Knights Apocalyptica

Garin was beneath the earth again. So, this time, it wasn’t a complete shock and not a horrifying burial. This time, he didn’t feel the earth pressing into him like that awful peyote trip.

So the sensation wasn’t unfamiliar, not to someone who grew up underground. Garin awoke to find himself in caves, like the Kingdom’s, but not quite. Having spent his whole life in caves like these, it was quite eerie not to have the signature LED lights lining the walls—or any artificial source. And the walls themselves were different too—chalky. By no means was he an expert in stone and the Kingdom. Some men and women could rattle off all the other minerals in even the deepest expeditions, and rocks besides that could only be samples outside of the Kingdom.

Yet, Garin knew these stones didn’t belong to the kingdom.

Being trapped underground, without a light, in a strange cave he knew wasn’t his home but felt familiar enough was unnerving. Moreso, given that he had no idea how he’d gotten here in the first place.

“How did I get here?” Magic, probably.

Very shortly, he had another realization.

“I’m alone.”

No Erec prowling around, whose Strength was a welcome blanket of security. No Colin snorting and complaining. No Olivia, to comfort him and tell him things would be alright.

Just him, trapped underground in a place that might be his tomb.

The words sounded hollow as they echoed off countless walls and tunnels he couldn’t see, where no one might hear him. That realization twisted inside him, somehow even more frightening than the idea he was lost here without food, and if he couldn’t find his way out, he was likely to die.

No, what sunk into him was that he was in the shadows without anyone else.

He thought of his friends, then strode forward, passing through the shade and emptiness countless times. Garin ran his hand along the chalky wall, always walking forward, step by step, moving through this lonesome eternity.

Had he died? Was this all there was to an afterlife?

As the minutes ticked by, the idea of finding an escape and getting to his friends seemed further away.

Garin persisted.

Countless hours passed, in a place like this, time had no meaning.

Garin stopped walking, folding himself against a stone wall, feeling the chalky stone rub the back of his neck, but it didn’t matter.

He covered his head, tears welling as he tried to convince himself to stand back up, to keep going. Sitting here crying wasn’t going to save him, and the only way to get out was to move ever forward. That, above all, was the only chance of being free.

Yet doing that was next to pointless, right? What if he was going deeper—could he use magic? Maybe that…

Garin perked up, raising a hand and focusing. A red line appeared before him, barely cutting through the ever-consuming darkness. All he needed was to call a spark of fire. It was an easy survival spell—one of the few that Dame Juliana taught her Wilderness Survival class and drilled into them—and a simple one with such utility.

With it, you could light a fire or hold the spark in your hand as a light. At the time, he didn’t appreciate the versatility and was never interested in learning magic. It seemed almost ridiculous that he might find himself relying on Mysticism for a simple spark for a fire.

The expedition had cured him of that dumb assumption. Right now, there was an even more perfect application for the spell.

To Garin’s relief, the line of red spread, further spiraling in a proper glyph. As it grew, he felt heat with his fingertips. It would work; he would have light, then—

The glyph vanished. Plunging him into pure darkness.

Confused, Garin tried again.

Once more, failure.

Again.

Same result.

Only then did Garin give up, feeling sorrow in earnest as he felt his magic blocked. Something about this place was snuffing out the spell before it began, and he didn’t know enough about Mysticism to counteract it.

Alone, in the dark, was his death.

Time passed as Garin let himself sink into the pain of hopelessness. It was pathetic to give up like this, not even to find the strength to keep going. Erec certainly would have kept moving until his last breath—Colin would have devised some plan and tried it. He had no clue whether or not either would have escaped, but they would have tried in their way.

He though—as the sorrow and loneliness struck him, knowing he would never see either of them again, nor Olivia… It was too much. He couldn’t even stand back up.

His chest began to ache as if his heart was intent on leaping out of his body.

Panic.

