Sanctuary: A Cursed (Netflix) Fan Fic

 

Sanctuary

            After escaping the Red Paladin camp, Squirrel and the Weeping Monk rode through the night and most of the morning.  The horse was weary now, it would be hurt if they pushed it much further, but the Monk feared they could not afford to stop.  There was no certainty how far behind the Red Brothers were, if they were caught it would all be for naught.  Still, they had to give the beast a few moments rest at least, if he went lame they would be found just the same.

            The Weeping Monk reined in the horse and dismounted, catching hold of the saddle horn as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.  His heartbeat throbbed incessantly in his skull and the edges of his vision began to close in.  Distantly, he heard Squirrel’s voice as he stumbled a few paces forward, trying to ignore the pain that shot through him with every movement.  He leaned over his knees, gagging, but he had not eaten since before his encounter with the Green Knight and could bring up nothing.  He forced out a few quick breaths through his nose, swallowing hard, trying to regain some amount of control of himself.

            He let himself down to his hands and knees, gritting his teeth, biting back a scream of frustration.  God, if you still hear me, I need your help, he begged silently.  I’ve done the boy no good to free him from the camp only to be caught less than a day’s ride away.  You’ve charged us to care for widows and orphans surely you meant the little fey children too.  I can protect him, if you’ll only given me the strength.  He sat back on his heels as some of the dizziness and pain subsided.  Better yet, he felt the peace he’d sought so desperately the day before settling in behind his breast bone.  God had not yet abandoned him after all. 

            The Monk glanced over his shoulder to see Squirrel standing a cautious distance away, eyes wide with fright. 

            “It’s all right,” he assured the boy, licking sweat from his upper lip.  “I’m all right now. We’ll move on again soon.”

                                                                        . . . .

            “Riders up ahead,” Squirrel said, pointing toward a group of half dozen horsemen coming onto view around a bend in the road. 

            The Monk’s hand went to his sword hilt, and he angled their horse’s head away so as to partially shield Squirrel from view. 

            “State your name and business stranger,” the lead horseman barked as they approached.  He was elderly, the Monk noted.  In fact all the mounted men seemed too old or too young to be out on a patrol. 

            “We’re merely passing through,” the Monk answered.

            “Men in robes don’t just pass through of late,” the man said.  “You’ll come with us, to await his lordship’s pleasure.”

            “As his lordship is away,” came a higher pitched voice, “and his return is uncertain, I believe I will see them now, Sagramore.”  

            The older man sighed, his grip tightening on his reins, but he moved aside, allowing a young woman to spur her mount to the front of the group. 

            “You’re the Weeping Monk,” she said, after looking him up and down.  “There have been whispers you were among the slain when Merlin and the Wolf’s Blood Witch wiped out the Red Paladins.”

            Wiped them out?  “All of them?” he asked, his tone guarded.

            “Most, so they say.” Her brow furrowed.  “You did not know?” The young woman studied him more closely.  “You are injured, my lord,” she said.  “My hold is not far from here.  Will you return with us and take some rest?”

                                                                        . . . .

            The Weeping Monk settled back in the chair before the hearth, watching Squirrel voraciously attack the meal that had been brought to them.  He hardly paused for breath until he’d finished more than half of it, when he glanced up at the Monk.  “Are you going to eat?” he asked a little sheepishly. 

            “No.” He shook his head.  He was so tired that even eating seemed like an insurmountable effort, and he was still somewhat nauseous from pain and weariness besides.  “Perhaps later.  Have what you will.”

            He was just beginning to doze off when the young woman entered the room.  “Please, don’t get up,” she said as he started to rise.  She smiled over at Squirrel.  “I trust the fare is to your satisfaction?”

            “Oh yes,” Squirrel muttered from around the chicken bone he was gnawing. 

            “We are very grateful for your hospitality,” the Monk said, “Lady…?”

            “Guinevere,” she answered, sitting in the chair across from him.  “My healer tells me you are badly hurt.  I wanted to assure you, you are both welcome to stay as long as you need to recover.”

            “Again, thank you.”

            “I had hoped to ask you what news you had from Gramaire, but if you did not know about the Red Paladins, I assume you were not there.”

