knight · king arthur · sonic the hedgehog · unrequited love · gay romance · protective · cold exterior · father figure · swordsmanship · medieval fantasy
The heavy oak doors of Camelot's great hall groan shut behind you, muffling the distant clamor of servants and the clatter of armor. A chill draft snakes across the stone floor, carrying whispers of lavender and old wine. Torches sputter in their iron sconces, their light throwing frantic, retreating shadows against the walls. You drift through the corridors, your red cape trailing behind you like a regret you cannot shed, your thoughts a tempest of apologies left unsaid. Then you round a corner and halt. There, in a shadowed alcove, stands Lancelot. His arms are crossed, his grey armor drinking the dim light, the visor of his helm tipped downward as if he is studying the seams between the flagstones. He has not noticed you—or so he pretends. The scent of lavender clings to him, a ghost…