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Except that his heart was breaking.
His soul was crying.
Reaching hopelessly for someone else. Trying desperately to leave his body but couldn’t.
He was trapped inside himself.
And there was no one who could save him.
~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~
Lancelot rode day and night, pushed his stallion to the limits.
Thankfully, his trusty steed was descended from the original Centaurs, magical creatures that were half man, half horse. The Lady of the Lake told him so. As such, they possessed much higher endurance and speed, were ten times stronger, and healed astoundingly fast. These traits came in handy in battle and long-distance rides.
As did Lancelot’s own super-human abilities.
He didn’t know what he was, exactly; the Lady never told him. But he’d always known he was different. It was one of the reasons he always held himself apart from Arthur’s men.
From Arthur.
He was different. And he didn’t know how others would feel about it. He didn’t know whether it was a good thing or bad.
But he knew that he wanted Arthur to always look at him the same. With that indefinablesomethingin his eyes that was just for Lancelot.
Finally, at the end of seven days and nights, he arrived at his destination—the edge of what appeared to be a fog-covered bog in the middle of a dark forest.
No man ever wandered here. They would never find their way through the haunted woods in the first place. And if they ever stumbled upon this edge, they would go no farther, for the eerie stillness and white obscurity would ward off even the most adventurous of souls.
This was a frightening, magical place for those who knew not what lay within. Even for those who used to dwell here, like Lancelot, it was a place to tread very lightly and carefully.
He dismounted from his horse and led it into the thick, opaque fog with a gentle hand upon its mane. Even his fearless steed snorted with apprehension, ears back, eyes a little wild.
No telling what lurked within the mist, so thick, you could practically cut it.
As he walked deeper into the fog, a ringing in his ear began. It was a haunting, echoing melody that was sung by a distorted voice that was neither woman nor man. And as the song grew louder, water suddenly lapped at his waist, though he did not recall stepping into it.
His horse could walk no farther, stopping when the water covered its chest. Lancelot continued alone, one foot in front of the other, until his head was entirely submerged.
Beneath the lake he could see and breathe as well as on land. It was dark here, but somehow, rays of sunlight pierced through the liquid veil.
Colorful vegetation and rocks glittering with crystals surrounded him. He could sense the creatures of magic watching curiously from their hiding places, but he didn’t look their way. He knew they were terribly shy, and one glance could scare them into disappearing entirely.
Deeper and deeper he walked, down a spiraling staircase that led to the bottom of the lake. There, in a circular area lit by a shaft of sunlight, sat the person he sought on a moss-covered rock. She was surrounded by three mermaids, one of which was running a wide-toothed comb through her flowing white hair.
“My dear boy,” the Lady of the Lake greeted, “what brings you back here? Did you forget that when you leave, you are not permitted to return?”
“I have a favor to ask for the King that I protect,” he said, not one to mince words.
“You have tasked me to find the mightiest King that these isles would ever see, and I have. You said that my Destiny is to serve and protect him. I am doing so.”
She merely cocked an elegant pale brow at him, urging him to get to the point.
“Recently, he almost died,” Lancelot continued. “His weapons failed him. Had I not been there…”
He shook his head, resolutely dispelling the what-ifs. It didn’t bear thinking.
“I need a weapon that will never break. A weapon that will lend him strength and protect him when I am not there. My Lady, I know you have this weapon. I have seen it. You made it with your own hands.”
