my duties and my diversions.”
“And what diversions do you have these days?” Lancelot opened his mouth but Arthur waved a hand to shush him, “No, no. Let me guess. Let's see…an Arabic poet? Or a Grecian philosopher? Maybe an Italian stargazer? All whispering their sweet nothings to you by candlelight.”
The corner of Lancelot's mouth quivered into a small half smile as he played Arthur's game, “A Benedictine monk actually.”
“A monk! By Gaia's guiding hand, Lancelot, you lead a man of the cloth to your humble bed? Laid a spine upon your pillow?”
“And I would again, were it not that particular body so unfit for reviewing a second time.”
“The bodies you view, Lance, are unfit to lay eyes upon a first time. Much less twice,” Arthur laughed, “I find their innards a tad too…dry for my tastes.”
Lancelot's nose scrunched in disgust, “Must you always take the jest one step past propriety?”
“We must take our small comforts where we can find them. Just as you find delight in a reading nook, I find mine in knowing I can still bring that look to your virginal face.”
“Is that where your small comforts lie?”
“Amongst others,” Arthur raised a brow.
“Several others you should say,” Lancelot smirked, “For you call me a virgin but there are those who might confuse the royal bedchamber for a whorehouse.”
“Oh?” Arthur leaned back, amused at the bite in Lancelot's voice, “And do you pay much attention to the comings and goings of the royal bedchamber, good sir knight?”
“As it pertains to my station.”
“How so?”
“That the chamber doors do not fall off its hinges from over use given the number of times it welcomes and departs guests in volumes over a single night.”
“I should find that the state of the doors are the worries of our master mason. Not a knight.”
“Then of the state of our kingdom,” Lancelot retorted, “Should its cities be overrun with blue bastards, a plague we may not survive.”
“I have yet to receive summons of a nature that dire,” Arthur smirked.
“A grave situation we should all find ourselves in as citizens of Camelot. Scores of unruly roving hedgehogs with their father's penchant for mischief and misgivings at that age.”
“A dilemma for wet nurses and school teachers. Pray, I have yet to hear why a knight in my service cares so much for the company kept beyond his posting,” Arthur’s smile grew devilish as Lancelot sighed.
“For the knight’s own sake of sanity then. That the company and noises kept behind a worn out door be shuttered and contained to the room with which they are made.”
“I just thought I might impart some small amount of entertaining gratitude to the waiting guard beyond my chamber door.”
“If it is for the guard’s benefit that there is a rambunctious and theatric performance nightly, then the guard requests a reprieve.”
“You know you're always welcome to take part in the performance, Lance,” Arthur purred, his eyes taking on a darker look as his hand slid across the table, “What better place to keep watch over your king than from his own bed?”
Lancelot rolled his eyes before removing his hand from Arthur's reach, “Would that I could replace your crown of jewels with one of bells and name you jester.”
The lustful look left the king's green eyes as he smiled, “And you would follow rulings from King Jester?”
“Do I not already?”
“Then heed King Jester and go make merry before you depart,” Arthur stood as Lancelot took his cue to do that same, “So you may head onward into battle with a lighter heart and return home to a bastard or two of your own.”
~~~
The northern town was a two week long journey from the castle for a normal band of travelers. But these were the Knights of the Round Table, sworn protectors of the realm and blessed with abilities far beyond any normal Mobian. With the aid of his mastery over wind, Lamorak cut their travel time down to several days and nights of hard riding. Galahad’s uncanny ability to tell which roads would provide safe and speedy travel aided in their journey as well.
The company soon approached the town's main gate, shuttered closed with posted guards along the walkways. The banners, fluttering and snapping in the wind, held the insignia of the kingdom to the North.
“Three score of men by my count,” Gawain reported, back from his scouting mission, “The remaining townsfolk have been sequestered inside the main square. Mostly women and children and the lame,” his voice went tight, “There seem to be no surviving members of their militia.”
“None?” Galahad asked. His lip bit with worry.
“Just their souls, may they rest with Gaia.”
“Scared of a few ghosts, Gawain?” Lamorak smirked, flicking and catching a small knife in the air.
