From Ash and Blood

Chapter 1

A/N: Welcome to From Ash and Blood! I've had this idea for quite some time now, and I'm very excited to finally be publishing!

This story is set after Nanatsu no Taizai; though it has nothing to do with the on-going sequel, it does draw from some familiar faces. Tristan is one of the main characters, along with Lancelot, and their eyes are the ones that you will see Camelot through. The Sins will appear. And Mael, who I love, will have a major role to play. The rest of the cast is composed of original characters: my Four Horsemen, each imbued with power and rage.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! And, as always, a large thank you must be given to my beta, lickitysplit, for all of her hard work in cleaning up my mess.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

"Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken,
let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably
with reverence and awe,
for our God is a consuming fire."
— Hebrews 12:28-29

The inn—if it could even be called such anymore, given how little of it is left—rests in the middle of a clearing barely an hour's walk from the main road. There are remnants of a once prosperous place: the track is well-worn and filled with gravel to keep it from washing away in the storms that frequent this part of Britannia, and the sign that had led them here was polished, the paint fresh and dark against the pale wood. But, even through the rain, the scents of smoke and ash are unmistakable and pungent. As he presses a hand to his mouth to try to filter some of the stench and ease the burning in his throat, Tristan peers around, surveying the devastation with a critical eye. Lancelot had ventured off to look for survivors, though they both know none will be found.

Whoever had done this had done it thoroughly.

Where the inn once stood is little more than a charred, crumbling skeleton, bones groaning and breaking under the little weight they still bear to fall with pained whispers to the rubble below. He'd never thought that such heavy beams could make so little noise, but, given that they all but disintegrate on the way, he supposes that it isn't surprising. Tristan gives a little cough, winces. He could use magic to ease his discomfort. He doesn't want to. It comes from his parents, and the last thing he wants is to be reminded of them, ever or at all.

Lancelot returns, his tawny hair pushed away from his face and soot staining his cheek. Tristan glances at him, and he shakes his head. No survivors. Well, then. They'll just have to sort through this for some sort of clue on their own, a task that feels monumental and unappealing. If someone had told him that accepting his first quest as a Knight of the Round Table would mean digging through debris to hopefully alleviate the sting of his failure in accomplishing said first quest, he might have laughed at them, or called them a fool, or dismissed them irritably. Thinking such thoughts now does him no good, however; with a sigh, he turns his face into the rain, shivering when it slides beneath the collar of his tunic to caress his skin with chilled fingers. "Go to The Inn of the Dove, near the border of Dunbray," Arthur had commanded. "There is a man there with documents that must make it to me, and I am trusting you with them."

"I'll flip you for the stables," Lancelot says charitably, digging his spear into the trampled mud to lean on it. "Looks like they're holding up better than the rest of it."

Tristan shakes his head, reaching into his pocket for a ribbon. With it, he ties his hair into a little knot at the nape of his neck, huffing a bit when it tangles around his fingers. "No. You take them. I'll look over the inn."

"You sure? Hate for you to get that pretty face damaged."

Tristan can't tell if Lancelot is being serious or not, and decides to treat it as if he isn't. "A scar might make me more popular with the ladies."