[2] WEEPING MONK║you're not what I was looking for

60| One Made In Flames - 𝐈

═ 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘐𝘯 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 ═

[ CW// mature content ]

Lancelot returns with an old friend.

Lancelot stole into the queen's tent and went straight for the table of maps and writing parchments. He took one blank sheet of parchment and rolled it into his sleeve. In a box, he found pots of ink and picked one which was almost empty, one that no one would miss if it were to go astray. A quill he did not worry over— a feather was easily obtainable. From another small box he claimed a coin of golden yellow wax to make a seal. His hands were cold enough this evening that it would not melt in his palm in the mean time.

A rustling of noise came outside but it was close, and getting closer. He could not write what he needed to here, lest he be caught. So he hurried, taking mental note of where everything had been and— besides from the borrowed items— put everything back in its exact place.

He almost left when he remembered that his letter would require validation, some sense that he could give that it were not sent under false pretences. He spotted the thumb of carved wood laying flat amongst the parchments and maps on the table, bearing the queen's sunburst insignia. It was a risk to take. All of the other items would not be missed but the wax seal press was not easily misplaced.

His internal debate ended quickly when he heard her familiar voice approaching, and fast. Her scent drifted in through the slim gap that he'd left in the veil.

Lancelot swiped the wooden press and slipped away through the rear of the tent, closing the veils right as those across the way parted.

He sat, more tense than he would ever like and waiting, until the metal lifted away from his neck.

"To pass in the twilight," the deep voice rumbled.

Lancelot stood up from his rock, turning to face the Tusk warrior. "I did not think that you would come." An edge of relief sat in his voice. He'd been waiting for days of news and an answer to his plea. Then just last night he had word that the man he sought after was close.

"Your letter was troubling and quite persuasive. Though the fact that it came from you was surprising."

"Nobody knows of it except the witch—" and Lancelot used that term politely— "who sent it."

Hanna nodded, another thing to contemplate in this turbulent time. He slid the long handle of his double edged axe into the loop from the leather belt at his hips.

Lancelot took him in. His padded brown coat was spotted by a touch of rain. Two winter fur pelts were sewn onto leather straps wrapped in a cross over his broad shoulders and torso. His coarse black beard was longer than Lancelot remembered it last, a touch of grey colouring at his chin. He lifted a fallen tight coil of his black hair from his forehead and tucked it behind a ramming horn, one of two that grew from his forehead.