The Questing Beast

by Erisian

All who have ears to hear know the tales of the great King Arthur and his knights, their stories filling hearts with enchantments and glamours while leading many to again hope for the return of justice and the true faith of men.

But few know the story of Sir Leif and the Questing Beast, of how he met his end and also his beginning.

His tale starts not with his childhood as the only surviving child of his father and mother’s lineage, training diligently every dawn until sunset in the ways of knighthood as befit the son of a duke who had bravely died in service to his king. Nor does it commence with his many victories at Arthur’s side - though his sword was indeed mighty, for countless foes fell to its sharp blade as wielded by an arm stouter than oak.

It begins instead around a campfire.

They had set up by a stream whose trickling waters were a delight for their horses. Surrounded by the green and brown of ash, pine, and oak, the fire crackled merrily as it sent wisps of smoke towards stars slowly appearing above as night’s embrace swallowed the sky. Freshly hunted small boar dripped fat from its spit into the flames, casting forth the pleasant aroma which awakens men’s stomachs.

After adjusting the spit so the meat would cook more evenly, Sir Pellinore tugged at his expansive white beard and pondered the knight who had come to share his fire.

“We have wine,” he said, his warm baritone filling the clearing where two tents, one larger than the other, had been erected. “A man can only drink so much water before feeling weak, but casks of ale are tricky to bring on the hunt.”

The knight sitting opposite, a larger man than even his host, shook his head without reply. His own face was clean-shaven behind the long blonde strands that dangled to his shoulders, with many scars across brow and chin.

A youth whose own cheeks had only recently darkened with scruff leaned forward. Already taller than his father, the lad’s shoulders had yet to fill the promised stature of his lineage - though their guest would tower over him were they to stand. “It would be no trouble, sir. We are at most two days from the town where we shall resupply.”

“No wine,” said the knight gruffly. Realizing he may have spoken too harshly, he added, “But I thank you.”

Pellinore shrugged. “Should you change your mind, just tell my boy. Lamorak will fetch more from the horses.”

The knight nodded. Having removed leather riding gloves to warm the fingers directly before the fire, he stared down upon callouses covering palm and grip. The hands were large and blocky, each finger thick with muscle and hair.

Deciding it had been put off long enough, Pellinore asked the question that had been on their minds since the knight had arrived with the setting sun. “So tell us, Sir Leif, what brings you out to these distant woods? Has our King sent you forth on an errand?”

Closing hands, Leif exhaled. “He has not. I wish to join your hunt.”

Father and son exchanged glances. “This quest has fallen to me and mine, Sir Leif,” said Pellinore. “All others who pursue the Beast in their hopes of glory meet instead with unfortunate ends.”

“Yet I ask to be allowed to join.”

“Spring is barely upon us; we are likely to give chase throughout the summer and into autumn. My eldest tends to my holdings along with my youngest, but are you not needed at your own home and hearth?”

“No.”

Pellinore frowned. “Last I heard, you had taken a wife. Have you no love for her to abandon her thus in times of peace and plenty?”

Piercing blue eyes flashed and met Pellinore’s. “I loved her with all my heart and more.” The knight’s voice faltered then as he tampered down the burning anger to expose instead a deeper pain. “For only she ever understood.”

“It is a rare blessing indeed for a man to marry a woman who truly understands him,” said Pellinore. “I count myself quite fortunate in that regard, and it is my dearest belief that my own beloved bride has no equal upon this earth or even in the heavens themselves.” The older knight’s eyes shone brighter than the fire as he thought of his wife, but they softened as they looked upon the other man. “Yet I sense that for you fate has not been so kind. What is it, lad? What happened?”

Leif stared then into the fire, but saw not the flames. “The Lord saw fit to take her and my son away on the day of his birth.”

While Pellinore’s face remained tender, his voice did not. “And you seek to join them? Is that your purpose here?”

Startled, the knight blinked at the older man. “No!”