Gawain’s face matched his fur, “Bite your tongue.”
“When do we strike?” Percival faced their commander.
Lancelot's back was to the group, his face pointed towards the town from their hiding place in the surrounding woods. He’d taken on the position of lookout while the others rested waiting on their scout’s return. He turned slowly to address his knights, raising his visor to look them in the eyes.
“At sunfall,” he asserted, walking over and etching a crude drawing of the town in the dirt with a stick, “We follow the route Gawain found through the wall. Percival, you'll take the guards along the wall. Silence them.”
The cat gave a curt nod, her smile was faint but present. A small fang peeking through.
“Lamorak, Gawain- we need to draw out their ground forces. You'll head straight to the main road and-”
“Make a ruckus?” Lamorak cut in.
Lancelot nodded, “The bigger, the better.”
“Let me guess, I'm to gather the townsfolk,” Galahad sighed. He was the youngest and newest knight, used to being delegated to the smaller, non-combatant tasks.
“An important job,” Lancelot’s voice was firm but kind, “You'll use your gifts to keep them safe and find the surest path to refuge. Percival will join you once the main gate has been opened.”
“And what will you be doing?” Gawain questioned. They were used to their commander taking solo and secret missions.
“What I do best,” Lancelot smirked, returning to his lookout post and lowering his visor again, “Serving the realm.”
~~~
Twilight approached quickly. The dusky hues of orange and red covering the mountain like fire. Silently and efficiently, the knights entered the town through a gap in the wall, each splitting off into their respective groupings.
Lancelot headed off into the town proper, leaving his knights to their tasks. He knew they would not fail him or their king. His own task was more private. Entrusted only to him. While the town was in fact an important bustling capital at their borders, filled with trade, bringing in commerce and goods to ship further South into Camelot, its importance was for another matter entirely. Lancelot hurried to the home of the Lord of the lands, the one who had sent the summons in the first place.
The manor was crawling with the enemy army. A dozen jackal mercenaries guarding the entrance and patrolling the exterior. Lancelot could only hazard how many were in the interior. Slipping past the guard would be child’s play. But fighting in such close quarters inside would be another matter entirely. So, Lancelot sat on his haunches and waited. And waited. Until finally, he heard it.
The battle cry of his Echidna warrior, ringing through the town. Calling any and all challengers to face him or be branded cowards. Lancelot gave a fond smirk at the punctuated cawing laugh carried on the wind. For as much as the hawk and echidna fought, they were his powerhouses of strength and speed. Dependable. And loud.
The mercenaries heard the call to action. Worried looks crossed their faces before a voice inside barked out orders to cut down the intruding forces. Jumping at the chance to spill blood, the jackals took off running towards the main street and away from the manor. Exactly as Lancelot had planned.
Entering the manor like an encroaching shadow, with the dimming light of day providing cover, Lancelot made his way quickly and silently to the second floor. He could hear the furious snarling and smashing of furniture. A deep growl of discontent before speaking again.
“Final chance,” the voice came, “Tell me where it is or-”
“Don't touch her!” a young voice, a slap, a whimper.
“Take me instead,” a woman’s voice, breathy but firm in conviction, “Please. Just leave my daughter.”
“Do you think this is a game?” The growling voice barked out a laugh, “That you have room to negotiate? Either give me the jewel or the whelp dies!”
A piercing draw of breath and pleas spilling from the captive family. Lancelot’s hand twitched to Arondight, his sword practically calling out to him to enact the king’s justice, but he waited. It wasn't the moment.
“You cur,” a new voice, low and male and straining between each breath as though it pained him greatly, “A cowardly villain. Using an innocent girl. May you rot in hell.”
“Keep talking,” Lancelot could hear the sneer in the enemy’s voice, “every word just draws my blade nearer, your lordship. Last. Chance. My liege grows impatient. And if I can't send him what he requires, then perhaps a nice new pelt will please him.”
