Lancelot du Lac.
Knight of the Lake. Champion of Camelot. One of the greatest warriors ever to sit at the Round Table—and perhaps the most famous knight in all the tales that followed.
Songs were written about his victories. Of his flawless blade work. Of his unwavering chivalry.
They were also written about his sins.
Of the queen he loved who was not his to love. Of brothers slain in fury and misunderstanding. Of the fracture that split the Round Table and ignited the civil war that ended in Camlann. Of Gareth's blood. Of Gaheris' fall. Of Agravain's death. Of a kingdom that could not survive its own perfection.
Lancelot's name carried glory.
And it carried ruin.
But above all else, it carried weight.
Everywhere Lancelot went, the world seemed to lean toward him. Eyes followed. Expectations gathered. History clung.
There was no corner of Camelot where his shadow did not reach.
And in that shadow stood another knight.
Sir Lionel.
Lionel was brave.
Lionel was capable.
Lionel had bled for Camelot as surely as any of them.
But he was rarely the first name spoken.
He was Lancelot's cousin.
He was Lancelot's companion.
He was Lancelot's kin.
He was almost never simply Lionel.
Lionel stood in the lower training yard long before the sun had fully risen.
The air was cool, the stone still damp with the night's dew, and already the sound of steel rang against steel in sharp, disciplined rhythm.
He did not train with elegance.
He was training with pure determination, raw effort, and sweat. Not the talent that let his cousin shine, which let him pick up new weapons and master them as easily as breathing.
No, what Lionel did was what most of the knights who fought under the banner of their king once had: use pure effort and determination to overcome impossible odds, to stand among legends.
Each strike of his blade was deliberate, heavy, uncompromising. The training dummy before him had already been reduced to splintered wood twice over, and still he pressed forward, sweat darkening the collar of his tunic beneath his armor.
He did not seek to match Lancelot's grace.
No, he knew that was impossible; he lacked the skill. What he wanted was merely the endurance, the stamina to continue until the battle was won, to never slow, to never falter.
His sword struck the dummy again and again, each strike making the poor training tool shake and quake, each roar of the dull training sword bringing the wooden dummy closer to its demise.
But to Lionel, it wasn't a wooden dummy; it was a demon, a horrid monster roaring and promising death, eternal torment of the soul.
Yet, he admitted that it was also an opportunity.
Lancelot wasn't going; he was staying home, an important job, yes, but one with little glory.
Which meant that he could make a name for himself, that he could finally break out of his cousin's shadow, and it was a dark shadow, more so ever since Lancelot's betrayal.
These days, it was even worse to be Lancelot's cousin; not only did he get overlooked, but he was looked on with suspicion.
Even his fellow knights looked at him and wondered if he might also betray them, if he would spill their blood as his cousin once had.
He was determined to prove them wrong! He would prove himself with the death of countless demons, he would be their sharpest blade, their strongest shield, he would risk everything, and he would prove himself worthy of being one of his king's Knights, not because of who his cousin was, but because he, Sir Lionel, was capable.
That he was worthy!
With a final roar, the dull training sword cut straight through the wooden dummy, as if the sword had been Excalibur itself.
Sweat was running down his face; he was breathing hard… but he still smiled.
Brightly.
For he carried not sin, not a need for redemption, only the burning desire for glory that birthed countless noble knights over the ages, this flame still burning brightly in his heart, and he would burn the hells themselves with it.
------
Sir Bors the Younger did not seek high towers before war.
He sought the lower city.
While banners were being raised and knights made their final preparations within the castle walls, Bors walked among the narrow streets beyond them, where the white stone of Camelot gave way to cobbled lanes and quieter homes.
He carried no helmet.
No fanfare.
Only his sword and a small wooden rosary wrapped around his wrist.
A woman recognized him and bowed slightly.
He returned the gesture with equal humility.
He didn't need to do anything to be recognized; the locals all knew him, many had seen him, met him, and talked with him over the years; they knew what kind of person he was.
Outsiders, people from beyond the city, and sometimes beyond the kingdom itself, also knew him by sight, even without armor or banner.
He was a Knight of the Round Table, a famous figure within Camelot and Albion, and many people walked the streets of the city in hopes of meeting the fabled knights.
Outside of a select few, none knew about the plans for war being drawn up inside the castle walls; they knew not of what would happen, as this war would be to protect them.
If all went well, the people would never even know about what was happening; they would never know that their knights and heroes had clashed with the hells themselves and that the demons of the abyss had been beaten.
That was the goal as Bors the Younger walked through the city: countless people stopped him, asking for a blessing, a picture, or much more.
He could agree to a picture; it didn't hurt him to have one taken, though he expected all people to be respectful about it; he demanded that much.
As for a blessing? Yes, it was true he was a pious knight, but he was no priest, no holy man. He was just a servant of his king and of his God.
Even now that his king had become a pagan god, he did not fall to his knees to worship her. Though he also didn't raise his sword against his king, divine or not. He had fought alongside his king his whole life, and he would not end that now.
There was but a single speck of disloyalty on his record, the king's illusion, or another time, another place, where another version of him had turned against his king.
He was far from the only one to have done so, and he understood why he had done so, but he wouldn't follow in those footsteps.
