Chapter 3: Once Upon A Time In Camelot
[art and story by Andy]
Scene 1: Snuggle in the Forest of What-the-Hell-Now
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that follows psychedelic music festivals, questionable brownies, and dimension-hopping tantrums.
Somewhere in a forest that smelled faintly of lavender, moss, and interdimensional whiplash, two bodies lay sprawled in a heap, one a tangle of limbs, silver hair, and bruised dignity, the other broader, furrier, and muttering curses into a patch of grass.Aiden groaned first.
“Tell me we didn’t just get portal-punched by a goddamn stoned gnome again.”
“No,” came Maika’s muffled voice from beneath him, “this time I think it was the universe itself saying ‘you’re too sexy for Woodstock, now go suffer in nature.’”
Aiden rolled off with a grunt, brushing forest debris out of his beard and somehow managing to keep a crushed daisy tucked behind his ear. “We are never letting you near glowing objects again.”
Maika sat up, slowly, with that irritatingly elegant Elven grace that made even a face full of dirt look majestic. “And you are never choosing brownies again unless you can guarantee they don’t taste like melancholy and childhood abandonment.”
“You liked that brownie.”
“I liked the top layer. The rest was despair and oregano.”
A bird chirped.
They both froze.
Because the bird… echoed. As if chirping in three different keys at once, layered over each other like a badly tuned harp.
“Oh good,” Maika deadpanned. “We’re in an enchanted forest. My favourite.”
Aiden stretched with a wince. “My favorite was the hot spring realm. Remember that? You let me braid your hair and everything.”
“You tied flowers in it and called me your ‘sultry elf twink.’ I couldn’t look the dryads in the eye for a week.”
“And yet you blushed,” Aiden smirked, tapping his temple. “I remember.”
They fell into a comfortable silence. A rare one. Around them, the forest pulsed softly, the light filtering through the trees came in faint lilac and gold hues, the kind of light that made you feel like you were halfway between a dream and a classic painting.
Maika leaned back against a mossy rock, letting out a long breath. “I think we’re safe here. For now.”
Aiden settled beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “Until a squirrel starts chanting or the rocks start giving us unsolicited life advice.”
Maika chuckled. “That would honestly be less traumatic than Grovomil popping out of a bush again.”
They sat like that for a while, letting the silence stretch. The forest had a lullaby to it, bees hummed low, not threatening, just present; soft floral scents drifted by; somewhere in the distance, something giggled, but it sounded… friendly? Probably.
Aiden eventually laid down again, arms crossed behind his head. “Come here,” he grunted.“What?”
"C’mere, Fin. Your aura’s twitchy and you’ve got that Elven gloom glow going — it’s kind of hot, actually. Lie down before I pounce."
“I am not angsty. And don’t call me Fin.”
“Mm, you literally traced sad Elvish poetry into the dirt when we landed.”
“I was composing.”
“You spelled ‘woe’ in cursive, darling — with your finger. Slowly. I nearly proposed.”
Maika huffed. But he lay down anyway, curling slightly toward Aiden’s warmth. The werewolf was annoyingly solid, the kind of heat that crept into your bones whether you asked it to or not. Maika let his fingers rest lightly against Aiden’s chest, just above his heartbeat.
Aiden gave a low, satisfied hum. “See? That’s better. Brooding looks good on you, but I prefer you like this, close enough to do this...”
Aiden leaned in and gave Maika a slow, deliberate nuzzle, brushing his nose against Maika’s temple and letting it linger just long enough to count as affection… with a side of intention.
Maika didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand curled slightly against Aiden’s chest, fingertips twitching like they wanted to grab hold of something more than warmth.
“You always this handsy after mocking someone’s emotional process?” he murmured.
Aiden chuckled against his skin. “Only when they pout like a ballad in heat.”
Maika exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re irresistible,” Aiden said smoothly. “It’s a problem.”
Maika didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go either.
They didn’t speak anymore for a while. They didn’t need to.
For the first time in what felt like days, or possibly decades, depending on how you measured portal travel, they weren’t being chased, cursed, or covered in glitter.
They were just there. Breathing. Together.
Aiden shifted slightly, enough that Maika’s hand slid more firmly against his chest. The heartbeat beneath it was steady, strong. Infuriatingly reassuring.
“Comfortable?” Aiden asked, voice low, lazy.
Maika gave a faint snort. “I’ve been more comfortable.”
“Oh?” Aiden tilted his head, just enough to nuzzle behind Maika’s pointed ear. “Because your fingers are telling a very different story.”
