[1] WEEPING MONK // you're not what I was looking for

11| Sins Of The Father

═ 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙊𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 ═

[TW// retrospective childhood/religious/physical/psychological trauma, minor self inflicted wounds]

Lancelot reaches a breaking point.

Lancelot's eyes drifted up towards the clouds in the night sky as he paced around the clearing outside of the barn. The pale moon stared down back at him, the one constant in his life. His Grace, I cannot feel it.

Somewhere along the way Lancelot had lost himself, and had begun to lose his faith in the scriptures until the useful shell of the grey monk was all that remained. Everything else was not a necessity for the one who cries. Emotions only made him weak, he could not afford to have them. He stared up at the sky as his thoughts pounded through his head. Lancelot had grown up believing that the Fey had abandoned him. He hoped and he prayed that somebody would ride in and take him away from the Paladins. And when nobody came, he lost faith in them too. He's just a boy, he's no threat to us. Lancelot had not known if he was speaking of the boy, Percival, or for the child that he had used to be when he rose his voice against Father Carden. For every scared Fey child that dared to look at him, Lancelot saw something of himself. He saw a reflection of him, terrified and alone on the night that his world changed, the night that burned into his memory as he was dragged away, bound and bruised and bloodied. It did not take long for Lancelot to numb to the hurt that their faces caused him. He thought that he spared the children so that they would not have to feel the same pain as he had done. For everything that he took from them, at least they would have their lives. When he watched his red brothers drag Percival away, he could not resign to allowing his own past to be repeated with another innocent Fey boy. The boy's life was threatened, and Lancelot decided to grow a conscience.

He paced back and forth making tracks in the snow, fists tensing for something to grasp onto. You were demon born, an abomination in the eyes of God. For years he was this and only this, and now he didn't know who he was supposed to be. His soul had been broken and damned for all eternity the day that the brothers turned him into one of their own. But he was never really one of them. They looked at him differently, like he was dirt on their boots. His thoughts raced through his mind as the moon taunted him with its wicked light. I spared you from the fire, because you could sense your own kind. I gave you scripture, gave you discipline. I forged you into one of our sharpest blades. I turned you against your maker. Lancelot reached out towards the darkness surrounding him, his chest breaking as he bared his teeth to the moon. Something moved in the air making him feel like he was not alone.

I laid the first brick on your road to salvation. It wasn't the scriptures or his God or even himself that was destined to save his soul from the flames, it was the boy. The Fey boy who Lancelot decided was worth fighting for. He felt the moonlight reflecting off of his birthmarks. Falling to his knees, he let go of his will to hold everything back. The wind whistled at him mockingly.