The whole of Camelot is bustling, as it always is at midday. The market is full of stalls, with people selling everything from trinkets to sweet treats. It’s almost enough to make Lancelot stop, and he would on another day. Not today, though. Today he has someone he needs to see.

Carefully, the knight-errant guides his horse through the cobblestone streets, his hands tight on the reins. Lancelot is not often set on edge, but he feels increasingly nervous as his steed brings him closer to the towering castle. It has been weeks since he was here last, and he would not be lying if he were to say he was not expecting to come back.

Lancelot’s uncertainty lead him to a foolish act. An act of treason. He found himself knocking at the door of the consort’s bedchamber the night before he left, a little less sober than he should’ve been. He found himself confessing his love to the spouse of his closest friend. And then, like the disloyal coward he is, he ran away.

He left earlier than he planned to avoid his mistake, and the moment has not left his mind since. As he dismounts his horse, making his way inside the great hall, he dreads the moment he meets with the consort once more. Lancelot does not think he can defend his mistake. All he can do is be glad the King was not told. If Arthur were aware, he’s sure he would’ve found guards waiting to arrest him at the gate.

Still, Lancelot thinks after a few moments of watching the fireplace, it must happen sooner or later. No doubt that his arrival must have been announced to Arthur, despite his preference for little fanfare. So, with a query to a servant about the consort’s whereabouts, he decides to face the storm.

His steps are slow as he makes his way to the royal gardens, his heart in his throat. He is stalling, he knows he is. Lancelot is not a brave man when it comes to matters of the heart. Or maybe he is too brave. “My liege,” he calls out once he sees the all too familiar form, “I believe we must talk.”