Maika didn’t move. “I’m monitoring your pulse.”
“Sure you are.” Aiden’s grin was audible. “And I suppose when you sighed dramatically into my neck just now, that was... respiration calibration?”
“I sighed because you talk too much.”
“And yet…” Aiden gently bumped his forehead against Maika’s. “Here you are. Curled against me like a particularly judgmental cat.”
Maika didn’t open his eyes. “Cats don’t blush.”
“You do.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“You’re imagining things,” Maika muttered.
“I’m imagining a lot of things,” Aiden murmured, his voice warm against Maika’s skin, “but right now, most of them involve not moving at all.”
For a while, neither of them did.
And the forest for once kept its secrets.
After a while, Aiden murmured, “You know… you talk in your sleep.”
Maika blinked. “What did I say?”
“‘Stop stroking my harp, you brute.’” Aiden smirked. “I was deeply offended.”
Maika flushed. “I… I was referring to actual harps.”
“Sure you were, twinkletoes.”
Maika elbowed him. Lightly. But didn’t move away. “You snore like an avalanche, by the way.”
“Sexy avalanche?”
"More like drunken boulder with a sinus problem.”
They both laughed, softly, sleepily.
Above them, the trees whispered secrets in a language neither fully understood. But for once, neither was afraid of what came next.
Not yet...
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that follows psychedelic music festivals, questionable brownies, and dimension-hopping tantrums.
Somewhere in a forest that smelled faintly of lavender, moss, and interdimensional whiplash, two bodies lay sprawled in a heap, one a tangle of limbs, silver hair, and bruised dignity, the other broader, furrier, and muttering curses into a patch of grass.Aiden groaned first.
“Tell me we didn’t just get portal-punched by a goddamn stoned gnome again.”
“No,” came Maika’s muffled voice from beneath him, “this time I think it was the universe itself saying ‘you’re too sexy for Woodstock, now go suffer in nature.’”
Aiden rolled off with a grunt, brushing forest debris out of his beard and somehow managing to keep a crushed daisy tucked behind his ear. “We are never letting you near glowing objects again.”
Maika sat up, slowly, with that irritatingly elegant Elven grace that made even a face full of dirt look majestic. “And you are never choosing brownies again unless you can guarantee they don’t taste like melancholy and childhood abandonment.”
“You liked that brownie.”
“I liked the top layer. The rest was despair and oregano.”
A bird chirped.
They both froze.
Because the bird… echoed. As if chirping in three different keys at once, layered over each other like a badly tuned harp.
“Oh good,” Maika deadpanned. “We’re in an enchanted forest. My favourite.”
Aiden stretched with a wince. “My favorite was the hot spring realm. Remember that? You let me braid your hair and everything.”
“You tied flowers in it and called me your ‘sultry elf twink.’ I couldn’t look the dryads in the eye for a week.”
“And yet you blushed,” Aiden smirked, tapping his temple. “I remember.”
They fell into a comfortable silence. A rare one. Around them, the forest pulsed softly, the light filtering through the trees came in faint lilac and gold hues, the kind of light that made you feel like you were halfway between a dream and a classic painting.
Maika leaned back against a mossy rock, letting out a long breath. “I think we’re safe here. For now.”
Aiden settled beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “Until a squirrel starts chanting or the rocks start giving us unsolicited life advice.”
Maika chuckled. “That would honestly be less traumatic than Grovomil popping out of a bush again.”
They sat like that for a while, letting the silence stretch. The forest had a lullaby to it, bees hummed low, not threatening, just present; soft floral scents drifted by; somewhere in the distance, something giggled, but it sounded… friendly? Probably.
Aiden eventually laid down again, arms crossed behind his head. “Come here,” he grunted.“What?”
"C’mere, Fin. Your aura’s twitchy and you’ve got that Elven gloom glow going — it’s kind of hot, actually. Lie down before I pounce."
“I am not angsty. And don’t call me Fin.”
“Mm, you literally traced sad Elvish poetry into the dirt when we landed.”
“I was composing.”
“You spelled ‘woe’ in cursive, darling — with your finger. Slowly. I nearly proposed.”
Maika huffed. But he lay down anyway, curling slightly toward Aiden’s warmth. The werewolf was annoyingly solid, the kind of heat that crept into your bones whether you asked it to or not. Maika let his fingers rest lightly against Aiden’s chest, just above his heartbeat.
Aiden gave a low, satisfied hum. “See? That’s better. Brooding looks good on you, but I prefer you like this, close enough to do this...”