That’s what it was. When your panic grew big enough, they said you might not even be able to breathe. But this feeling in his chest had an odd quality to it. Otherworldly, unlike the rush and numbness he’d heard about. His breath wasn’t growing sorrow, and he could still breathe. Yet that could have been him simply accepting the inevitable, the peace before death reached him.

Garin tried to stand once more but couldn’t.

I’m… Useless.

Olivia—what would she think? What would his friends think?

Poor Munchy would probably starve to death; he’d given the little guy too many ‘special foods’ that the damn squirrel now refused to eat typical squirrel food. He’d never get to see those plump cheeks again.

Munchy.

His heart jolted, and the feeling in his chest radiated as something caught hold and ripped at it. It was as if a chain were anchored to his chest, and someone had just given it a firm, powerful yank.

Garin gasped as a silver ghost leaped straight out of his chest. The see-through form of a fat squirrel landed in front of him, surrounded by a bright blue glow. Munchy—no doubt now it was Munchy—circled in front of Garin before sitting down and tilting his head as it looked at him. The stocky creature’s cheeks puffed in and out as it took him in.

Garin wiped at the tears in the corner of his eyes.

Why play underground? Munchy seemed to say, head tilted. The voice came through Garin’s mind, each word squeaky and leaving a headache in their wake.

“M-munchy?”

No food here.

“Y-you can talk?”

More important. Pumpkin Pastry. Where is?

“Munchy!” Garin exclaimed.

Quiet. Food important. Stop talk. Munchy stomped a little foot on the ground and stared his human down. His cheeks puffed, and the light streaming off him only increased in intensity. Garin withdrew, almost having leaped at the squirrel to hold the little guy.

The shock of the talking and the squirrel ran its course and let him take a step back; the light Munchy brought with him was confusing but brought comfort. Sure, they were still trapped deep in a mysterious cave. But now, he had a companion. Someone to be with if this was to be the end. Though, Munchy never had… Communicated. At all. Not with a voice; sometimes, Garin would get little ideas and feelings of what the squirrel wanted. More than other animals, he used his talent on them.

Here now, it was crystal clear. Every little twitch of the chubby squirrel was understood as Munchy stared at him. The little guy wanted his breakfast, and it made sense in a way that he’d never truly felt before.

“There isn’t food here; I don’t even know where here is.” Garin tried to explain to the hungry squirrel. Thanks to light, he could see several different twisting pathways through these tunnels, any of which might lead them deeper or to the surface.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Garin focused, trying to feel any drifting air, but there was no cold or current wind to show a way out. Dame Juliana had given them tools to track their progress through a cave to ensure they didn’t get lost, along with instructions that they should never crawl into too tight of a space, lest they get trapped and die without help.

Go figure. With her limited time, she didn’t choose to cover this very niche and the unlikely possibility of them being abducted without warning and thrown into a cave alone.

No food? Wrong. Munchy stopped standing, stared Garin down, ran a circle, and then sat down. Where we?

“No idea, little buddy. We need to get out of here, back to our friends—then I’ll have food for you.”

Garin need help? Munchy’s squeaky voice asked.

“We need help.” Garin corrected and gestured towards the many openings spread out before them. “Which way is out.”

I lead to food. Trust?

“Trust? Munchy, what do you mean?”

Trust?

With this, Munchy stood like a human and puffed both chest and cheeks; his little pot belly hung in full glory as he stared at his master.

Behind those glossy eyes, Garin saw a level of intelligence for the first time and thought he hadn’t thought the little troublemaker capable of. Sure, Munchy had always been more intelligent than other squirrels, no matter what Colin said. But right now, for the first time, Garin realized just to what extent that squirrel was intelligent.

Munchy truly believed he could get them out.

Did he trust him?

“I do,” Garin answered, and once more, he felt a yank in his chest.

Something tore free—a spiral of light shot into Munchy, swirling around him and heightening the silver glow. Munchy grew, his size increasing as the light swirled quicker, turning into a dazzling display of energy; for a second, Garin thought he saw a smile on the squirrel’s face before the light slammed into Munchy’s chest.

