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The warrior named Gawain went three rounds with him in the next to final match.
Lancelot perked up enough to sweat a little. Admittedly, he probably spent too much timeplayingwith his prey. He could have dealt Gawain the knockout blow several times, but held back. For once, he was pitted against a respectable opponent; he wanted the fight to last.
But, in the end, as if the man knew Lancelot wasn’t giving his all, he forced Lancelot’s hand by wrestling him to the ground. Against Gawain’s substantial brute strength, Lancelot could only execute a few sharp maneuvers to get out of the holdand not forfeit the match, ending the fight definitively with an elbow to the man’s jugular.
Gawain held his throat with both hands as he struggled to breathe. Lancelot pounded his back to help him. Perhaps he should have pulled that move. He didn’t actually want to maim the man. Or worse, accidentally kill him.
The Lady had warned him about this: his was not human. Whether through birth or magic, he was endowed with superhuman strength and healing abilities. He was faster, stronger, possessed keener senses.
Wilder.
Thus, much of his training was centered on the ability to control the wildness. To harness it and focus it to his will.
Finally, Gawain wheezed into a hacking cough, which was probably as painful as it looked and sounded, because he was tearing out of both eyes.
Lancelot gave him a hand to help him to his feet. The knight eyed him suspiciously before taking it.
“You shouldn’t use your voice for a while,” he instructed. “Let your throat heal. Drink some mint, honey and liquorice syrup. There’s a healer’s tent beyond the hill.”
The warrior eyed him with equal measure wariness and respect.
Good, Lancelot thought. This was a marked improvement from jeering disdain.
His opponent limped to the sidelines where he conversed with a man of similar stature and build. The final contestant to match up against Lancelot.
He watched the newcomer with interest. He must be a formidable warrior to have won all of the rounds thus far. Lancelot would not underestimate him.
As the man focused his attention on his friend, draping a hand upon the other man’s shoulder in a gesture of caring, Lancelot studied him.
He was clearly younger than Gawain by several years. Though his tall and broad frame carried a lot of muscle, he wasn’t as thick around the shoulders, chest and middle as his friend. He was still growing.
By contrast, Lancelot would never achieve the kind of muscle mass these men naturally packed on. He would always be lean and supple. He might grow taller still; he could feel it in his bones. But he would never be as broad.
Lancelot took in the man’s strengths and weaknesses, at least what he could see and deduce, with an impersonal eye. But when his perusal landed on his opponent’s face, his breath caught abruptly in his chest.
The man was…striking.
For, Lancelot was literally struck dumb.
He had a power that came from within, this dark-haired warrior, a radiance that blasted from the core of him, so blinding bright, Lancelot had to squint to behold him.
The stranger smiled at something Gawain muttered, and it lit up his entire face. For a few stupefied moments, Lancelot had the insane desire to make him smile as often as possible. Then, the man turned to face Lancelot, directly meeting his gaze.
That was when he stared into the stormy blue eyes of Destiny.
~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~
Arthur didn’t know what he expected when Gawain described the mysterious White Knight to him earlier, but it wasn’t this.
He’d pictured a pretty boy, puffed up like a useless peacock with his own self-importance. A lithe, young thing, still high-pitched in his voice. Untried in true battle. Inexperienced and green in all ways that made menmen.
It wasn’tthis.
The fact that Arthur’s final opponent for the first event, and the brutal, no-holds-barred fist fight at that, was this boy should have clued him in on the fact that “Lancelot” was a formidable adversary and one he could not afford to underestimate.
Looking directly at him now, eyes locked, an intense respect for the man immediately coursed through him.
Lancelot was indeed “pretty,” but not in any way soft. A better word would be “resplendent,” even as Arthur winced internally at the flowery adjective. But it was apt. The man practically shone, he was so bright.