Aiden leaned in and gave Maika a slow, deliberate nuzzle, brushing his nose against Maika’s temple and letting it linger just long enough to count as affection… with a side of intention.
Maika didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand curled slightly against Aiden’s chest, fingertips twitching like they wanted to grab hold of something more than warmth.
“You always this handsy after mocking someone’s emotional process?” he murmured.
Aiden chuckled against his skin. “Only when they pout like a ballad in heat.”
Maika exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re irresistible,” Aiden said smoothly. “It’s a problem.”
Maika didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go either.
They didn’t speak anymore for a while. They didn’t need to.
For the first time in what felt like days, or possibly decades, depending on how you measured portal travel, they weren’t being chased, cursed, or covered in glitter.
They were just there. Breathing. Together.
Aiden shifted slightly, enough that Maika’s hand slid more firmly against his chest. The heartbeat beneath it was steady, strong. Infuriatingly reassuring.
“Comfortable?” Aiden asked, voice low, lazy.
Maika gave a faint snort. “I’ve been more comfortable.”
“Oh?” Aiden tilted his head, just enough to nuzzle behind Maika’s pointed ear. “Because your fingers are telling a very different story.”
Maika didn’t move. “I’m monitoring your pulse.”
“Sure you are.” Aiden’s grin was audible. “And I suppose when you sighed dramatically into my neck just now, that was... respiration calibration?”
“I sighed because you talk too much.”
“And yet…” Aiden gently bumped his forehead against Maika’s. “Here you are. Curled against me like a particularly judgmental cat.”
Maika didn’t open his eyes. “Cats don’t blush.”
“You do.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“You’re imagining things,” Maika muttered.
“I’m imagining a lot of things,” Aiden murmured, his voice warm against Maika’s skin, “but right now, most of them involve not moving at all.”
For a while, neither of them did.
And the forest for once kept its secrets.
After a while, Aiden murmured, “You know… you talk in your sleep.”
Maika blinked. “What did I say?”
“‘Stop stroking my harp, you brute.’” Aiden smirked. “I was deeply offended.”
Maika flushed. “I… I was referring to actual harps.”
“Sure you were, twinkletoes.”
Maika elbowed him. Lightly. But didn’t move away. “You snore like an avalanche, by the way.”
“Sexy avalanche?”
"More like drunken boulder with a sinus problem.”
They both laughed, softly, sleepily.
Above them, the trees whispered secrets in a language neither fully understood. But for once, neither was afraid of what came next.
Not yet...
Scene 2: The Mushroom Oracle (a.k.a. Merlin)
The forest shifted.
Not dramatically, no flashing lights, no sudden faerie trapdoors (for once), but subtly, like the trees had whispered to each other, "They're ready," and quietly stepped aside.
A narrow path formed before Maika and Aiden, lined with mushrooms that glowed gently like low-wattage fairy lights.
“Well that’s not ominous at all,” Aiden muttered, one hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his blade.
Maika tilted his head, enchanted despite himself. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes. I feel like the mushrooms are watching me.”
“No, it’s more than that. There’s… music.”
Aiden listened.
And there it was. Somewhere ahead, faintly echoing through the trees, the unmistakable sound of a lute and... was that a kazoo?
“Either that’s an enchanted minstrel or someone’s tripping balls,” Aiden grumbled.
“Why not both?” Maika replied, stepping onto the path.
At the end of the trail stood a cottage.
But calling it a “cottage” was like calling Maika’s cheekbones “nice.”
It was a patchwork of towers, mossy thatch, and vines that twitched when you looked at them too long. Chimneys bent at impossible angles, and wind chimes made of bones tinkled in a breeze that didn’t exist.
There was a sign on the door. It read, in neat cursive:
“Please knock, but only if you bring snacks or existential questions.”
Aiden snorted. “Great. We’ve entered the domain of a whimsical lunatic.”
He knocked.
The door opened immediately with a woosh! and a puff of greenish smoke that smelled vaguely like pine, cheese, and crushed regret.
Inside stood a man, tallish, narrow, beard down to his knees and streaked with moss, eyes wild and twinkling. He wore a robe that might once have been white but now appeared to be fifty shades of "forest accident."
He also had a mushroom growing directly out of his hat.
“WELCOME!” the man cried, arms thrown wide. “Did you bring the pineapple?”
Aiden and Maika exchanged a slow glance.
“…No?” Maika said, uncertain.
The man sniffed. “Shame. Pineapple was on the prophecy bingo card. Well! Never mind! Come in! Sit! Sip something questionably legal!”
They stepped inside. The cottage interior was worse.
