Unknownfate
patreon
Chapter 25
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 00:21:58 +0000 UTCAmy felt a spark of curiosity as she assessed Phil Coulson. His tailored suit and composed demeanor didn’t exactly scream “local cameraman.” If anything, he appeared more suited for a high-level government meeting than standing at the gates of Camelot.
"You don’t seem like the usual type for this gig,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Not that I’m complaining."
Coulson offered a small, disarming smile. “Let’s just say I’m here to ensure everything runs smoothly. Camelot has... certain expectations, and the government prefers to have someone on-site to handle any unexpected situations."
"Great,” Amy replied, sarcasm creeping into her voice. “So, you’re a babysitter?"
"Don’t worry about me. Once we’re in there, we’ll play by their rules, and honestly, I’m quite excited myself."
Coulson spoke sincerely; reports from previous visits had been clear. Inside, they operated under different rules, and the government held little sway—at least not without some hesitation to challenge them.
Amy, being perceptive, gathered a few clues from his response. "So, not this government?"
"An American one, like yourself," Coulson clarified. “But please, don’t mind me. I’m just here to observe and hold your camera."
Amy raised an eyebrow at his clarification. “An American government handler playing cameraman? That’s... comforting,” she said, blending curiosity with skepticism.
Coulson smiled as he led the way, his paperwork quickly facilitating access to the city gates.
"Wow, they’re massive," Amy remarked, feeling dwarfed as they approached. The gates loomed larger in person than any images had shown.
"They must be incredibly heavy," Coulson noted, equally impressed.
“Well, don’t just stand there; get the camera out! We need to capture all of this!" Amy exclaimed, momentarily forgetting Coulson's true identity as she got caught up in the excitement.
Coulson chuckled, shaking his head as he retrieved the camera from his equipment bag. “Yes, ma’am. Looks like I’m earning my paycheck today."
Amy barely acknowledged his comment, her focus entirely on the colossal gates above them. As they began to swing open smoothly, it was as though they were weightless. Inside, they were met with three knights.
Two of them donned helmets and wore blue and silver armor, armed with halberds. The third knight, without a helm, had short purple hair and wore matching purple armor.
"Visitors to Camelot,” the unhelmed knight spoke, his voice firm yet inviting, exuding natural authority. “You are entering a city of honor, tradition, and law. Follow these principles, and you’ll have safe passage."
Amy exchanged a quick glance with Coulson, her heart racing with a blend of excitement and nerves. Coulson nodded slightly and stepped forward with his characteristic calm.
"Phil Coulson,” he introduced, handing over their papers. “Cameraman for today’s visit. This is Amy Hardy, a journalist."
The knights barely glanced at the papers; instead, they seemed more intrigued by the equipment they carried. "I am Lancelot, here to guide you today," the unhelmed knight introduced himself.
A spark of recognition lit up Amy’s face. Lancelot—the legendary knight of Camelot—stood before her in the flesh, or rather, in his gleaming purple armor. For a brief moment, she forgot to breathe, overwhelmed by the moment.
“Lancelot,” she repeated, nearly in awe. Quickly regaining her composure, she flashed her most professional smile. “Thank you for agreeing to guide us."
Lancelot’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “No need for thanks... I simply wanted to meet outsiders for once."
His tone was somewhat reserved, leaving Amy uncertain about how to respond. Growing up hearing tales of Lancelot, she was now face-to-face with the legend.
"Honestly, Sir Lancelot, I’m a bit nervous meeting you… I grew up hearing stories about you," she admitted, embarrassed yet exhilarated.
Lancelot’s expression softened slightly, although his tone remained measured. “Stories,” he echoed, contemplating the word. “I wonder how the world remembers us after all this time. Tales often twist truth into myth."
Amy nodded eagerly, gripping her camera tighter. “I suppose they do. But if you don’t mind, I’d love to hear your take on it. What’s true and what’s not—straight from you.”
Lancelot hesitated before responding. “Perhaps you can share those stories with me; I’m curious about how history has depicted my life. In exchange, I can tell you if they’re accurate or not.”
Amy’s eyes widened at this surprising offer, her previous nerves slipping away. “You... you want me to share the stories? Like the ones I grew up hearing?”
Lancelot nodded, calm yet genuinely interested. “I know little of the world’s memories beyond these walls. If I'm to guide you, we should exchange tales—your version of history and mine.”
Amy paused, her heart racing at the thought of interviewing Sir Lancelot himself! She had gained access, but everything beyond that was uncertain. Fears about not being able to converse with anyone faded.
