Chapter 16: Lancelot's Melancholy

A strange and sour mood had settled upon Sir Kay. It was a foul temper, to be sure, but more than that, it was… perplexing. It had been this way for years, ever since his nominal brother, Arthur—or rather, his sister, Artoria—had drawn the sword from the stone and become the King of Britain. His heart, since that day, had been a battlefield of conflicting emotions. It was not jealousy, of that he was certain. To see the girl he had grown up beside become the monarch of a nation… no. As a knight, he held himself to a higher standard than to allow envy to curdle into such a petty vice. And how could he be jealous? Artoria had not failed the destiny laid upon her by that sword. Under her leadership, in thirteen short years, she had fought ten major campaigns and won them all. Ever since the old Empire’s legions had withdrawn from Britain’s shores, leaving the kingdom to fend for itself, it had never known such prosperity or unity. If Kay had once worried that the burden would be too great for her slender shoulders, now his only desire was to serve her faithfully, to help her guide their kingdom to an even brighter future.

But then, nearly a fortnight ago, she had vanished. The news, when it reached him, had chilled Kay to the bone. He feared for the future of Britain, leaderless and vulnerable. But more, so much more, he feared for her. It had begun simply enough. A patrol near Camelot had spotted phantom-like cavalry moving through a sudden, unnatural blizzard. Fearing it was a surprise attack by the Anglos, Artoria had taken Lancelot and a small retinue to investigate. The next morning, the blizzard was gone, as if it had never been. And so was she. The matter had sent Sir Lancelot, the First Knight, into a spiral of guilt. His duty was the defense of Camelot, the very safety of his King, and he had allowed her to disappear from under his nose. A grave failure, by any measure. But beyond one knight’s grief, the question loomed: what would become of Britain, now that its Knight King was lost? If the sorcerer Merlin had not returned to Camelot and swiftly locked down all news of the King’s disappearance, Kay had no doubt their enemies would already be on the march. The Empire, ever eager to reclaim its lost province, or the savage Anglos from the north.

This morning, however, just as Kay was preparing to ride out and resume the search, word had come. She was back. Simply walked back into the city, unharmed. Such joyous news, arriving as if on the wind. And so he was rushing to the palace now, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and disbelief. He had to see it for himself. But the message had come from Merlin, and Merlin did not make mistakes in such matters.

He found Lancelot in the palace antechamber. But the Knight of the Lake, normally so full of life and courtly grace, looked… broken. He sat slumped on a wooden bench, clad only in his light, everyday armor, his gaze vacant. He stared into his hand at a small, palm-sized card, on which was drawn a strange figure. To a stranger, it might have seemed that the great Lancelot, whose fame in Britain was matched only by the likes of Tristan or Percival, had been struck down by some hopeless love. Kay, thankfully, knew better.

"Sir Lancelot," Kay began, the sound of his iron-shod boots echoing on the flagstones. The noise startled the First Knight from his reverie. "Has our King truly returned?" Lancelot looked up, his handsome face drawn and haggard. Kay knew he’d barely slept since Artoria had vanished, scouring the lands around Camelot day and night. He’d even sent his own men scouting the Anglo camps in the northern hills. Had the Anglos truly ambushed their King, Kay knew Lancelot would have been the first to charge their lines, with the rest of the Round Table a storm of steel at his back.

"Yes… Sir Kay. Our King returned this morning, safe and well. She is with Master Merlin now." Lancelot’s voice was utterly devoid of energy. Kay frowned. That wasn’t like him. Lancelot was the soul of courtesy, even in the heat of battle. This profound exhaustion was something more than mere lack of sleep. Kay’s eyes drifted to the strange card in Lancelot's hand. "Forgive me, Sir Lancelot, but you seem unwell. Is it only the weariness of the search?"

"Weariness?" A bitter laugh escaped Lancelot’s lips. "That is nothing, Sir Kay. Not compared to my failure." The card danced between his fingers, his swordsman's dexterity keeping it from falling. His voice was low, filled with shame. "The King returns, and the very first question she asks of me… of me, her most trusted knight… I could not answer. There is still so much I do not know. I have failed her trust…"

"Wait," Kay said, his own concerns forgotten in a rush of alarm. "What did she ask? What has happened? "Is it a matter of the Empire? A new tax levy? Does she mean to march against the Anglos again? No," he mused, "you would know the answers to all those. Does she intend to rebuild Camelot, then? A vast undertaking, to be sure. But with last year’s harvest and the census, we could likely raise the necessary labor without disrupting the spring planting…"

"No, Sir Kay. It is not that." A pained smile touched Lancelot’s lips. "If it were a matter of statecraft, I might still have been of some use."

"No? That does seem unlike her." Kay nodded. Artoria was not one for vanity projects. She had won a dozen victories and had not once seen fit to so much as renovate her own palace. Camelot had grown, its population swelled, but the castle at its heart remained as it was in the days of Uther Pendragon. He felt a familiar pang of sympathy for the young king who never seemed to rest. Then another, more dire thought struck him. "Is she planning to cross the sea? To attack Gaul itself? To take the fight to the Empire and end their threat for good?" Britain had once been an imperial province. But when the Empire had faltered, the Celtic tribes had risen, driving out the last of the legions. Rome, embroiled in its own chaos, had been unable to retaliate. But now, things were different. A new Empress, Nero, sat on the throne. She had crushed her rivals and consolidated her power. The revitalized Empire was beginning to look north, towards its lost province. "That would be a momentous undertaking," Kay breathed, his heart beginning to pound. "But with our King to lead us, I have no doubt we would drive back their legions!" The victories Artoria had won had forged an unshakeable faith in her people. The Knights of the Round Table, all of Camelot, would follow wherever she led.

But again, Lancelot shook his head. "It is not the Empire." He held up the card. Only then did Kay see that his other hand held a full deck of them. "It is this." Seeing Kay’s utter confusion, Lancelot’s head bowed in shame. "Our King… she asked me if I would play a game of Gwent with her." His voice was a whisper of pure misery. "Gwent! My heavens! The King has never asked anything of me for herself. Not once. And this time, a simple game of cards… and I… I do not know how to play! Every day she bears the weight of Britain on her shoulders. And now, she wished only for a moment's rest, a simple game to ease her mind. And I, her First Knight, could not grant her even that small comfort. I have failed her. I have failed my King…"

Kay stared, utterly speechless. Then, suddenly, Lancelot shot to his feet. The despair in his eyes was gone, replaced by a fierce, burning resolve. "Sir Kay! I must ask you to see to the castle’s defense in my stead!" He clapped a hand on Kay’s shoulder, his grip like steel. "I have made my decision. I shall retire to my chambers and practice this… this Gwent. I will master it! I will not allow our King to wear that look of disappointment again! To share her burdens, even the small ones, is my sacred duty as a knight! Surely, you understand!"