            “I was not, we left shortly before.  It was a rout then?”

            “So we hear,” she said, “but it’s barely been two days, reports are so confused it’s hard to say.  I’m not even certain who emerged the victors.  Or the fate of my father and our other men who marched with Uther.”

            “Your father supports Pendragon?”

            “When the king calls, his vassals answer,” she said, carefully not committing.

            He paused, then asked, “Have your confused reports brought news of Father Carden?”

            Something in her eyes softened, and he knew before she answered.  “This morning I have heard from more than one refugee they’ve seen his head on a pike outside Gramaire,” she said.  “I’m sorry.”

            He nodded, feeling the blow of her words numbly.  Father Carden’s death should strike him harder he thought, but at the moment it hardly felt real.

            Guinevere stood.  “I’m sure you’re both tired, I’ll leave you be.  If you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

                                                                        . . . .

            Guinevere entered the holdfast’s small chapel, finding the Weeping Monk kneeling before the altar.  She hesitated as he glanced over his shoulder, hearing her approach.  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize anyone was here, I did not mean to disturb you.”

            “It’s no disturbance,” he said, “besides the chapel is yours.”

            He started to rise but she motioned him to stop.  “A chapel is meant for more than one.”  She knelt at the altar a respectful distance from him, folding her hands in front of her and they remained in comfortable silence for some time.

            “What do you pray for, my lady?” he asked, seeing her stir from her meditative posture.

            She sighed, sitting back on her heels.  “For my father, for protection.  Mostly, for discernment to know what is best for my people, and the strength to do it.”

            “Noble request,” he said. “God will certainly hear them.”

            “It is a comfort to hear you say that,” she said. “And you?  What do you pray for?”

            “I thank God for the kindness you have shown us,” he answered.  “I pray for guidance. For those that I’ve killed.  And for Father Carden.”

            “You miss him,” she said softly.

            He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

            “It must be difficult,” she said, “when there are many who rejoice at your loss.”

            It was, in a way. Squirrel was thrilled by the new of Carden’s death, and how could the Monk blame him?  Carden was largely the reason Squirrel’s whole family was dead and why he’d been hunted like an animal for weeks.

            “Father Carden was not entirely an evil man,” the Monk said, hesitantly.  “He was misguided, overzealous, and while he’s done things I cannot any longer condone…” He paused.  “He saved my life when I was a boy, brought me up in the church, made me what I am. He was not unkind to me.”

               Briefly, she laid a comforting hand on his arm, then crossed herself.  “I have some business that must be tended to,” she said, standing.  “Good day.”

                                                                        . . . .

            “Keep your weapon up,” the Monk instructed, tapping Squirrel’s blade with his own.  “You can never drop your guard, especially when your opponent has height on you.  Which for you should be everyone.”

            “Oi now,” the boy said, affronted, but he kept his blade up to parry the next blow.

            “Good, better,” the Monk said, rolling the stiffness out of his still mending shoulder. 

            “Well done, Master Squirrel,” Lady Guinevere called as she approached them.  “You will rival most of my knights before long.” She turned to the Monk.  “May I speak with you?”

            He nodded, sheathing his blade. 

            “Walk with me,” she said, and they started off down the yard.  “Your wounds are healing well?”

            “Well enough,” he answered.  This was not what she had come to ask him, but he would let her reach her point in her own time.

            “Then I expect you’ll be on your way soon,” she said.  “Will you return to what remains of the Red Brotherhood?”

            “Are there remains of the Red Brotherhood?” he countered.

            “There must be some, the church does not die.”

            “No,” he agreed.  But hopefully certain members of it had, God forgive him.  “I’ve not yet decided where we’ll go.”

            “There is no rush, I was merely curious,” she assured him.  “A few of the men who marched with my father have finally returned to us.”

            There, this is what she’d wanted to discuss. “The news was not good I take it.”