“Alright,” she said, taking a steadying breath.
“Where should I begin? The affair with Queen Guinevere? Your duel with Sir Gawain? Or perhaps... the quest for the Grail?”
Instantly, she regretted her words, covering her mouth. To her, those stories were simply tales, but they were also tragic from another vantage, not exactly points of pride. Bringing up his affair—especially to his face—was a bold move.
Lancelot’s expression remained neutral, but a fleeting shadow crossed his features, his gaze calm yet distant as he regarded her. “Ah,” he said softly, melancholy in his voice. “Those are the lingering tales, then? Of betrayal and folly.”
Amy lowered her hand, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to—”
Lancelot raised a hand gently to stop her. “No need to apologize. The world remembers what it chooses. You’re not the first to speak of such matters.”
Amy nodded, her cheeks reddening. “Still, I meant no disrespect. It’s just… what we were told, you know? Stories passed through the generations. I didn’t think—”
He offered her a faint smile, but there was sadness in his eyes. “No, I deserve to be remembered for my sins.”
Lancelot’s slight smile remained but was tinged with sorrow. “A man’s legacy is rarely his to mold. Mine was shaped by fire and folly, as much as by valor and loyalty.”
Amy hesitated, debating whether to question further or let it go. “But don’t you think there’s more to you than that? The stories talk of your courage, your strength, and loyalty to King Arthur.”
He shook his head, gazing into the distance as though peering back through time. “Those accolades matter little when I’ve betrayed everything I stood for—my king and my fellow knights. Truthfully, I am unworthy of this place, and yet the King’s mercy knows no bounds.”
Lancelot’s voice lowered, the weight of his words palpable in the quiet space. “Being here, walking these halls again, isn’t evidence of my merit, but proof of the King’s forgiveness. His majesty’s grace is unparalleled. I bear that weight daily.”
Amy was at a loss for words. She had anticipated the legendary knight to be proud or even boastful of his exploits. Instead, he appeared before her as a man profoundly aware of his imperfections, humbled by the grace shown to him.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” she said gently. “Everyone has their imperfections and makes mistakes. But your stories—your bravery—serve as an inspiration to people. You inspire them."
“Yet some flaws outweigh others," he replied, and an uncomfortable silence enveloped the small gathering.
Coulson, holding the camera, decided to steer the conversation in a new direction. “Speaking of stories, I’m a big fan of those featuring Sir Percy of Scandia. Are they real?"
Lancelot’s serious expression shifted slightly at Coulson’s inquiry, a glimmer of curiosity in his demeanor. “Sir Percy of Scandia,” he echoed, as if testing the name. "That is an unfamiliar name to me. What deeds are credited to this knight?"
Coulson adjusted his grip on the camera, engaging in the conversation with a deliberate tone. “He’s often referred to as the Black Knight—a heroic figure who wielded the Ebony Blade, a weapon believed to be on par with Excalibur itself."
Lancelot’s brow furrowed. “No sword can compare to the King’s. That holy sword is peerless; even my own blade pales in comparison."
Coulson nodded, undeterred. “The Ebony Blade is said to possess immense power, but it comes with a curse. Its bearer risks succumbing to darkness if their heart isn’t strong enough to withstand its temptation."
Lancelot’s expression grew somber upon hearing about the curse. “A blade meant to corrupt its wielder is not a weapon of honor. It is a snare, set to trap those who pursue power without grasping the consequences. Such a thing has no place in Camelot."
Amy tilted her head. “But the legends clearly depict Sir Percy as an Arthurian knight, one of the strongest and most loyal; he is even credited with defeating Mordred the traitor."
Lancelot’s eyes narrowed, his expression sharpening with a blend of skepticism and curiosity. "Defeating Mordred?” he repeated in a low voice.
“The tales you refer to seem to contradict the truths of this realm. Mordred was vanquished by the King himself, though not without a price. These accounts... they warp our historical reality."
Both Amy and Coulson exchanged glances. Even for radically different reasons, they were both well-versed in Arthurian legends, which prominently featured Sir Percy and the Black Knight.
It felt nearly impossible that those stories weren’t true, yet Lancelot didn’t appear to be lying.
So, the question lingered—what was amiss?
Amy broke the silence, her voice cautious yet contemplative. “But these stories… they’re so deeply rooted. If they’re not true, then where did they originate? How could something as detailed as the Ebony Blade and Sir Percy’s legacy just… materialize out of thin air?"