The blow didn’t seem to hurt the little creature; it only grew brighter as it launched towards Garin, scampering up his leg to his chest, where Munchy pushed his head against Garin’s heart.

The piece that was missing a moment before returned and changed, leaving Garin feeling more complete.

Munchy leaped off him. And Garin felt as if a tiny thread still connected him, immutable and robust as their connection solidified. As he focused, he could’ve sworn he felt what the squirrel felt—including a rumble in his stomach from hunger and the strong desire to eat a pumpkin pastry… And the floor. There was a slight glow on the cavern ground, invisible before, but now, he saw it.

A pathway.

Without an explanation, Munchy began to run after the path they both saw—it was the way out, after all.

Together, they could escape.

And after they did, he owed the chubby squirrel many treats.

— - ☢ - — - ☼ - — - ☢ - —

Erec expected to find himself in a burning hell after falling under the effects of Morgana’s spell. It was only natural. Wasn’t the inferno his home by now? As he felt the scorching tea go down his throat, his soul responded and flared as a reaction; he knew where he was headed. Burning, fire, and rage… That was the shape of his soul. It was who he was. Unlike the other two, who hadn’t yet grasped the nature of the Soul Virtue—that it reflected the nature of themselves. Not him, though. Erec understood and accepted who and what he was and knew deep down the destiny in which that fiery path would lead him.

When he awoke, he was surprised that he was not in a burning hell.

There were no sulfurous pits, no raging tornadoes made of fire.

No, he was seated and reclined in a comfortable chair in a cozy yet war-posed room lush with weaponry, maps, and glorious decor—Most prominent in front of him was a massive round table whose top was cluttered with so many things. Books, maces, a skull… The windows let in a soft breeze, and with it also came the delicate song of a bird. A… Chough? The name came to Erec, along with an image of a red-beaked bird he’d never seen before yet now recognized.

He focused and took in the weapons again; they were made of mysterious silver, not far from the axe he could conjure. And as a warrior, he knew them to hold a quality the best smiths in the Kingdom would struggle to reach.

Again, his eyes were drawn to the round table and the chairs around it. Each seat had a throne decorated for the owning Knight to suit them. His chair had notches in the old oak wood as if hit with a weapon. Its cushion was bare—yet none of this made it less comfortable. Each blemish, scratch, and notch enhanced it and made it feel right. This was a warrior’s chair, fit for one such as he who was drawn to the love of battle.

The rest of the thrones around the table ranged wide in design. From decorative seating made of pure gold to a simple stool that he’d expect to find in a poor common folk’s kitchen—very far from him was a chair that seemed alive, vines growing off it, and whose legs seemed to be made of a living plant. Each brought with them a sense of comfort and longing.

Because these chairs were empty, they should be filled. This whole table should have a Knight for every seat; only, right now, he was alone.

“Thou art not alone,” A voice echoed.

Erec’s head whipped around to behind—a Knight sat on a window sill, his long, fair red hair drifting in the breeze; he held an easy smile… And Erec was flabbergasted that this man was almost like looking in a mirror; only the difference in the set of their eyes, jaw, and the man’s much paler skin marked him as different.

“Tis us who sit at our throne near the round table, true? Our mantle is claimed, as is the Kings. Though that one tis, not the Arthur we hold dear.”

“You,” Erec said. There was a tie between them. He felt it and knew it to be accurate; they shared a soul, and their link was almost physical. They were the same person.

With a broader smile, the features of the fair Knight shifted—going from similar to the same as his own in a second—then, it returned; he had the fair face of a man born into high nobility, his teeth a perfect white and a smile filled with both joy and madness.

“Aye, we are the same. Wielders of this mantle. Thou are born to wield our title and hold our axe, so the mantle has passed. Yet I ask, why shy away from your birthright? Tis it not a power sorely needed in your realm? Do you not seek glory to bring to the round table? We must, of course, confront the mantle of King Arthur to free the throne for one more worthy.”

