A Feast For Knights
Silently, a lone figure stood atop a hill. She saw her castle, her city and her lands, yet not an inkling of pride marked her solemn figure. Her eyebrows were tightly knit, thoughtful and full of consideration. Were anyone to come across her regal figure, doubtless they would think her plagued with thoughts most dire.
They would be entirely right, as it were, for the king atop the hill studied her lands so harshly because they were not her lands at all. The castle was far too grand, and the architecture was far too different from the place she once called home. The castle town was too large, too clean and had too many conveniences to truly have been of her time. Even the land itself created a vista unknown to her as she surveyed it.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was nothing new, as it had been a whole month since she’d arrived to this land. The place was entirely foreign in her eyes, yet every one of its inhabitants viewed her as the rightful king, down to all the members of the Round Table.
Speaking of which, she could hear the sound of plated boots hitting the ground at a fast rate. Two fully armed and armored warriors, heading her way. She didn’t move an inch, instead taking in the view in silence one last time.
“My king!” Lancelot said as he arrived on scene, immediately bending the knee. Behind him, Mordred did the same.
“Sir Lancelot,” she answered, shifting her gaze to look at him. “Has something happened at the castle?”
“Nothing serious, milord,” he said, not raising his head. “But the castle is astir due to your disappearance. I understand that you seek this solitude, but you must at least notify the guards, or one of your knights.”
She quietly looked at him, before internally admitting her mistake. She’d come many times before, but never without telling anyone. This morning however, she simply hadn’t crossed anyone on her way out.
Granted, she also avoided them as she took her leave. Interacting with the people has become more and more tiresome, doubly so under the truth that this reality was not truly real.
“I simply didn’t come across one as I left. I’ll seek them out in the future.” She moved, walking past her knights and heading to the road that would return them to the castle. Her two knights rose and walked behind her, keeping an appropriate distance.
Eventually, Lancelot spoke again.
“Perhaps it would be better, my liege, if you brought a knight with you? They could inform the castle themselves beforehand.”
The king didn’t even turn to face him, unwilling to entertain his reasoning.
“The purpose of these visits is to be alone, sir Lancelot. To bring a guard would subvert this.”
“But my lord, were you attacked- “
Immediately, she turned to face him.
“No average brigand can best me. No adversary in these lands can match me.” She looked at her knights, considered her immediate company and inwardly grimaced. “Unless my knights themselves were to turn their blades on me.”
“Impossible,” Lancelot said, though his face betrayed his words. It was barely perceptible, but the King saw the shadows of guilt upon him.
She scrutinized him, then turned to Mordred, ever silent. And yet the knight shifted ever so slightly upon observation.
Had she not lived this life before, experienced so much in her dying breath, she would not have noticed these small changes. Her inability to do so was, in fact, one of the reasons why she had originally fallen.
It was moderately amusing, to make such a realisation in the company of two of the knights most responsible for her fall, but not enough to disturb her visage. The moment passed and the king turned around once more to return to the castle.
Yet, Lancelot was not done speaking.
“Milord, if there is any way in which we can serve you, please do tell us.” His footsteps quickened, bringing him directly to her side. “We have all noticed of late that you feel troubled.”
She kept quiet as she walked. It was true, in the perspective of her knights, that she must seem troubled. She sent Merlin and Bedivere on odd quests throughout the realm, and Lancelot himself had been sent to every port in the country in search of spices. Not to mention her habitual walks out of the castle, the latest of which being unannounced.
“Sir Lancelot, that was- “
The king cut Mordred’s indignation off immediately, stopping for a moment to put a hand in front of the knight.
“Mordred, leave it. He is simply speaking his mind, which I expect of you as well, should you hold any doubts.” The king started moving once again. “My troubles are my own, sir Lancelot, and no concern to the country. I have performed a blunder today, but I shall take care in the future.”
“Were your walks the only worry I had,” Lancelot said, no doubt earning a glare from Mordred. “What of the herbs I’ve been gathering for you? Rumors in the castle say that suspicious odors come from your room. They speak that in your privacy, you’ve thrown yourself to alchemy. They say it causes you to neglect your wife, as she’s seen wandering the halls while fumes rise from your balcony.”
Alchemy. While the king has proven stone-faced at all times, the accusation was stunning enough that her own eyes widened and mouth came ajar, for a moment. Thankfully she walked ahead of her knights by a few strides, and they saw nothing.
Strange smells coming from her room, smoke from the balcony… she wondered if she should feel offended at the wording. And while she’d asked Guinevere for privacy, to claim she was being neglected was quite a leap. Still, rumors were a beast of their own, and would not be dispelled unless something was done.