A shrill scream of a young girl sent Lancelot into action. He burst through the doors of the main bedroom, catching the jackal holding the young rabbit girl by surprise. He was precise and deadly with his strike. The dropped knife kicked and sent spinning across the flagstone as Lancelot's blade fell cleanly from out of the jackal's ribs. A death gurgle from blood filled lungs stood in for the mercenary's last words before he collapsed to the ground.
“Praise Gaia,” the Lord leaned against his wife before passing out completely, succumbing to his wounds. Lancelot quickly worked to free the Lady and the children from their rope bonds as she freed her husband.
“Are you unharmed?” Lancelot asked, taking a knee in front of the small rabbit child, checking her throat for a wound. A small nic where the knife kissed just under her jaw, red and angry, could be spotted under her fur.
“I'm fine, Sir Knight,” the little girl’s voice wobbled, “But my brother-”
“I'm okay Cream,” the bee on the other side of the room said, rubbing his bruising and swollen cheek.
“My brave soldier,” the Lady crooned over her son, moving to hug both her children into her chest. Her eyes found Lancelot's, “Thank you.”
Lancelot straightened back up and gave a slight bow, “I've been instructed to retrieve the diamond by order of his majesty. I am just relieved we made it in time.”
“Are all the knights here?” The bee wrested out of his mother's grasp, eyes shining.
“Yes, young Lord,” Lancelot answered with a nod, “Here and fighting valiantly. Your home will be free shortly.”
“Mother can we see?!” He turned to the Lady.
“Absolutely not,” she bristled, “You are to remain here. This is not a tourney.”
“But-”
It took a single, withering glance from her normally matronly face to silence the boy. Lancelot cleared his throat.
“My Lady. Time is of great importance…”
Lady Vanilla shook her head and straightened up, a kind smile settling on her face again, “Yes. Yes, of course. Please forgive me.”
“No offense has been given,” Lancelot assured, “I worry only for my brothers in arms and am intent to join them in battle.”
With a turn towards a tapestry that covered from floor to ceiling, Lady Vanilla pulled a sconce on the wall. It tilted and a small scraping noise could be heard, followed by a loud click. A sudden breeze billowed behind the tapestry, forcing it away from where a moment prior had only been a wall.
“Follow me,” she said, pulling the cloth to the side and revealing a darkened passage. Lancelot hurried to her side, following her as she grabbed a candle from the sconce and provided a small amount of light to the stairwell.
It took only a short period to make their way down to the bottom of the stairs. Far enough that Lancelot was sure they were well below and away from the manor. They were stopped in front of a door, one that did not seem to have a lock but was stuck shut anyway.
“There's a-” Vanilla pressed her fingers to the stone surrounding the door before one finally fell beneath the pressure exuded. Then she found another, and another. Seven presses in all, the door mechanism unlocking from the inside with a hiss. Lancelot pressed inwards and the gentle glow of green light outshone the candle in hand.
He walked to the center of the room, the entropy radiating off the jewel hovering above its podium causing his quills to stand on end. With a gauntleted hand, he pulled the jewel from the air. Its light dimmed slightly in his touch. Carefully, Lancelot settled the gem into his quills.
“I shall depart from here, My Lady,” he turned and gave a deep bow, “Camelot and King Arthur are deeply indebted to your family for your guardianship and bravery in the face of uncertain odds.”
“I am only forever grateful to Gaia our spymaster made word find its way to you so quickly.”
“For that, I must agree.”
“Fair travel, Sir Lancelot,” Lady Vanilla gave a nod of dismissal and turned to climb the stairs. Before she went, she gave a brief call over her shoulder, eyes tight with determination and vengeance, “And Lance? Give them hell.”
A flash of orange and the knight was gone from her sights. She breathed several times, trying to calm her demeanor before she needed to become the brave Lady of the house for her children and her people.
~~~
The main street was chaos. An all out brawl with Lamorak using his powers of the wind to kick up dust and debris. Effectively blinding the onslaught of enemies before Gawain leapt from behind. Taking down jackal after jackal with either strikes from his fists or slashes from one of his twin swords - Galatine.
“I require a challenge,” Gawain spat after taking out a rush of enemies. His voice was loud enough to taunt the remaining assailants.
