flstandardbreds Chapter 23 Oath
Chapter 23 Oath
On the third day after Lancelot joined the Round Table, Arthur summoned all the knights who had joined.
The long table was placed in the center of the palace hall.
It wasn't the world-famous round table that came later.
The table in front of us was just temporarily moved from the banquet hall. It was made of oak and still had traces of candle wax from yesterday's dinner on its surface.
But its shape is round.
Arthur stood at the end of the long table—no, the word "end" is inaccurate.
The round table has no end, no beginning or end, and every position is equidistant from the center.
He stood there simply because he was the last to sit down.
"I have summoned you here today not for military matters, nor for political matters."
Arthur's voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly throughout the entire hall.
"It's to make 'round table' more than just two words."
His gaze swept over everyone present.
Kai sat in the first seat on the left, arms crossed, with his usual arrogant smile on his lips.
His left arm was still wrapped in bandages, a remnant from his battle with Lancelot three days prior. It wasn't a wound, but rather something he had requested to be bandaged.
"I will remember this sword strike," he said. "I will remember someone who could catch me off guard."
Bedwell sat next to Kay, his silver prosthetic arm resting lightly on the table.
A roll of parchment and a quill pen lay out in front of him, ready to be used for recording.
Even before Arthur drew his sword, he maintained this posture: quiet, composed, always recording, always protecting.
Gawain sat on the right, his golden hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.
His Sun Sword rested against the back of his chair, the patterns on its scabbard shimmering with a faint golden light under the illumination.
From sunrise to sunset, his power will never fail to live up to his promise.
Tristan sat next to Gawain, his harp resting on his knees and his longbow hanging from the back of the chair.
His fingers unconsciously plucked the strings lightly, producing extremely soft notes, as if composing an overture for this meeting that had not yet begun.
His grey-blue eyes looked at Arthur quietly, with a calmness that only comes after experiencing too much loss.
Lancelot sat at the very end.
There is no "last" at a round table.
He was simply sitting in the seat closest to the door.
Three days ago, he knelt on one knee before Arthur and uttered words he himself never thought he would say:
"I want to be a part of that shadow."
He sat at the round table, the sword at his waist hanging quietly, his light purple eyes filled with the caution and anticipation of a newcomer.
Arthur looked at the five people: Kay, Bedivere, Gawain, Tristan, and Lancelot.
Five different faces, five different lives, five different swords.
But they were all sitting at the same round table.
"Let's start by sitting here," Arthur began.
"You are not my 'subjects,' you are my 'comrades.'"
The hall was silent.
This table has no beginning or end, no high or low.
Whether I sit in any seat or you sit in any seat, it has the same meaning.
Everyone's words will be heard, and everyone's opinions will be respected.
It's not because I'm generous, it's because I need it.
What a king can see, hear, and judge is far too limited.
I need your eyes, your ears, and your hearts.
He pulled the sword from the stone, and blue-white starlight flowed from the blade, illuminating half the table.
"I swear in the name of the sword in the stone that, as king, my sword should protect, not harm."
My existence should bring smiles, not tears.
I will use all my strength to protect Britain and to protect each and every one of you.
It's not about protecting your subjects as a king, it's about protecting your companions as Arthur.
Kai was the first to stand up.
He didn't draw his sword; his hand went directly to the hilt and then stopped.
"I, Kai, swear." His voice was rough, with the awkwardness of someone unaccustomed to speaking eloquently.
"With my sword, I will guard the king's back."
No matter which direction the enemy comes from, I will stand in front of you.
It's not because you're some kind of "shining star," it's because you're the younger brother I've watched grow up.
He paused, then a slightly roguish smile appeared on his lips.
"Although you are taller than me now, in my eyes, you are still that kid who practiced swordsmanship in the forest until his palms were covered in blisters and he still wouldn't stop."
Then, he drew his sword.
Arthur's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.
Bedivere was the second to stand up; he did not draw his sword, as his right hand could not grip it.
He placed the silver prosthetic limb on the table, his metal fingertips lightly touching the oak grain.
"I, Bedivere, swear an oath."
His voice was refined and steady, as if he were reciting a pre-written document, but every word carried warmth:
"With my pen and prosthetic limbs, I will safeguard the order of the round table."
Let every knight who joins know that there is no hierarchy here, only trust.
Let every departing knight be remembered; their names will be written in the scrolls of the Round Table, never to be forgotten.
He looked at Arthur, whose silver prosthetic arm reflected a soft light in the sunlight.
"Your Majesty, you once said, 'Awe is not built on distance, but on trust.' I wrote that sentence on the first page of the Round Table Scroll."
Gawain was the third to stand up, and he drew the Sun Sword.
The golden light on the sword and the blue and white starlight of the sword in the stone complemented each other, casting two intertwined beams of light and shadow on the stone wall of the hall.
"I, Gawain, swear an oath."
His voice was loud and clear, like the midday sun shining into a room:
"From sunrise to sunset, I will dedicate all my strength to the Round Table."
You can always trust me, not because I will never fail, but because you will be there for me when I do fail.
He looked at Arthur, his azure eyes filled with unwavering trust:
"Your Majesty, my mother knew Prince Morgan when she was young. She said that woman was just too lonely, and a king who is willing to make room for the lonely is worth following."
Tristan was the fourth to stand up.
He did not draw his sword or raise his bow; instead, he picked up his harp.
Long, slender fingers pressed on the strings, plucking out a series of extremely soft notes.
It wasn't any ready-made piece; it was an impromptu composition. Every note was searching for the next one, like groping forward in the dark.
"I, Tristan, swear an oath."
His voice was very soft, so soft that it seemed as if he was afraid of disturbing something:
"I will use my music to remember every story of the Round Table, whether it be laughter or tears, so that they will never be forgotten."
The sound of the piano flowed through the hall like a silent river.
"I have a lover I can't express," Tristan suddenly said, his grey-blue eyes devoid of emotion.
I cannot say her name.
I cannot tell her story.
But her existence taught me what 'loss' truly feels like.
The music paused slightly, then continued.
"So I vowed to remember what can be remembered with my music."
Let future knights know that someone once sat at this table, laughed, cried, and lived.