The words spoken made sense, though they shouldn’t. They brought memories of a time before him, of the perfect world. One was filled with honor and trueness, of which he only touched a part.

Yes, he had been this man. Erec, son of Lac, and this table was a familiar home.

His eyes drifted to the simplest chair of all. The stool is so ordinary you might find it in any peasant's kitchen. A simple sword sheathe rested against it; this chair was the most deceptive of the lot, as was the sheathe made of cheap brown leather. For he knew it contained a sword without equal. This sheathe was Excaliburs’ home; this chair was that of a King of Kings. It belonged to the greatest of their number.

“Arthur,” Erec repeated, the word like lead on his tongue; it held a real weight to it.

“Yes, Arthur. The greatest and most noble among us, yet now, it is a mantle wielded in the name of the former and not the latter. To wield Excalibur and seek only greatness is a sorrow indeed, depriving reality of the full glory of the King. All in the name of waging endless war and reveling in the sensation of pure might. May I ask thou a question, fair noble Erec?”

“I don’t know that I can answer. I’m only… I’m struggling to understand all of this,” Erec motioned at the round table, feeling it thrum with glory deep into his soul, “You know more than anything I might say.”

“Worry not. You will consider the answer: thou who shies away from your mantle. Imagine us, fearing power,” For a second, the Knight paused and chuckled, almost like he was laughing at the antics of a child.

Erec firmed his spine and shot a disapproving frown at the Knight.

“No need to do that—here, let us go to the question, then I’ll provide further to understand: Fair knight, does might make right?”

Does might make right?

No. Of course, it didn’t.

Then again, didn’t he use his might to make right?

Erec thought of all the times he’d charged into battle, tapped into his soul, and called upon this place and this power… Even now, he could see the silver flames, those fires that were his; this was their home, where they spawned from. That might, that power, that mantle which he’d used to make right time and time again. To save, defeat, and put the world in a place where it might find peace.

It can. Erec circled that answer, wishing to deny it, yet he proved himself that it could. In some cases, one might need to fix something wrong.

Had might not overcome the Stag, how many would have suffered?

Had his might not put Dan to rest, would MOLLY not have put the remains of the poor man through an everlasting living hell?

Might had made right.

The Knight smiled wide at him as he saw Erec thinking, unable to answer his response.

“Worry not, young Knight, tis a question we must always contend with. As we do very much, hold much of might.” The other version of Erec’s nodded toward the King’s chair, “Yet, tis not all of it. None are as mighty as Arthur, as much as wish otherwise, tis the truth of the matter, for being the greatest is his mantle… If you accept this quest, there tis one thing you must keep deep in mind. It is not one we shall conquer alone. Putting that mantle back into rightful hands will take much of the table. And if the glory and peace of Camelot is to rise once more, so too must this round table have more of the mantles which doth belong here. That of birthright gives some; other mantles must be earned.”

The Knight stretched out his hand, and the silver axe burned into life—their axe. The same Erec conjured before—even now, he saw the same engravings along its living silver. Himself chasing a stag. He, hand in hand with a woman… More… Even as he stared at what came after, the images refused to latch into his mind, slipping away even as he saw them.

“If thou are to find others to sit here and share the glory of this table, you must not fear thy mantle. Does might make right? Thou must decide, but mistake not, might is within our mantle.”

With that, the Knight jumped, clearing Erec’s head; he whipped the axe back and crashed it into the table before them. A wave of fire spewed outward, flooding everything in a silver inferno.

But it didn’t burn. The waves of silver heat were soothing, welcoming, and comforting. It whispered to him. Might was his to wield. His to have. But, he could not shy from the axe; he had to embrace the flames, the inferno, with eyes wide and a heart open and willing.

What was he, if not Erec, son of Lac, Knight of the Round Table?

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