Coulson nodded, his expression inscrutable. "I agree. These aren’t just obscure myths; they’re essential parts of the Arthurian legend as we perceive it. If Camelot doesn’t acknowledge Sir Percy or the Ebony Blade, then either these tales were concocted after Camelot vanished... or something has been intentionally concealed."
Lancelot’s gaze shifted toward the distant towers of the city, his expression unreadable. “I am unaware of what transpired after our time, but no such Knight ever sat at the Round Table."
“What about the Ebony Blade?" Coulson queried. “A black blade equal to Excalibur? Have you ever encountered anything like it?"
Lancelot’s gaze sharpened, his tone resolute. “There are no swords that match Excalibur, not even its sister sword, Excalibur Galatine. They are not akin to the sun and moon, but rather sun and firefly."
Thanks to SHIELD files, Coulson understood much more than the general public, leaving him increasingly astounded. Finally, he slung the camera onto his shoulder and reached into his bag.
“I have some texts on Sir Percy and the Ebony Blade here; perhaps you can review them later," he said, handing over a folder.
Lancelot accepted the folder with a measured nod before passing it to one of the enforcement knights. "Deliver this to Agravain."
The knight nodded and walked away. “Alright, I believe that concludes our discussion on this topic. Clearly, I can’t address that question myself.”
Lancelot’s tone was decisive, signaling a shift in the conversation. Amy met Coulson's gaze, realizing that they wouldn’t be addressing the issue further at this moment. She tightened her grip on her bag, her mind racing with the implications of their recent discussion.
“That’s fair,” Amy replied, her tone light as she sought to progress the conversation. “It’s amazing we’re discussing this. Sharing stories of Camelot’s legends with someone who has truly experienced them.”
Lancelot’s expression softened slightly. “We’ve both uncovered something new today—me, about you, and you, about the fact that he wasn’t a true knight in service of the king.”
Amy nodded, realizing that Lancelot was not inclined to dwell on idealized notions or romantic interpretations of Camelot’s history. She shifted her bag and kept her tone casual, aiming to redirect the discussion. “What’s daily life like here now? I imagine so much has changed since... well, your era.”
Lancelot looked at her, his expression cautious yet thoughtful. “Not much has changed here, except for the absence of people. Outside, the world has certainly evolved, but in here? Things remain the same... or nearly so; the king has matured.”
Amy tilted her head, intrigued by his wording. “Matured? How so?”
Lancelot paused, his gaze drifting. “The king was overly kind, too selfless, which led us all to betray him. Now, he comprehends the complexities of the human heart much better.”
Coulson adjusted the camera, his professional demeanor concealing his intrigue. “And what of the rest of you? How do the knights adapt to... well, waiting? To this new age?”
Lancelot’s jaw tightened slightly. “Knights aren’t meant for idleness, yet that’s our current role—waiting and preparing. It brings challenges.”
Amy stepped a bit closer, her tone soft. “That must be tough. Being here with so much to reflect upon.”
“It’s not time that is the enemy,” Lancelot responded, melancholy coloring his voice. “It’s the burden of the past. Memories can weigh as heavily as they comfort.”
Amy hesitated, wanting to change the subject to something lighter. “What about training? I assume you keep your skills sharp. Are there still tournaments or sparring matches?”
Lancelot managed a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We still train. A knight's discipline must never be overlooked. Sparring matches occur, but they lack the joy they once possessed.”
Amy nodded, sensing that Lancelot’s responses were as much about maintaining a facade as they were conveying the truth. “Could we visit the training grounds? Perhaps watch a match?”
Lancelot considered them both before shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s wise; you might get hurt. People today are much more fragile than in the past.”
Amy raised an eyebrow, defiance flickering in her voice. “Fragile? Surely people today are healthier than before, with their access to food and resources.”
“It’s more complex than that. Britain was different then; it had something that it lacks today,” Lancelot stated succinctly.
Amy exchanged a look with Coulson, an unspoken question lingering between them. Noticing Lancelot’s change in mood, she chose not to push further and allowed the silence to settle.
Coulson adjusted the camera on his shoulder, lightening the mood with a casual remark. “I assume there’s still much to see. Where to next?”
Lancelot gave them a brief glance, his gaze softening slightly. “Follow me. There are still parts of the city that may interest you.”
Amy nodded, readjusting her bag as she fell into step next to Coulson, the weight of Lancelot’s words lingering in her thoughts.
The remainder of the tour was much more relaxed as they visited various parts of the city, all captured on film. Lancelot answered their questions along the way.
