flstandardbreds Chapter 22 No More Wandering
Chapter 22 No More Wandering
When the distance was reduced to ten paces, Tristan lowered his bow.
"That's enough," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"You can advance thirty paces under my rain of arrows unscathed; there are probably few in France who could do that."
Lancelot sheathed his sword.
"Your arrow... is beautiful."
Tristan tilted his head slightly: "Beautiful?"
"Like the sound of a zither, every arrow has its own rhythm."
Tristan was silent for a moment, then smiled. It was a faint smile, but it carried a warmth of being understood.
"You are the first person to use the word 'beautiful' to describe my archery skills."
Lancelot looked at the three knights in front of him.
Kay, who patted him on the shoulder with a smile after losing; Gawain, who took defeat as an honor; and Tristan, who was touched by his word "beautiful".
He suddenly felt that he might have finally found it after searching for three years.
Then Arthur walked off the training field.
The king of Britain did not wear armor.
He wore dark blue casual clothes, and his blond hair shone softly in the afternoon sunlight.
A sword hung at his waist, a sapphire gleaming faintly on its hilt—it was the Sword in the Stone.
Lancelot looked at Arthur.
He had heard many things about this king: the boy who pulled the sword from the stone, the rebel who appointed a witch as consul, and the idealist who called knights "comrades."
But when he actually stood before Arthur, he didn't feel "the majesty of a king," but something deeper and quieter.
Like a lake, the surface is calm, but the undercurrents are turbulent.
"Lancelot," Arthur said, "you challenged three of my knights and won them all. Now, do you wish to challenge me?"
"Yes."
Arthur pulled the sword from the stone.
The sword shimmered with a blue-white light in the sunlight; it wasn't the luster of metal, but starlight.
A certain light from beyond the world is sealed within this sword that will choose kings.
The two of them took action at the same time.
The sound of dense metal clanging echoed across the training field.
Kai held his breath, Gawain squinted, and Tristan tapped his fingers lightly to a rhythm at his side, as if providing a beat for this silent conversation that only he could hear.
Lancelot's sword was as fast as lightning, each strike precisely targeting the gaps in Arthur's swordplay.
This was an instinct he had honed over ten years at Lake Avalon.
The lake reflects all flaws, and his sword is like that lake, able to see the "cracks" in anyone.
But he couldn't find Arthur's crack.
It's not because Arthur is perfect, but because Arthur's sword isn't wielded by "one person".
Lancelot could sense in Arthur's swordplay the unwavering resolve of Kay, the composure of Bedivere, the burning passion of Gawain, and the rhythm of Tristan.
There are even more.
A chilling magical power, a sly silver glint, and a scarlet spear intent emanating from the farthest reaches.
Arthur was not fighting alone; on his sword stood all those who stood shoulder to shoulder with him.
Lancelot suddenly sheathed his sword.
"You win," he said.
Arthur sheathed his sword. "A draw."
"No." Lancelot knelt on one knee, placing the sword horizontally on his lap:
"I've been invincible in France for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like to be evenly matched. You've reminded me of the meaning of an 'opponent'."
He raised his head, his light purple eyes staring directly at Arthur.
"Your sword bears the shadow of someone else."
That's not your sword alone... that's the sword of the "Round Table".
I want to be a part of that shadow.
Arthur looked down at him, remained silent for a moment, and then reached out his hand.
"Welcome to the Round Table, Lancelot."
Lancelot took his hand in his; the calluses on that hand, from which he had gripped the sword, were as thick as his own, but warmer.
He stood up.
At the edge of the training field, Kai grinned at him.
Gao Wen nodded at him.
Tristan gently plucked a string, producing a short, crisp note, as if to say "welcome".
Lancelot suddenly felt something loosening in his chest.
That was a piece of ice that had entered his lungs along with the water when he sank to the bottom of the sea at the age of seven.
For thirteen years, that blockage has remained, preventing him from truly laughing or truly crying.
At that moment, a crack appeared in the ice.
That evening, Lancelot was seated in a guest room on the east side of the castle.
The room wasn't big, but it was clean and tidy.
From the window, you can see the pond in the courtyard, where moonlight shines on the water, creating silvery ripples.
He sat by the window, looking at the water under the moonlight.
He thought of Lake Avalon.
He recalled the cool yet gentle hands of the fairy in the lake when she rescued him.
He recalled what she said when she saw him off.
"Find it yourself."
He searched for three years, traversing the fields of France, braving the storms of the Channel, defeating countless knights, and winning a bunch of meaningless titles.
Today, at Camelot's training ground, he was defeated by three knights who patted him on the shoulder with smiles after losing.
They were not defeated by the sword, but by their composure, open-mindedness, and warmth.
Then he knelt down on one knee before Arthur and said the words he never thought he would say: "I want to be a part of the shadow."
Lancelot closed his eyes.
Footsteps came from outside the window, very light, as if they didn't want to be heard.
He opened his eyes and walked to the window.
In the courtyard, a tall, slender figure was seen walking through the moonlight.
She had long, silver-white hair, wore a long dress that intertwined black and ice blue, and wore a black crown of thorns.
Morgan LeFéyt.
The magical governor of Britain, a witch in legend who can turn enemies into skeletons.
She walked alone in the courtyard, her pace neither fast nor slow, as if she were surveying her own territory.
As she passed the pond, she stopped and looked down at the frog—the one who had once been an assassin but now lived peacefully in the pond.
Her lips twitched slightly.
It wasn't a smile, but a very faint, fleeting gentleness.
Then she looked up, her icy blue eyes fixed precisely on Lancelot's window.
"The Knight of the Lake of France." Her voice wasn't loud, but it reached his ears clearly.
"Welcome to Camelot, don't die too soon."
After saying that, she turned and walked towards the tower, her long, silvery-white hair drawing a cold arc of light in the moonlight.
Lancelot watched her figure disappear behind the tower's doors.
He suddenly remembered a line from the bard's off-key song that he hadn't paid attention to at the time.
"He appointed a witch, and the witch no longer wandered."
Lancelot closed the window and lay back down on the bed.
Moonlight streamed through the cracks in the window, casting a thin silver line on the ceiling.
He stared at the silver line, his mind replaying every scene from the day.
Kay's loud laughter, Gawain's outstretched hand, and Tristan's slightly brightened gray-blue eyes when he said "beautiful."
And Arthur's sword, the sword that holds the shadows of everyone.
He closed his eyes.
"Found it," he said softly.
It's not for anyone else, it's for the self that sank to the bottom of the sea at the age of seven, losing its name and everything.
Outside the window, a frog croaked.
It's as if it's saying: I know.