Work Text:
I'm not your problem anymore
So who am I offending now?
You were my crown
Now I'm in exile seein' you out
Deep in the densest point of the forest, far beyond Hawksbridge and the surrounding villages — beyond where the common traveler ventured — there was a copse of trees that stood like fortress walls surrounding the modest hovel of a reclusive healer.
Isolde had called the hovel home for nearly fifteen years. A fever had stolen her parents from her and the aged healer who had once lived in the hovel had taken her in when her cures had failed to heal them. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps it was divine sight.
The hovel protected her — shielded her from a tumultuous world that had turned against her people. Those who needed her could find her, but those that meant to do her harm could not seek her out among the woods.
Since the siege of Red Paladins had overtaken the surrounding villages, Isolde had prepared herself for their arrival. But as each day passed, no wounded traveler or wayward horseman had come upon her home.
Until today.
The distinct sound of hooves on the moss-covered soil drew her out into the woods. She could feel an energy — a familiar pull — stirring in her veins. The woods had permitted their presence, but the hairs at the nape of her neck standing on end told her to be cautious nevertheless.
It was a boy and a man who had clearly seen better days.
Isolde’s hand lingered at the dagger sheathed at her hip as she stared at the mounted pair, “You’re trespassing.”
“Are you a healer?” The young boy questioned, his voice slightly strained as he struggled to keep the grown man behind him upright on the stead. The hooded man slumped forward against the boy’s back, despite his best attempts to stay alert.
She hesitated.
With the way that Paladins had wiped out entire villages of Fey folk, she had every reason to reconsider admitting to them that she was a Fey — and yet, that invisible pull she felt assured her that they were not dissimilar to her.
“Yes,” Isolde conceded, moving towards the pair, her brows drawn together as she studied the barely conscious man. “What’s happened to him?”
“We were attacked by Paladins.” He gritted out, “They tried to kill him, but we escaped by the skin of our teeth! But he’s hurt. Badly.” He explained with a shocking amount of enthusiasm.
“Yes, I can see that.” Isolde retorted, taking hold of the horse’s reins as she led it closer towards her home. She looped the reins around a post, hands on her hips as she turned back to regard the pair. “I’ll get a gurney, but I’ll need your help, lad.”
Isolde couldn’t shake the feeling that still had her on edge. There was no outward reason to doubt a wounded man and a beleaguered child with a black eye.
Though she needed time to take account of the man’s injuries, it was safe to assume that neither of them would be leaving any time soon.
Isolde vanished back into her home to gather up the materials she needed to transport the man, before returning with the gurney as promised.
“I’m impressed he’s made it this far,” Isolde remarked as she helped to heft him off the horse and onto the gurney. It took an incredible amount of strength to navigate the man off the horse without further injuring him or hurting herself and the boy in the process.
She had no idea how the boy had managed to get them to her hovel, given the man’s condition.
“You’re both Feyfolk.” Isolde stated as they hauled the injured man into her home and got him settled onto her work table. She tilted her head as she looked down at the man’s wounded face. His jaw was badly swollen, his face bruised, and there was strange bruising around his eyes.
The man grunted quietly, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he fought the pull of unconsciousness, but he didn’t stir any further than that. “Do you have a name, boy?” Isolde questioned, glancing back at the boy.
This time, he was the one who hesitated. “I’m Percy and this is… Lance.”
“Lance.” Isolde repeated as she glanced back down at the injured man, who seemed no older than she was. Beneath the blood, bruising, and swollen flesh she figured he might’ve been handsome.
“Percy, will you fetch me water from the creek you passed to enter here?” She questioned, grabbing a wooden bucket from beneath the table and passing it to him.
“Will you treat him?”
“I’ll do what I can to stave off infection.” Isolde told him, a hand at her hip as she regarded the boy. “But I’ll need clean water to do that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Percy said, before snatching the bucket from her and darting back out the door.
Isolde hummed to herself as she looked down at Lance, her brows furrowed as she brushed her fingers gingerly over his swollen jaw. “Can you hear me?” She questioned, as she worked to remove his cloak, letting it drape beneath him on the table. “I’m going to have to remove this garment. You’re lucky I’m a decent seamstress too.”
She retrieved a pair of shears from a drawer, returning to cut off the dark tunic he wore. His chest was covered in dark, angry bruises. Blood clinging to his pale skin where his attacker’s weapon had pierced his skin.
“I’m impressed you managed to escape from the Paladins with these injuries. They’ve brutalized you.” Isolde walked around the table to find her healing balms, but she stopped dead in her tracks as she caught sight of an injury at the crown of his head. Mostly hidden by his chestnut color hair was the grisly imprint of the cross.