It seemed like it would be time to acquire the knight’s help, for her silence here might be damning. It was no true issue, as their help would have been unavoidably required. However, while Lancelot she fully planned on being part of her designs, Mordred held no such place.
Still, she could not cast the knight away before speaking to Lancelot. Such an act might accelerate Mordred’s eventual betrayal, something she hoped could be subverted in this false world.
“It is no alchemy, Sir Lancelot. You know how I view such things.” The king stopped in her tracks, and stared at her two knights, who were giving her their full attention. “In truth, your aid would be required eventually. I shall take this line of questioning as volunteering.”
“Any duty you seek fit to grant me, I shall accomplish.” Lancelot put his hand to his chest and deeply bowed.
“I too, will dedicate myself to this task,” Mordred said, doing the same as the other knight.
Internally, Artoria sighed. While she had already accepted their vows, she would still not reveal to them the depth of her plan. This would surely continue their morose countenance in regards to her recent actions. She mourned to trouble them so, but secrecy was required until the time was right.
She gave them a set of instructions, to be accomplished only when they’d returned to the castle town.
-Break-
To say Mordred was frustrated would an understatement. She was on her way to pick up the final of three orders made to the blacksmith, having already carried the first two back to the castle on separate dates. Yet, that wasn’t the source of her frustration.
Lancelot had let slip that the king already told him the purpose of the menial tasks they’d been set on. Despite both being there when the king first enlisted them, despite both of them following their liege’s word to the letter, Lancelot was allowed the king’s trust while she was not.
Were it not for the presence of her unwanted partner, she would have spent the entirety of her errand grumbling and grinding her teeth.
“Mordred, rare is the day that we are blessed to be working together! In fact, I believe this is a first.” Gareth walked briskly at her side, despite the quickened pace Mordred took.
Mordred had no hate for the young, energetic knight. Yet in truth, there was no love either, and Mordred knew something that Gareth didn’t: Gareth was her half-sister, born of her mother Morgan. The very knowledge of this made it difficult for Mordred to approach the knight. All of Morgan’s sons were capable in dangerous ways, but Mordred did not see the same danger in Gareth.
Which she took to mean that Gareth was hiding her true potential, much like Mordred herself. She could not bring herself to align herself with another just like her. On a usual day, that would be the end of the matter. Today, Gareth’s endlessly energetic demeanor was an additional aggressor to her foul temper, her position as Lancelot’s apprentice being more salt on the wound.
“Sir Lancelot bid that I aid you, but didn’t explain what the blacksmith had been ordered to make. Were you made aware of our charge?”
Mordred said nothing to the friendly conversationalist, wishing her to be gone.
“Silent as always… Sir Mordred, surely you’ve charmed all the ladies of the town with your cooled, quiet demeanor. I do apologize if I’m bothering you.” She paused a moment, barely perceptible in Mordred’s periphery vision. “Rather, do let me know if I’ve bothered you.”
Mordred closed her eyes and took a deep breath. To ignore the knight much further would be improper beyond words. She was still a knight of the round table, and could not easily antagonize another.
“Speak as you will.”
Mordred kept marching silently to the blacksmith, her company taking her permission to endlessly spew words. Not a single thing was beyond her comment, causing Mordred’s aggravation and anger to degrade into mere annoyance.
Eventually they reached their destination, the blacksmith’s workshop. The master stood outside, standing beside a great many metal constructs. In the eyes of Mordred, they looked like miniature jail bars. Five sets of miniature jail bars, leaning on the building itself.
“The king’s order, Sir Knight,” the blacksmith said, wiping his brow. Mordred inspected them quickly, giving them a cursory inspection. She was no expert, but she could find rust and holes as well as anyone else.
“I see no issue with the craftsmanship.” Mordred picked up the construct, feeling its weight. She could easily have carried all five back to the castle, she realised as Lancelot’s lackey stood beside her. Still, she wouldn’t discard the knight so easily. She took three, and beckoned to her partner to take the rest.
“If I may ask, sir knight,” the blacksmith spoke up. “What are these for? These could probably be used as a thick cage, but the previous two orders… it was like being ordered to make small coffins.”
In truth, Mordred did not know. Her previous charges were just as mystifying to her as they were to the blacksmith. They looked just as the blacksmith described, strange coffins. She thought of a few ways they could even be used for torture, but to admit this to the man was unnecessary.