Peering from above the wintry beard, Pellinore regarded the knight. “If not, then what?”

“They say,” the knight said before swallowing and clearing his throat to start again. “They say whoever successfully hunts the Beast shall be granted one wish.”

With a nod, Pellinore said, “I too have heard such tellings. But I must caution you, Sir Leif. Only our Lord and Savior holds the power to bring back those we have lost. I do not believe the Beast capable of granting such a request.”

“Yet I must try.”

Tugging again on snowy whiskers, Pellinore eventually nodded. “Aye, I suppose you must at that.”

Lamorak, having listened quietly to the exchange between his elders, startled and looked at his father in alarm. “But Father!”

“This knight follows his heart, lad. It is our duty to assist.” Putting a strong hand on his son’s shoulder, Pellinore squeezed firmly. “Sir Leif shall join the Hunt.”

Spring rain became summer heat and finally Autumn’s chill approached as the two knights and single squire crossed dense forests and grassy hills in pursuit of that which was myth and legend. Pellinore’s cheer sustained them, for each sign and report of the Beast’s path across the land buoyed him. Neither thunderstorm nor brigands of wicked and thieving men could dull his spirit. And after witnessing the ferocity of Sir Leif’s use of his sword - for he singlehandedly had charged a group of no less then thirteen men who had dared accost them - Pellinore had set his son to train with their guest such that by Summer’s end Lamorak’s shoulders indeed had fulfilled their promise.

A truth also marked by the thicker brown more thoroughly covering the young man’s face.

To Lamorak’s surprise the gruff knight was kind in his lessons, never shouting and, unlike Pellinore’s rougher instruction, Sir Leif never lost patience. Indeed all sustained bruises were accidental instead of deliberate reminders of failure. Sword, spear, and bow - Sir Leif proved to be a master of them all, giving endless guidance on their use and, equally important, their care.

All of which only increased the knot of worry in Lamorak’s stomach regarding the outcome of their Quest.

Thus it was on a night when tendrils of fog swept low between the many trees and the moon lit full yet distant above that Pellinore woke his companions from their slumbers.

“Arise, lads,” he said with hushed yet fervent joy. “For tonight the old magic flows free. Tonight the path of the Beast shall be revealed true.”

Donning boots and leathers, with bows and hunting knives the trio stepped into the mist swiftly covering all. To Sir Leif it was like stepping into a dream.

For perhaps he had.

All sounds were muted in the forest that night, moonlight lending its glow atop the wisps of clouds hovering over the bending roots and damp earth. No crickets chirped, no frogs croaked, all was still. So quiet was the air that his own breathing deafened his ears, and the pulse of his heart was as the beat of distant drums.

Ahead through a thicket, as if a trick of the mist something moved with its own luminescence - a shape between branch and leaf trailed further on and spellbound he followed. The gentle rhythm of water’s flow rose to meet him as he approached, the steady trickle of a stream reaching a lake - though the maps they had consulted had no markings of such. But there it was, the mist pulling back to reveal a rocky shore.

And upon that shore stood the Beast.

Whiter than snow and with a form like unto a doe but taller than any he had ever witnessed, its nose dipped to the water’s edge. As it drank the lake’s gift, the moonlight upon the waters swirled within its form to dance as pale will-o-wisps through the pale fur and down slender legs into hooves glowing as miniature crescent moons all their own.

Never had he beheld such beauty. Never had he beheld such grace.

With a lump in his throat, he raised the yew bow and slowly, ever so slowly, slotted an arrow.

He thought of his beloved wife’s gentle smile and tenderness, holding him close as the sorrows of battle remembered had filled his eyes with tears unshed.

Sighting along the shaft, the vision before him flickered with visions past. Her laughter, her joy, her kisses upon hands large and ugly, her softness against blade-wielding hardness. Her seamless dancing below sunsets fair while he, a lumbering ogre, struggled to avoid stomping upon her slender toes. Fiery hair like the burning dawn sweeping across a chest built only to don rough leather and armored steel, form and muscle only for giving death and not life.