He was a Red Paladin.
Had the boy been a clever ruse? Unassuming and charming — meant to catch her off guard. Playing to her good nature; presenting her with an injured man in need of care. And she’d fallen for it.
Isolde’s fingers twitched as they reached for the blade she had strapped to her hip, she drew it from its sheath, creeping back towards the prone figure on her table.
She could kill him now — rid the realm of one more Red Paladin, before he had the chance to kill more innocent people.
Isolde jumped as the door swung open, knocking into the shelves behind it as the boy returned with the water, “What are you doing? I thought you were a healer!”
“Are you aware of what he is?” Isolde questioned, brandishing the weapon in his direction. “That you’ve delivered a fox into the house of a hen.”
“He’s not like that!” Percy pleaded, sitting the bucket of water down and holding up his hands. “Maybe he’s done some really heinous things, but he saved me!”
Isolde’s gaze flickered back towards the table, “And you trust a Red Paladin not to spare you, only to save you for another day? Have you not seen what horrors they’ve brought against our kind?”
“Don’t—“ Lance muttered, stirring on the table as he fought against the obvious pain of his injuries, groaning as he sat up. “Don’t hurt him.” His hand fumbled at his waist, like meant to reach for a blade that wasn’t there. “He’s just a boy.”
“I only hurt Red Paladins.” Isolde spat, aiming the blade in his direction then. It would be so easy to end it all. One sweep of the blade across his throat. It would end it all.
One less Red Paladin to kill her kind.
“I’m not—“ Lance started, his voice strained as he clutched at his ribs. Whatever had been done to him, had certainly done a number to him.
Would the Red Paladins turn against one of their own?
Lance opened his eyes slowly, pain marring his expression as his unfocused gaze settled on her then, “Isolde?”
She held up the dagger once more, brows drawn together, “How do you know my name?”
He grimaced, lips clenched closed as a wave of apparent nausea passed through him. “Your father was the falconmaster.”
Isolde’s grip loosened on the blade and it slipped from her hold and landed onto the straw covered floor beneath her. “Lancelot?” The realization washed over her and suddenly it made sense. That strange familiarity she had felt.
It had been a lifetime since she had last seen him.
They had both been children — innocent and unaware that their inherent natures would eventually lead to their persecution.
“How—“ Isolde started, stepping towards the table. “Your father, Ban… How did the Red Paladins—?” Isolde couldn’t understand how it had come to this. “How did this happen to you?”
Lancelot wavered, blinking slowly as he tried to keep his eyes focused on her face. “Squirrel, tend to the horse.” The boy started to protest. “Now, please.” The door shut behind him as he left.
“What happened to you, my sweet Lancelot?” Isolde questioned, lifting her hand to carefully cup his injured cheek.
“It’s a long unpleasant story.” Lancelot whispered as he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Do you have feverfew?”
“Yes, of course.” Isolde murmured, reluctantly stepping away from him as she sorted through her stash of herbs.
Ginger, willow bark, and feverfew — mashed together with a sprinkle of purified water would ease the pain and swelling.
“What was the damage done by?” She questioned, glancing back at him warily.
All the fears of what he might be capable of doing to her faded away now. Perhaps she should’ve been cautious, but it was Lancelot.
The boy who braided Pentas into her hair, the boy who had giggled when he kissed her beneath a night sky filled with stars. She hadn’t forgotten him or the way she’d once felt. It was like muscle memory. Her heart remembered. They had only been children — no older than the boy he called Squirrel.
“A morning star… or eight.”
Isolde frowned, “Lancelot, it’s a miracle your face isn’t sunken in.”
“Feels like it should be,” He grunted out as he reached up to touch his face.
“Your jaw is likely fractured. I won’t know for certain until the swelling has gone down,” Isolde explained to him as she dusted turmeric into the paste and presented it to him. “Once you’re settled, I’ll start cleaning these open wounds.” She gestured to his face, brows furrowed as she carefully examined the bruising and injuries he’d sustained.
Lancelot took the wooden bowl from her, using two fingers to scoop up the mixture before sticking them into his mouth. He gagged a little, but managed to swallow it down. “I’d forgotten how bloody bitter that shit is.”
Isolde laughed softly, “And we haven’t even gotten to the fun part.” She carefully peeled the cloak off his back, before helping him out of his cut shirt.
Her heart sank as her gaze fell upon his ruined back. Angry welts and oozing wounds from a fresh lashing, criss-crossed over faded scars as well the raised and gnarled scars that protruded from the pale skin of his back. “Lancelot, what has been done to you?”