“I doubt the king would have commissioned them ordered for such a purpose,” Mordred said, clearly not allaying the man’s fears. “Payment has already been delivered, yes? Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Have a good day, sir!” Gareth announced beside her, chipper as always. The two walked away from the man, who looked uncertain as he waved back to Gareth.
-Break-
“Have you heard? I’m being quite neglected.”
Artoria couldn’t help but smile. Guinevere was her wife in name, but in truth she was her greatest friend. The way she took certain rumors in a joyful stride never failed to wash away any of the king’s own grievances with them.
“Indeed. And I am an alchemist, hiding away in my room and making concoctions.” Artoria took off her boots at the bedside, and looked over to Guinevere, who was brushing her hair. “My walks already worry the knights, and now the castle thinks I am being lost to arcane arts. Bedivere or Merlin best return soon, for even if I stop my activities, the rumors will remain.”
Guinevere looked at her friend, and smiled sadly.
“Are you ready to confide in me the reason behind your walks?” She set down her brush and walked over to the bed, sitting next to Artoria.
“Yes, but… no, I am not ready. I’m willing, but I haven’t the words to speak with you of it. I must think very carefully before I speak of this, I feel.”
Guinevere cocked an eyebrow and very clearly suppressed a smirk.
“You are remaining faithful to your wife, are you not?” She couldn’t hold in her smile, a jovial countenance overtaking her as the words fell from her mouth. “Come now, I know you, it can’t be something too scandalous.”
“No, never. My wife may be terror to myself and the court, but I remain faithful. I cannot speak for her own faith, however.” Artoria was in good cheer as she reached for the covers. “It isn’t scandalous, no. It’s… it is quite a burden, I suppose.”
“Not a burden you must hold alone, my king,” she said as she fell down on the bed. “Once you have the words, I will be here, and I will support you as I always have.”
Artoria hummed in acknowledgment, covering both herself and her wife in covers. Guinevere immediately wormed her way next to her, which she didn’t mind. Had she not allowed it, she would have woken up as her friend’s hugging partner in the morning regardless.
Embraced by her wife, Artoria slept soundly that night.
-Break-
The very next day, Bedivere had returned from his quest. Artoria was gladdened by his return both for the results he could bring and for the opportunity to dispel the foul rumors clouding the castle.
She wasted no time. The moment he returned, before even questioning him on his quest, the king declared the need for festivities. A melee and a joust were announced, and it just so happened that all preparations were made to host them immediately. On this evening, the castle would celebrate.
Artoria put her plan into motion.
Mordred and Lancelot had already assembled the parts of her blacksmith order, and they were on standby to man the operation. Gawain had been drafted by his sister as the final aid, and was out with her obtaining and organizing all the final ingredients.
Artoria herself was making personal preparations, tying her chest tightly. For her role, she couldn’t wear her plate armor, so she had to be convincingly male.
After a quick check with Guinevere, Artoria was ready. In a blouse with simple pants, she donned her crown and headed outside to meet the rest of her knights.
Lancelot, Gawain and Gareth all wore light clothing, as requested. Mordred however, was fully armored, as was his habit. The king looked at her knight, momentarily wishing she could ask Bedivere to take his place, but refused her own notion. Bedivere had just finished an entire endeavor, and it would be unfair to demand this of him.
A stage was set up, elevating five black boxes, the final assembled product of all her orders to the blacksmith. At the front and center of the stage was a small podium, only to be used at the start and end of the festivities. The king inspected all five of the metallic boxes, then looked behind the stage to ensure that all the necessary crates were present. Satisfied, she began to wait for the allotted hour.
Eventually the castle and city residents came to the massive courtyard. Guards directed them to the seats in the jousting stands, until the entire place was full. Some stood at the side of the stands as well, flanked by guards once more.
She couldn’t hear them, but Artoria could feel the inquisitive atmosphere in the air: Why was the king in such common clothing? Why were they corralled by the guards, rather than be allowed to stand as they pleased? What were those strange, black chests, resting on small platforms?
“Citizens of Camelot, my fellow knights, we are celebrating the return of sir Bedivere to the halls of the Round Table.” Her voice was loud enough, through her own enhancements, that she knew all could hear her. “In honor of this return, I have decided to allow you into what I’ve been so secretive about.”
A wave of murmurs resounded through the crowd, as Artoria gave a signal. Behind her, four knights opened four of the black boxes, their tops sliding towards the back instead of entirely falling off. Inside, a cloud of smoke escaped, revealing the faint glow of smouldering charcoal.