He had watched his king since she summoned them, and while learning that his king was in fact a woman, he thought no less of her. If anything, he respected her more for it.
It was not easy for someone to give themselves so completely for their nation, for their people. She followed her destiny, even if it meant giving up on herself.
Yes, despite knowing that his king was a woman, he still followed her, because no matter how much she had changed, how impossible it was to see her as a "him," he still respected that old sacrifice, as did many of the other knights.
So despite the fact that the world itself now knew the truth, that the king wasn't hiding it at all, they still remembered the price, all that which was sacrificed for the kingdom.
They, their king's loyal knights, still stood by the king.
It didn't matter that the king was a woman, that she was a god, that she was a pagan, that she had given them the choice to stay or leave.
So what did it matter if they walked into hell behind her?
There was not even a flicker of hesitation in Bors's heart.
As he walked through the streets, interacted with the people, and saw their carefree smiles, he was reminded of what they fought for.
There were a group of kids playing on the streets, playing knights.
He couldn't help but smile a little at the sight. They used sticks as swords, playing with all their hearts as they fought an imaginary foe.
Some things just never really changed. Children continued to admire knights, their shiny armor, their sharp swords, the ideal of honor and chivalry.
It was this innocence that made it all worth it; it was for this that everyone had fought, they had bled and died for this, and now it was their time to protect it.
Still, as he walked through the city, the smiling crowds, he couldn't help but think about how things would have gone had they succeeded, had they brought back the Holy Grail back then. He was among those who traveled far and wide to find it.
And while they had failed then, today, his king had a grail. And while a grail itself couldn't make a kingdom like this, there was no doubt that it played a large part in it.
Still, it wasn't time to think about that now; it wasn't time to think about what could have been; it was time to look forward, because he was marching for war.
-----
Four knights once rode south from Orkney to Camelot.
Four siblings.
Four blades forged in the same fire.
They had grown beneath the shadow of their mother—Lady Morgan le Fay, sister to King Arthur and the most formidable witch in the lands. A woman of power and patience, of intellect sharpened by ambition. The king of Orkney might have worn the crown, but it was Morgan's will that shaped the realm.
She raised her children carefully.
Agravain.
Gawain.
Gaheris.
Gareth.
From a young age, they were trained not merely in steel, but in thought. Strategy. Magic. Politics. The art of perception. Morgan did not raise fools—she raised instruments.
They were sent south with purpose.
To serve King Arthur.
To earn his trust.
To stand close enough to influence the throne.
Morgan's ambitions were not small. She believed she understood the weaknesses of her brother better than anyone. And if Arthur's reign faltered, if Camelot fractured, she intended her blood to stand ready.
Yet there was a flaw in her design.
She taught her children to be honorable.
She taught them to value strength.
She taught them that a true knight stands by what is right.
And when they stood before Arthur Pendragon, they did not see a tyrant to undermine.
They saw a king worth following.
So they did what they had been taught.
They became great knights.
They earned trust.
The eldest, Agravain, rose highest—becoming the king's hand, his most trusted adviser. He used every lesson their mother had given him—every ounce of cunning, every measured word—not to weaken Arthur, but to strengthen the realm.
The irony was almost poetic.
To Morgan, it may have been betrayal.
To her children, it was simply fulfillment.
They had been taught to serve a worthy king.
And they had found one.
Of the siblings, it was Agravain who advised the king, who had his ear; it was Gawain who was the strongest and earned the sister blade of Excalibur, who fought at his side.
Gareth was the smallest, the youngest, yet the one most adored by all, the only female knight among the Round Table, yet proud and loyal as any, filled with life and energy, she served as best she could, always happy to help, always cheerful, her very presence could brighten even the darkest of days.
Gaheris was the one least sung about. He did not leave behind a tale large enough to eclipse the others, nor a deed so dramatic that it demanded preservation in legend.
It was not for lack of ability. He had matched seasoned warriors in the field. He had held lines that would have broken without him. He had ridden through mud and blood beside his siblings without hesitation. There was no deficiency in him that explained his absence from the grander stories.
The truth was simpler.
He did not chase spectacle.
Where Gawain embraced the sun and Gareth embraced the people, Gaheris embraced responsibility. An army required extensive logistical support, and while Agravain did much of the planning, he needed someone to turn the plan into reality.
It wasn't glorious work, keeping everything working like that, but he did it happily, he supported his brothers, his brothers in both arms and blood, his king and their kingdom, in every way he could.
Yet as this wouldn't be fought with mortal soldiers, the need for logistics was greatly diminished, so this time, he wouldn't stand at the back, he would be at the front, with Gawain, the two brothers would fight side by side once again.
And they would be the bulwark that protected those behind them, Gareth and Agravain among them.
Though he would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about leaving those back with Lancelot. He would never forget the feeling of getting cut down by his blade, of watching his brother's body, and seeing his sister cut down beside him.
Trust, he would just have to trust that nothing happened, that this time, when their king marched beyond the borders, that Lancelot wouldn't turn against them again; if that happened, he would never forgive him.
Even now, he hadn't forgotten, but due to his respect for his king, he didn't say anything, but he hadn't forgotten. Hadn't forgiven, but he would stay his hand as his fellow knight.
Because he wasn't someone who would easily turn on his own, not like Lancelot.
(End of chapter)
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