Isolde stepped back around him, lips drawn into a thin line as she met his gaze.
His eyes seemed heavy again, like he was using every bit of his strength to stay upright. She wanted to urge him to lay down, but she desperately wanted answers.
“Isolde…” He whispered her name with a short shake of his head. “I am not the child I once was. Forget whatever you think you know of me.” He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I am not a Red Paladin, but perhaps I am worse than one.”
She took the empty bowl from him, her fingers brushing over his. It warmed her straight to her very soul. But the creeping fear that slid up her spine quickly put out the fire.
“Worse than a Red Paladin?”
He grabbed at the edges of the table as he wavered, his head falling forward as a pitiful sound escaped him. “Isolde…”
“Tell me.”
“Have you…” He started, lifting his head just enough to look at her through his dark lashes. “Have you heard of the sword of the Red Paladins? The Weeping Monk who can sniff out the Fey?”
Isolde didn’t mean to, but she took a step backwards, a hand resting at her heart as she stared at him.
It wasn’t bruising that stained the skin beneath his eyes, she realized.
She had heard the tales.
Isolde had ventured to nearby villages, she had heard the bards with their songs of the horrors that came to Feyfolk. The burnings on crosses, the throats slit, the mutilation of women and children.
The whispers of a man, cloaked in black who wept tears of blood as he sought vengeance for his people’s god.
Only he wasn’t one of them.
He was a Fey.
He was Lancelot.
Isolde’s fingers trembled and she quickly busied herself with cleaning out the wooden bowl, wiping away the turmeric stain.
“Is that how you found me?”
Lancelot was quiet for a long moment, so long that Isolde was forced to glance back at him, in fear that he’d slumped over dead, but he sat there — staring at her.
“I have passed this way before,” He confessed, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as a whine of pain escaped him. “Sweet Izzy, will you spare me?”
“I haven’t any foxglove to spare you with,” She retorted with a shake of her head. “I’m a healer, Lancelot, of course I’ll spare you.” Isolde’s heart softened as she stepped back towards him. “How many of our kind have you killed?”
Lancelot opened his eyes slowly, his bottom lip trembling as he looked up at her. “I cannot place a number on the lives I’ve brought to untimely ends, Isolde. Saving Squirrel cannot atone me for the children who have been massacred.”
“How did it come to this?”
“I was spared by Father Carden.” Lancelot confessed, flinching away from Isolde as she reached out for him again. “And turned into a weapon for them to slay my own kind.”
Isolde let her hand fall to her side, “What do you mean when you say that you’ve… passed this way before?”
He worked his jaw slowly, lowering his gaze. “We have been searching for The Wolf-Blood Witch, scouring every corner of the realm and…” Lancelot laughed humorlessly. “It’s been twenty years, Isolde, but I still sense you. I caught a glimpse of you as the path opened to me… your hair like flames as you fetched water from the creek.”
She exhaled slowly as she stared at him, “But the Red Paladins never came…”
“There was no Wolf-Blood Witch here.” Lancelot sank back against the table, the pain growing to be too much for him. “I knew Squirrel would be safe here, Izzy.”
“You’re safe here too,” Isolde sighed, moving to stand beside him. “I’m not going to let you die, Lancelot. No matter what you’ve done. I made a promise to the goddess that I would use my gifts to heal, not kill.”
She reached out and gingerly swept her fingers over his forehead, brushing aside a loose curl of hair that was sticking to the blood on his skin. “Just rest. I’m going to clean your wounds and then work on the poultices.”
“Thank you.” He murmured, lifting his hand to catch hers as she brushed her knuckles against his cheek.
Isolde smiled softly, “You’re welcome, Lancelot.”
Once upon a time, they had been just children. Isolde’s father had been employed by Lancelot’s father — heir apparent to a throne that had crumbled. Lancelot was a special child, touched by the Fey just as Isolde had been.
They bonded as children; laughing and playing in the stables, using their gifts to make flowers blossom and flutter through the air, terrorising their parents by vanishing for hours on end.
Isolde had been old enough to understand that her gift was the reason her parents abruptly left Ban’s service.
Not a summer passed that she didn’t wonder what had become of Lancelot. Every time the Pentas bloomed and the summer nights glowed with a sky full of stars — she wondered if he’d survived the wrath of the Red Paladins.
But that boy was gone and in his place was a man who had been corrupted by the darkness of false prophets and vengeful religious mercenaries. A man who had turned against his own kind. Who wept tears let from the blood of his victims.
Isolde wiped a dampened cloth over his skin to wipe away the blood, but she knew it wouldn’t be easily cleansed from his hands.