Chatter erupted as the crowd marvelled at the sight of the fiery pits. What manner of strange devices had the king brought before his people? The chatter died down as the crowd looked to their king for an answers.
“Tis a method of cooking, known to foreigners as ‘Barbecue’.” Guards started lifting boxes of prepared food unto the stage, from seasoned meats to skewers with both meat and vegetable. “You have all served your king justly and rightly for many years. Today, your king shall serve you food of his own cooking, with methods long researched and learned. Today I celebrate you, my people, for you are worthy of such celebration!”
Artoria raised her hand, and the citizenry roared with approval. Some of the knights who weren’t informed looked confused, but pleased.
Artoria herself was glad for the positive response, and nodded to the queen. Guinevere, sitting in the royal booth of the stands, rose and approached the stage. She took a plate, which were being stacked on a table next to the stairs, and Artoria walked to the final black box, opening it to show that food was already cooked for her, being kept warm.
The queen’s plate was dutifully filled by the king, and Artoria turned once more to face the crowd.
“Let the games and feasting begin!”
-Break-
The party went wonderfully. In the absence of Lancelot and Gawain in the joust and melee, the competition was fierce but fair, getting the crowd rowdy and excited, and two new champions being hailed as heroes for the rest of the night.
The citizenry learned why they were so corralled; the guards coordinated lines to reach the stage, so that every man and woman be allowed their turn without overwhelming the cooks. Once they reached the stage, they had relative freedom in choosing which knight to be served by. Murmurs and conversation flew by, marvelling at the unique nature of such a celebration.
On Artoria’s side, every man, woman and child praised her cooking for both its novelty and taste. She could tell the compliments were true as well, which gave her no small amount of satisfaction. Yet for the whole party she retained her regal demeanor, accepting praise with grace befitting of her role.
Some of her knights had not shared her composure. Lancelot and Gawain, covered in sweat from working the grills, threw some decorum to the wind as they got more and more casual with the citizenry which approached, specifically of the fairer sex.
Gareth had fully exhausted herself as the festivities continued, starting by taking short breaks and eventually ceding her position to Bedivere, who had changed into light clothing and seemed eager to chance himself on the grill.
Mordred, his grill the least popular with the citizenry, was completely unreadable. The knight had been stoically grilling for hours, not showing a single sign of weakness. While most found him hard to approach, Artoria did note that a gaggle of women kept going back to him for seconds. Despite the knight’s threatening attire and standoffish attitude, he’d acquired himself some followers.
Eventually people returned home, and the six outdoor culinarians had time to make food for themselves.
“A resounding success! Cheers, to the Knights of the Round Table!” Gawain took charge, he and his sister having just handed out ale mugs to all knights present.
“Cheers!” A true cacophony resounded. Ale passed everyone’s lips, even the king’s own. Following that, the gathering gluttonously started working on solid foods, laughing and cheering amongst each other. Gawain teased his sister for her weakness, Lancelot questioned Bedivere of his travels, Tristan had materialised sometime in the evening, playing the harp for the merry gathering.
Yet Artoria could not keep herself in cheer, for one of her knights took her food and left them, to eat alone. It was expected by all the others by now, and Mordred’s presence would hardly be missed. But Artoria knew what they did not, and she knew she had to come face to face with him eventually.
She finished her bite, resolving to return for more, and took two mugs with her.
Finding Mordred was no hard task, as the knight hadn’t left the gates. Atop a rampart, wild golden hair left to dance in the wind, a solitary warrior ate their food.
As soon as Artoria’s steps became audible, he hurriedly put his helmet back on, hiding his face in time before the king reached him.
“Is something the matter, my liege?” Mordred said, sounding destabilized.
“You left without taking any ale. I thought to bring you some.” Artoria walked by, putting one of the mugs on a crate Mordred had repurposed as a table.
“I… Thank you, milord,” Mordred said, clearly expecting his liege to leave. However, the king remained, studying Mordred, her expression unreadable. After a moment too long, Mordred broke the silence. “Is there something else?”
“You needn’t wear the helmet in my presence, Mordred, son of Morgan.” Artoria turned around, finding another storage crate to use as a chair. Mordred stayed quiet in response to this, which Artoria took as permission to continue. “My sister thinks me blind to the people around me. She thinks I ignore them all, for I alone am enough to deal with all my kingdom’s worries. A king shouldering his country on his own.”
Mordred stayed quiet, but the metal plate of his helmet had suddenly become very expressive to the king.