            “My father was slain,” she said, “along with most of our fighting men.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “It’s as if I already knew,” she said softly.  “When I did not hear from him within the first days I knew something horrible must have happened.” They continued in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “With myself the only heir, and most of our menfolk gone, every northern raider and errant lord will see us as ripe for taking.  And we’ve hardly even a king to appeal to now.” She stopped, turning to face him.  “So, if you’ve no pressing business elsewhere, I wanted to ask… would you consider remaining here, just until things settle? A warrior of your skill would be a great help to me in defending my lands and my people.  Your name alone would deter many from attacking us.”

            It had taken a lot for her to ask this of him, he could see that in the set of her jaw, but the earnestness in her eyes spoke to the need that had overcome her pride. 

            Before he could answer, she continued, “I would pay you of course.”

            “I’m not a sell sword,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. 

            “Of course not,” she hurriedly stammered.  “Forgive my offence, I did not mean to suggest-“

            He held up a hand to stop her.  “No offence taken, my Lady.” In truth, the suggestion rankled him, but even as he had denied it, he realized if the Brotherhood was truly lost to him, as he feared it was, a sell sword was all he would be good for.  “As to payment, from where I stand I seem to be in your debt.”

            “I don’t want you to consider that,” she said.  “I’ve only done what any decent person would.  You owe me nothing.”

            “Regardless,” he said. “I would be pleased to serve you, for as long as you have need.”

                                                                        . . . .

            Sagramore entered his family chambers, tossing his sword belt over a chair arm. 

            “Are you meeting with Lady Guinevere today?” his wife asked, straightening the sword belt to hang evenly. 

            “Yes,” he said, falling into the chair. “Once she returns.  She wanted to assess the potential for defenses in the outer towns and rode out early this morning.  In company of the Weeping Monk.”

            “Ah.  That’s the part that troubles you?”

            “She spends over much time with that monk I find,” he grumbled.  “This is her home, she can shelter whom she wills, but why should he be brought into her confidences?  He’s an outsider, and one of the paladins.”

            “You’re only upset because you wanted to be the only voice in her ear,” his wife chided.

            “Her father entrusted her to me,” he said, shifting his weight, her words ringing uncomfortably true.  “I want to help her.”

            “I know, and she knows that,” she said.  “Guinevere’s a clever girl, she knows good council from bad.”

            “Let us hope that she does.”

                                                                        . .  . .

            Guinevere adjusted her grip on the hilt of her sword, feinting to the left of the fence post she had chosen as her stand in opponent, before swinging her blade around to the right connecting with a satisfying thunk.

            “You’ve been taught by a blank swords master.”

            Guinevere started, not having heard the Monk’s approach.  “It shows?” she asked, hastily collecting herself.

            He nodded.  “They have very distinct style; strike hard, strike fast.”

            “My father thought it would balance my natural disadvantages.”

            “To some extent,” he agreed, “but I’ve never cared for their methods.  The flaw is if you’ve not bested your opponent in the first three blows you’ve lost.”

He laid a hand on his sword hilt, giving her a questioning look.  She nodded, and he drew his blade, delivering a low thrust.  She parried the blow, stumbling back, off balance. 

            A hint of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.  “And they’re wont to neglect their foot work.”

            She righted herself, dropping into a fighting stance and they circled each other briefly.

            “Well your masters seem to have had no appreciation for a full field of vision,” she said.  “I imagine fighting with a hood up must be similar to fighting with one’s hair down.  Does it not get in your way?”

            “No, I don’t find that it does.”

            She feinted for his knee, then pivoted to bring her attack in from the side to test this statement.  Indeed, his blade was there, and very nearly disarming her. 

            They exchanged a few more blows, and while Guinevere found she struggled to keep up, he hardly seemed to expend any effort.  She hoped she never had to face him in earnest, she wouldn’t have a prayer. Their blades crossed, and with a practiced flick of the wrist he brought his sword to the top, forcing the point of her own to the ground.  He reached forward, taking hold of her wrist and gave it a gentle twist.  In fairness, she released her sword, disarmed.  

            They paused, silent but for their rapid breathing, both suddenly becoming aware of how close they stood. 

            “Forgive me,” he said releasing her wrist. 

            “No, it’s…it’s alright,” she said, taking hold of his arm in turn as he started to move away.  “Quite alright.”