Most of all, her knowing the truth hidden within his heart without him ever needing to say - and cherishing it as a sacred treasure instead of the curse he’d always believed it to be.

He had held them both, there at the end. With strong sinew and bone trained and capable of crushing the mightiest of enemies, the oversized flesh had been unable to keep them safe, helpless to keep them near.

The Beast’s eyes, twin stars within orbs of night, met his from across the steel-pointed shaft aimed for its heart.

How long they stood there, hunter and hunted, past and present, he knew not. But with a strangled cry he lowered the bow, the arrow still held firm against the long string.

From behind someone cleared their throat.

Startled, the knight spun to see his companions only a few yards away. Lamorak, bow also taking aim, stood beside his father. Pellinore’s beard split with a smile, and he pushed his son’s weapon down to point at the dirt. Only then did Leif realize it was not at the Beast the young man had aimed.

The arrow had been pointed directly at the knight himself.

“Go to her, lad.” Pellinore nodded towards the shore. “Go on.”

Understanding without understanding, the knight’s bow dropped from his fingers. As he walked closer to the white-clad myth before him, he unbuckled his belt to let it and the knife it held also fall to the dirt. Gloves followed, and without thought that soft fur - silkier and smoother than anything ever known - slid past his fingers as if they were clouds taken from the sky.

The ache in his heart finally flowed upon his cheeks and across old wounds which never truly healed.

Into that heart the Beast spoke her words directly.

“Sir Knight, sorrow hath I for thy pain. But alas, as you were warned I hath not the power to restore thy lost love and child. Much as I may wish it otherwise. A different boon shall be yours.”

“I desire naught else.”

“Both you and she know different. Go to the water’s edge, Sir Knight, and receive the gift offered unto you.”

The Beast stepped aside, and the knight’s feet found themselves moving forward until his boots filled with the cold water of the lake, yet his feet were not chilled.

Again the moonlight reflected on the water swirled, but now it grew brighter still. An image formed upon the surface: fiery hair and brilliant smile, tender hands holding aloft a golden chalice.

Reaching not for the cup, a massive hand plunged below the waters seeking hers. Callouses brushed soft skin, but into his fingers was pressed the metal goblet.

“Raise the cup and drink, beloved. Drink and find the dream within.”

A hand that knew only loss trembled, and love’s touch lifted it upwards.

A hand that knew only weapons raised the cup from the surface, the clear waters of the lake spilling down immaculate sides.

A hand that knew only battle lifted treasure to lips which drank deep, a chill which was also fire flooding all.

And a hand, small and slender, with newfound gentle grace returned the grail to the brilliance flaring below.

“Goodbye, my love. Live this life anew.”

She stood there upon the shore, gazing in wonder at the reflection now apparent before her: a girl on the cusp of womanhood, long blond hair and bluest of eyes staring in shock, oversized leather jerkin hanging like a tent upon a dream.

The dream she had never been able to say.

Giving her a nod, the Beast turned to gallop further into the lake. The white doe shimmered as she did, becoming a silvery salmon instead to dart with speed and splendor below the surface.

With a shout, Sir Pellinore ran towards the waters, stripping his jerkin and shirt free as he went. White beard and bare broad shoulders plunged into the lake as with a booming laugh he gave chase. The salmon paused, flipping itself in a circle, teasing as he approached before launching ahead yet again.

Lamorak stepped forward to stand beside the girl, offering a hand to help her back onto the shore for her feet had slipped out of boots now much too large.

The girl-who-was-no-longer-Leif took the hand. “Will he catch her?” Her voice was as a dove softly singing forth the dawn.

“Aye,” the young squire said with a chuckle to his newest sister. “For Mother only plays hard to get for so long.”

Together they watched the old knight swim further out into the reflection of the moon to join his own beloved and cherished bride.