After spending a week in Manchester, it was time for him to move on. While Chloe was a lovely woman, he was unable to devote himself to her; he was all but unworthy of such things.
He belonged purely to his king.
Still, he liked to consider himself a gentleman and handled Lady Chloe with great care during his stay.
Her familiarity with the city was also a great help, and he met many other locals and was able to learn all the latest rumors.
Three days into his stay there, he also found a small cult worshipping some kind of dark force.
He was no expert in such things, and had little interest in who they were involved with; he left that part of the investigation to the fine people of the Veiled Hand.
His job was just to be the sword that delivered the King's justice and uprooted evil.
And having dealt with this cult before they could cause trouble, he had little more reason to stay around.
"Are you leaving?" Chloe asked as she leaned against his back.
Lancelot nodded slightly. "Yes, I have stayed around for as long as I could, but my mission requires me to move on," he explained gently.
Chloe's arms wrapped around his bare chest. "I see," she said, her voice soft. "Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed. But I understand. Duty calls, and all that."
Despite her words, Lancelot clearly felt her trying to pull him back down into the bed with her. "Chloe," he warned.
"What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "I'm just saying goodbye." Her hands began to wander, her touch light and teasing.
Lancelot caught her wrists, his grip firm but gentle. "Chloe," he said, his voice a low, serious rumble. "We have been over this. I must go."
Chloe pouted, but her eyes held a glint of understanding. "I know, I know. I just... I'm going to miss you, you know."
"And I, you," Lancelot said, his sincerity undeniable. "But my path is not my own to choose."
Chloe sighed, a soft, wistful sound. "I get it. Bond always has a new woman in each movie; every story is beautiful, but short. Still, it has been fun, being a Bond girl to my very own handsome Bond."
She gave him a final, lingering kiss, a bittersweet farewell to a connection that was never meant to last.
As he finally left her apartment, Lancelot couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. He was a knight, sworn to a life of service, a life of sacrifice. And in that life, there was little room for personal happiness, for the simple joys of a love shared with another.
But he had made his choice. He had chosen duty over desire, loyalty over love. And he would stand by that choice, no matter the cost.
He was Sir Lancelot du Lac, the greatest knight of the Round Table, and this was the path he had chosen to walk.
------
Glastonbury.
The place had a mystical feel to it.
It was here that Joseph of Arimathea was said to have planted his staff, which bloomed into the Glastonbury Thorn.
It was here that King Arthur was said to be buried, alongside his queen, Guinevere, though Lancelot knew that to be false.
It was also said to be the mythical Isle of Avalon, a gateway to the Otherworld, a place where the veil between the mortal realm and the land of fae was thin.
Another beautiful rumor, but just as false; after all, Avalon was no mere isle, but a place no mortal could reach.
Only his king, Merlin, and the witch Morgan could reach that place.
Still, despite all that, Glastonbury was a lovely place, and more importantly, the many stories surrounding it made it a popular spot for Arthurian tourism.
After all, with the return of King Arthur himself, or herself, Arthurian mythology had taken on an entirely new life.
And with the interest in a place like Glastonbury, there was also a high chance that the kind of people he was looking for could be found here, dark cults trying to unearth secrets of King Arthur.
Or at least that was what the Veiled Hand suspected due to some intelligence they had gotten their hands on.
Knock knock.
Lancelot knocked on the door to the place he would be staying, a safehouse, one he intended to use this time, rather than some young woman's home.
"Well, well, if it isn't Double-0 Lancelot," a young woman said with a teasing grin as she opened the door.
Lancelot felt a slight heat in his cheeks at the address. "Please, my lady, there is no need for mockery; Lady Chloe was simply being dramatic," he said in a slightly pleading tone.
The woman's grin widened. "Oh, I'm sure she was. But the name stuck. You have quite the fan club back at headquarters, you know. They're all calling you 007 now."
Lancelot sighed, a deep, weary sound. "I am a knight, not a spy. I do not have a license to kill."
"I mean... yes, you do have a license to kill; you are serving as the King's enforcer right now. Heck, even I have a license to kill, so honestly, Chloe was closer to the truth than expected," she countered.
Lancelot had no argument to that, so he could only accept defeat.
"Anyway," the woman said, stepping aside to let him in. "I am your contact for this mission. My name is Rhea. Welcome to Glastonbury, 007."
The safehouse was small but well-appointed. The furniture was modern and comfortable, the kitchen was stocked with the essentials, and a large window offered a stunning view of the Glastonbury Tor, the iconic hill capped with the solitary tower of St. Michael's Church.