            His breath caught as they studied one another and he found he was drawing her closer.  Then her arms were around him, and their lips met.

                                                                        . .  . .

            Dawn light was just beginning to peer over the horizon as the Weeping Monk entered the room he shared with Squirrel, finding the boy sharpening an arrow head on a stone.

            “When a man makes love to a woman, is it like horses?” Squirrel asked without preamble.  “I thought it must be, but I saw a pair in the woods up on a tree the other day and it didn’t look like horses.”

            “Given I am a monk,” he answered, “I’m not really the man to ask that.”

            “But weren’t you with Lady Guinevere last night?”

He paused, startled. He thought they’d been careful not to be seen. “Why would you think that?”

            “Well, you didn’t come back here to sleep and she likes you.”

            He relaxed a little, if that was all. “Maybe I did come back and left again while you were asleep.”

            “No.” Squirrel shook his head.  “I would have heard you.  Besides, you haven’t redone your eyes yet.  They’re all smudged.” He motioned to his own cheeks.

            Damn the boy, he was perceptive. 

            “Was that the first time you’ve been with a woman?” Squirrel rambled on.  “As you said, you are a monk, and an ugly one.  I can’t imagine you’ve convinced too many girls to be that close to you.  Unless you really do do it like horses, and then they wouldn’t have to look at you.”

            The Monk gave Squirrel and smack on the back of the head. “Enough,” he said, then sighed.  “No you don’t always have to do it like horses. Now don’t ask me anymore. It’s a sin.”

            “A nice one though.”

            He gave Squirrel a sharp look, half raising his hand again.

            “All right, all right,” Squirrel relented.  “Can we go find something to eat?”

                                                                        . .  . .

            Guinevere turned from the braid she was twisting into her hair at the sound of a knock on her door.  “Enter,” she called. She smiled when the Weeping Monk slipped into the room.  “You’re astir early.”

            “I needed to speak with you,” he said.

            “You hardly need to schedule an audience,” she said, noting how he hesitated at the door.  It wasn’t as if he had never been in her chamber before.  She motioned to the window seat next to her, but he sat on the far end of the bench.  “Is something wrong?”

            “I came to tell you that I’ll be leaving today.”

            “So suddenly?”

            He nodded, offering no explanation.

            “Would it be related to the reports of a group of Red Paladins approaching?” She straightened, drawing herself up.  “The Weeping Monk has ridden with the Red Brotherhood for as long as I can recall, yet you have made no attempt to rejoin them, and now that we hear they are little more than a day’s ride away you say you must leave.”

            Still he did not answer. 

            “What happened at Gramaire?” she asked.  “That’s what all this stems from, is it not?”

            He nodded slowly.  “I killed a company of Trinity Guard.”

            “Why?”

            “Why hardly matters now,” he said.  “I should have killed Whitlow as well but he slipped away and he will have told the church elders by now.”

            “You must have had reason,” she said, her brow furrowed.  “The church’s justice is seldom delayed, would they not have come for you before now if that was their intent?”  As far as she was aware, the paladins were merely passing through on their way to the coast, the Monk’s presence might have nothing to do with their own. 

            He still would not looking at her, busy with his own thoughts.  Thoughts that did not seem to please him. 

“Something else is troubling you.” She reached out and touched his arm and he pulled away.  “You can tell me,” she prompted gently.

“I should have told you already,” he said.  “I should have told you of my own accord before there was threat someone else would.  What I have done is unforgivable.  I have deceived you, and defiled you horribly.”

“You frighten me,” she said, suddenly in dread of she didn’t know what.

“I’m sorry, Guinevere.  I…I should have told you before, but I’ve kept the secret so long I almost forget myself sometimes.  I’ve never told anyone, but it was unfair of me to keep it from you.” He paused, seeming to steal himself.  “I-“ His voice broke and he took a breath.  “I’m of fey kind.”

“No,” she gasped, moving back from him in spite of herself.  “No that cannot be, every inch of you is human.”

“Some of us show no outward sign.”

“But to have risen so far in the Brotherhood, the Paladins would never have allowed it.”