“A challenge?” cawed Lamorak, smirk widening as he blew the twister surrounding them into a frenzy, “What did you have in mind?”
“Perhaps confining an arm behind my back,” Gawain laughed, goading several to enter the twister at once, “And then once we finish here, see how many of their widowers require the services of a real knight.”
Howls of frustration followed by yelps of injury as another half dozen jackal warriors fell to the echidna.
A flash of orange appeared behind them as Lancelot took in the scene around him.
“How fares our captain?” Lamorak smirked at the new arrival, “Come to join in the merriment?"
“Come to check on your progress,” Lancelot grunted as he caught a charging jackal across the gut with a slice.
“Well in hand and relishing every minute, sir,” Gawain chuckled. His fists were covered with blood, “I don't know how long it's been since I've gotten to let loose like this.”
“Galahad and Percival have finished already. If you have this in hand then let us-”
But Lancelot would not get to finish that statement before a flash of red could be seen in the distance. His eyes narrowed. His teeth clenched.
“Make haste,” he barked out before running off towards the dancing light show in the growing darkness.
The kingdom to the North was not one of honorable warriors and chivalrous knights. It, in truth, bore a wicked king. One that dabbled in the darker parts of Gaia. Creations of monstrous form and fierce evil, creations that Lancelot was familiar with as he had slain a fair majority of them. Dragons, minotaurs, wyrms, automatons, just to name a few, had fallen to his blade. But the one he had yet to best was the affront to nature causing the mess before him.
The warlock’s aura glowed a soft magenta, contrasting greatly with the red pulse of the shard embedded in his chest. His hood was drawn as though hiding the secret of his identity, as if the metal mask did not do that alone. His golden eye found Lancelot's gaze. Lowered his clawed hands to the ground, the warlock found his footing from his levitating state.
“I know you have it, knight,” the warlock called out across the shortening distance between them, “Ataxia calls to my blood now, you cannot hide it from me.”
Lancelot’s response came in the form of a spear of light from his palm. The warlock barely moved his face out of the way in time. His mask caught the corner of the blast and was ripped from him. A yell of pain and frustration before sending his own volley of attack. Cubes of blood-red power descended on Lancelot as the knight did his best to avoid their touch. He'd been caught in the illusion magic once before and he was not eager to see it again.
“Surrender and I shall make your death far less painful,” the warlock called out.
“Death before dishonor,” came Lancelot's clipped reply, Arondight pulled from its scabbard and clutched tightly in his fists. The cleaving swing came faster than the warlock predicted but was still too slow. He danced out of its path much to Lancelot's dismay.
“Then fall to the might of my power, O’ Fiercesome Knight. Fall and suffer fear.”
The cube entrapped Lancelot faster than he could think. His body fell limp as the illusion took hold.
The alchemist's chuckle, a sound learned to precede pain.
Cold, metal instruments being shoved into his person. The scratch of quill on parchment, somehow heard over the incessant screams being torn from his body. Screaming until he was sure his throat was bloody and raw and gone.
Chains and clamps. Whips and flames.
Then all at once, it was gone. Lancelot was left panting on the ground. His stomach rolled. Desperate to empty itself as well as the memories being ripped to the surface. But he was the Ultimate Knight and he would not show weakness in front of his foe. He felt for Arondight, his quickened heart not calming until the hilt was again flush in his palm. He glanced for the warlock, ready for anything.
Well, maybe not everything. For the sight in front of him was so unbelievably surreal, he must surely still be in the throes of another illusion.
The warlock was on the ground, knocked out. His body bound in rope with a lead connected to his king. His king in odd attire. Very odd attire.
“Well howdy,” his king tilted the hat on his head in Lancelot's direction, “Sure glad t’ see you're standin’. This fella did a number on ya, huh?”
Lancelot blinked in disbelief. Silent and still.
“Ya think y’all could point me in the direction o’ the nearest saloon? Xany and I went a bit topsy-turvey and well,” the hedgehog chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck with a free hand, “I plum just don't know where we landed.”