"It is a pleasure to be working with you, Lady Rhea," Lancelot said, his tone formal and polite, a stark contrast to Rhea's playful demeanor.
"The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure," Rhea replied, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Now, let's get down to business. We have a situation."
She led him to a large table in the center of the room, where a detailed map of Glastonbury and its surrounding areas was spread out. A series of red dots were marked on the map, each one representing a potential location of interest.
"We've been monitoring a group calling themselves the 'Children of Avalon'," Rhea began, her tone now all business. "On the surface, there isn't anything particularly wrong with the group, but if you dig deeper, well, it's not as innocent as they appear on the surface."
Lancelot studied the map, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. "They are a cult," he stated, not as a question, but as a fact.
"Only recently," Rhea corrected. "They used to be little more than fans of Arthurian mythology; they did mainly cosplay, nothing wrong, but about three months ago, things took a turn." She pulled up a few pictures on her tablet. "As you can see, their 'cosplays' became far more realistic."
Lancelot's brow furrowed as he looked at the images. The people in the pictures were dressed in crude, but recognizable, versions of knightly armor. Their faces were hidden behind full-faced helmets, their hands gloved, their bodies obscured by heavy cloaks.
But it was the symbols that caught his attention.
Faint, almost imperceptible, etched into the armor and the cloaks, were the sigils of Hell. Not the obvious, dramatic ones of the major demon lords, but subtle, lesser-known ones, associated with deceit, manipulation, and the corruption of the innocent.
"What led to this change?" Lancelot asked as he looked through the pictures, finding a few that were clearly supposed to be him, and in particular, two pictures.
One was innocent, nothing wrong, and the cosplay, while impressive, was clearly a hobby project, but the next one looked no less impressive than his own armor, just with demonic sigils.
Rhea didn't answer right away; instead, she put two pictures on the table, each showing a different man. "This," she pointed to the first, which showed a normal-looking man; if Mordred had seen him, she would have called him a nerd.
"Is the founder of the group; his name is Ethen Lance, his background is clean, and he has a massive crush on Mordred. He really likes the bad-girl vibe she has going," Rhea explained.
Then she pointed to the second picture. "This is Alistair Finch. The current leader."
Due to Chloe, Lancelot had just watched half a dozen Bond movies, and this second man, he just screamed Bond villain. "I hate to judge people based on appearance, but well..."
"He looks like a villain?" Rhea finished for him with a nod. "I agree, he has that vibe. But unlike Ethen, this man's background is far from clean; in fact, it's a black void. He just appeared one day, and that alone is suspicious enough. But to make matters worse, after he joined, the group was no longer as public."
Lancelot's fingers traced the demonic sigils on the tablet. "These are not the markings of fanatics. These are the markings of servants. This Alistair, he is a warlock?"
"A very powerful one," Rhea confirmed. "Or so we believe. He is very careful not to reveal himself, but our magical specialists have felt a certain... residue around the places he has been."
Lancelot's expression hardened. A warlock, leading a cult of deluded fools, using the legends of Camelot for his own dark purposes. The thought was an affront to everything he held dear, a desecration of the very memory of his king.
"Where can I find him?" Lancelot asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"That's the tricky part," Rhea said, her own expression grim. "He's a ghost. We've tracked him to this area, but we can't pinpoint his exact location. He moves around, never staying in one place for too long. We believe he uses a network of safehouses, hidden in plain sight."
She pointed to a cluster of red dots on the map. "These are the places we've identified as potential targets. Old churches, abandoned buildings, even a few private homes. We've been watching them, but so far, we've come up empty."
Lancelot studied the map, his mind working. He was a knight, not a spy. His methods were direct, his approach straightforward. He was used to facing his enemies on the field of battle, not playing cat and mouse in the shadows.
But he was also a master of strategy. He had commanded armies, led sieges, and outmaneuvered the most cunning of foes. He would adapt. He would find this Alistair Finch, and he would put an end to his dark machinations.
"Which of these places is most likely to be his next destination?" Lancelot asked, his finger hovering over the map.
Rhea considered the question for a moment. "The Chalice Well," she said finally, tapping a location at the foot of the Glastonbury Tor. "It's a place of great power, a site of pilgrimage for centuries. The water is said to have healing properties, and the well itself is steeped in Christian and pagan symbolism. It's the perfect place for a warlock to work his magic."
"Then that is where I will go too," Lancelot said with a firm nod.
(End of chapter)
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