“She was right, once. But no more. We’ve a great deal to speak of. Perhaps another day, where we are less exhausted and have had less to drink.” Artoria raised her mug to the knight. “For now, remove your helmet. Drink with me, knight of the Round Table, and let me see what my sister has done with what she’s taken of me.”
Mordred was clearly overwhelmed, yet after a long pause, took off his helmet. Underneath was someone unmistakeably related to the king, their likeness plain to see. Had they wandered the streets together, they could have been mistaken for siblings. Yet, Mordred’s hair was messier, his face less clean, his gaze less confident. Artoria was still the far more regal of the two.
“I’ve… many questions,” Mordred hesitantly said, picking up his mug. His voice was far lighter than it was in the helmet, and Artoria mused idly that he must be a she, just like his mother and herself.
“As should be expected. Some I can answer for you, some I’d rather Merlin returned first. The man is impossible, yet his expertise is undeniable.” She extended her mug. Mordred banged into it with her own, and they both took a deep drink.
No more words were shared between the two for the night, silently drinking in each other’s presence until the king saw fit to return to the festivities.
A promise was made, but for now, Artoria simply yearned to return to her grill.
-Break-
She returned to the stage, to see that her cooks had become drunkards. Gareth was already defeated, leaning on one of the many empty crates strewn across the area. Tristan was fully red in the face, admiring his own reflection in a bucket of water. Lancelot and Gawain were engaging in very overt, very improper conversation. Other knights of less standing sat, sang and danced with them.
She expected her knights to relax and enjoy their own festivities after the king withdrew to the keep, but to see them in such a state beforehand was surprising. Upon further reflection, she realised that she hadn’t actually told them where she was going. Assuming she had left them for the night was entirely reasonable considering her recent attitude.
She decided to let it go just as Bedivere walked up to her, plate in hand. The knight, looking quite refreshed, extended the plate to her. Artoria blinked, and realised just what it was.
“Thank you, sir Bedivere” she said as she accepted the plate from him with one hand, and taking a skewer off of it with the other. “The celebration was meant for you, to see it make you work so worries me.”
“Nonsense, milord. If anything, this celebration was exactly what I needed to recover from my travel.” The knight turned around and stood beside her, facing his fellow knights. “This ‘barbecue’ is sure to become quite a sensation in the castle town for quite some time.”
“Indeed, and I’m glad that this is the case. I feel like it’s been some time since the people were given cause for celebration,” Artoria said after finishing her initial mouthful. Bedivere, noting this, waited for her to finish another skewer before continuing.
“I’m afraid I’ve failed to find the lady Morgan, milord. She was in none of her usual holds. I’ve returned to ask some of her sons if I’ve been remiss in gathering information. My deepest apologies.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him put a hand to his chest and bow.
“You need not apologize. I’ve burdened you with quite a difficult task, and you are forever welcome in the halls of Camelot.” She bid him to rise with a motion of her hand, and he did. The news was expected more than anything else, and she did not take it to heart. She simply took another skewer, and continued eating.
“Thank you, milord.” Bedivere silently stood at her side, until eventually Lancelot spotted him. The knight was about to call out to him in good cheer, until he noticed the king and immediately seemed to sweat out his ale.
He nudged the other knights to attention, and eventually they attempted to stand at some form of attention, despite not all being able to stand fully balanced.
Artoria frowned at the sight. She handed Bedivere her empty plate and walked up to the sorry sight.
“Are you ashamed of your good cheer?” She asked the group, who seemed unsure what to say. Permission granted through silence, she continued. “I am not. Cheer, sing and dance, and drink the night away. On the morrow my knights will return, my faith in them unshaken. You should not be embarrassed of your joys in my presence.”
A silence loomed over the group, as the knights looked at each other in a drunken haze. Gawain, finding himself an opportunity, turned around and picked up a mug, rising it in the air.
“Then let the festivities continue! A toast, to King Arthur, to the Round Table, and the Holy Grail itself!”
The knights gladly followed his lead, and settled back into their previous states.
All but one, Gareth, who rose from her crate, stole her brother’s mug, and raised it high in the air.
“And another, in the hopes that we find a holy grill as well!”
She didn’t even get to drink from it, losing her balance and making her brother catch her. The knights had a round of laughter at his expense more so than his sister’s ramblings, and things returned as they were.
Or so it would seem, for Bedivere noticed a significant change. The king next to him, observing his knights at play, was now smiling ever so slightly.
“Tis quite a thing, grilling. I’d be glad to have the opportunity again,” he said. Without turning to face him or changing expression, the king hummed in agreement.
Fin
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Originally Posted by Deathhappens