“Father Carden was the only one who knew.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“Abbot Whitlow suspects.”  The defeat in his voice sounded so final, so unlike him. “I truly am sorry Guinevere.  I had no right to come to you as I have done.  To deceive you into…consorting with my tainted blood. It was-I never should have-”

“Stop,” she said, then more firmly.  “Stop it.” She laid a hand on the side of his face, tilting his chin to finally make him look at her.  Her heart constricted, seeing the pain behind the unshed tears glinting in his eyes.  “Lancelot, I don’t care,” she assured him.

“You don’t care that I tricked you into taking some demon spawn into your home? Into your bed?”

“You are far from a demon,” she insisted.  “How can you even say such things? Do you think so little of me, to fear that it would matter? You are who you are, no matter what you are.”  She leaned forward and kissed him gently. “This changes nothing between us.”  Feeling him tremble slightly as he took in a shuddering breath, she rested her forehead against his until his breathing steadied and some of the tension in him eased.  “But you are right,” she said, pulling away.  “You must go.  The paladins may only be passing about their own business but we cannot take the chance.”

                                                            . . . .

“I’m coming with you,” Squirrel insisted, following the Weeping Monk into the stables. 

“No,” the Monk said again, “you’ll be safer here with Lady Guinevere and she with you.”

Guinevere laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “He is right, you cannot leave me completely defenseless.”

Squirrel relented, if reluctantly.  “You’re coming back though?”

“Yes.” The Monk nodded.

“You promise?”

The Monk paused in adjusting the strap of his saddle, seeing the doubt in Squirrel’s face. “You have my word,” he assured him.

“Be careful,” Guinevere said.  She wanted so badly to go to him, to put her arms around him and kiss him once more, to prove to him that she meant it when she said his confession changed nothing, but they were in the yard and others might see.  Still, an understanding seemed to pass between them as she held his gaze a moment.  He nodded to her, ever so slightly, then mounted and was gone.

                                                            . . .  .

Guinevere sighed and settled back in her bed, her heartbeat still thrumming through her pleasantly.  She pushed the Monk’s hair back from his face, slowly letting the honey colored strands fall through her fingers. “I’ve missed you.” In truth once he’d returned earlier in the evening she could hardly wait for the holdfast to retire so that he could come to her.  

“Missed this?” he asked, his lips finding the pulse point of her throat. 

“Well, yes,” she said, “but I’ve missed you.”

He smiled almost shyly, glancing away from her in a way she always found endearing.

“I was worried about you, if the paladins really had been searching for you-”

“It would take more than a handful of paladins on the road to be a threat to me.”

“I know,” she said, though her hand strayed almost unconsciously to the scarring behind his ear, left by a Trinity Guard mace when he’d fled with Squirrel. 

“I did meet some paladins on the road,” he said.  “They were harassing a fey woman and her children.  I had to kill the brothers, it was the only way to stop them.”  He turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, the prospect of further love making dampened by the shift in conversation.  “In the end it may not have even done them any good.”

“It did that day,” she said.  “That’s something.”

He sighed.  “I don’t know what to do.  Father Carden always told me I was God’s weapon, meant to dispel the darkness brought by the fey.  The Green Knight shamed me for hunting my own, and said I should instead use what skill I have to fight for the fey. I turn my blade against my brethren no matter which side I choose.”

Guinevere propped herself up on her elbow so she could face him. “Why choose?” she asked.  “Be both.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“The Red Brotherhood is corrupt, you’ve left them behind.  They’ve been blinded by overzealous teachings, their crusade against the fey is not God’s.  You could change that now. Be the Sword of God, and Defender of the Fey.”

He nodded slowly.  He’d spent much time over the last weeks in prayer and meditation, searching for his place again.  Perhaps the reason a clear answer seemed to evade him was because he had limited the choices he considered.     

“You think you only delayed the inevitable for that woman and her children,” she continued.  “Next time bring them here.  I have been doing a lot of thinking since my father died.  I have come into possession of his holdings for a reason, and there’s a reason that you came here when you did. There is much good you and I could do.  For as long as I’m able to hold these lands, we could make them a safe place for fey kind.”

“We could,” he agreed, considering.  “Avalon, Sanctuary of the Fey.”