There were mushrooms growing out of books. The table had a tea set that seemed to be arguing with itself. A cat floated gently in the air, purring upside-down. And in the far corner, a mushroom cluster pulsed softly, whispering in Elvish, “He’s not wearing pants.”
“I am wearing pants!” the man shouted at the cluster.
He turned back to Maika and Aiden and beamed. “I am Merlin. Possibly. The mushrooms won’t confirm.”
“You’re… THE Merlin?” Maika asked, trying very hard not to inhale deeply.
“Probably. Chrono-spatial identity is so limiting.”
Maika blinked. “Right.”
Aiden leaned in to Maika’s ear. “I think the cat just winked at me.”
“Don’t engage.”
Merlin clapped his hands. “Right! I suppose you want to get home, or find your destiny, or snog dramatically in a field of roses while an orchestra explodes—”
“Can we do all three?” Aiden muttered.
“—then you must complete a Quest,” Merlin announced, sweeping a hand toward the table. A scroll unraveled itself midair and whacked Maika gently in the nose.
The scroll read:
Quest of Booty and Valor
Retrieve the Sacred Sword of Questionable Naming.. Excalibutt
Currently hoarded by a chaotic entity of gnomish persuasion (see: pain in the arse)
Beware:
-One neurotic King
-One dangerously vain Knight
-Mushrooms of minor prophecy
-Possibly a goat named Kevin
Maika blinked. “Excalibutt?”
Merlin nodded sagely. “The sword of power. Shaped like perfection. It clenches destiny.”
Aiden choked.
“Retrieve it,” Merlin said dramatically, “and you may just find your way forward. Or backward. Or into a tavern where no one questions your relationship dynamic. Either way, you’ll love it.”
“I want to go back to the ‘shaped like perfection’ bit,” Aiden said, blinking.
Maika pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll take the quest.”
“FABULOUS!” Merlin whooped, spinning in a little circle. “The forest will guide you. Probably. Kevin might too.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
Baaaah, said something outside. Very ominously
The forest shifted.
Not dramatically, no flashing lights, no sudden faerie trapdoors (for once), but subtly, like the trees had whispered to each other, "They're ready," and quietly stepped aside.
A narrow path formed before Maika and Aiden, lined with mushrooms that glowed gently like low-wattage fairy lights.
“Well that’s not ominous at all,” Aiden muttered, one hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his blade.
Maika tilted his head, enchanted despite himself. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes. I feel like the mushrooms are watching me.”
“No, it’s more than that. There’s… music.”
Aiden listened.
And there it was. Somewhere ahead, faintly echoing through the trees, the unmistakable sound of a lute and... was that a kazoo?
“Either that’s an enchanted minstrel or someone’s tripping balls,” Aiden grumbled.
“Why not both?” Maika replied, stepping onto the path.
At the end of the trail stood a cottage.
But calling it a “cottage” was like calling Maika’s cheekbones “nice.”
It was a patchwork of towers, mossy thatch, and vines that twitched when you looked at them too long. Chimneys bent at impossible angles, and wind chimes made of bones tinkled in a breeze that didn’t exist.
There was a sign on the door. It read, in neat cursive:
“Please knock, but only if you bring snacks or existential questions.”
Aiden snorted. “Great. We’ve entered the domain of a whimsical lunatic.”
He knocked.
The door opened immediately with a woosh! and a puff of greenish smoke that smelled vaguely like pine, cheese, and crushed regret.
Inside stood a man, tallish, narrow, beard down to his knees and streaked with moss, eyes wild and twinkling. He wore a robe that might once have been white but now appeared to be fifty shades of "forest accident."
He also had a mushroom growing directly out of his hat.
“WELCOME!” the man cried, arms thrown wide. “Did you bring the pineapple?”
Aiden and Maika exchanged a slow glance.
“…No?” Maika said, uncertain.
The man sniffed. “Shame. Pineapple was on the prophecy bingo card. Well! Never mind! Come in! Sit! Sip something questionably legal!”
They stepped inside. The cottage interior was worse.
There were mushrooms growing out of books. The table had a tea set that seemed to be arguing with itself. A cat floated gently in the air, purring upside-down. And in the far corner, a mushroom cluster pulsed softly, whispering in Elvish, “He’s not wearing pants.”
“I am wearing pants!” the man shouted at the cluster.
He turned back to Maika and Aiden and beamed. “I am Merlin. Possibly. The mushrooms won’t confirm.”
“You’re… THE Merlin?” Maika asked, trying very hard not to inhale deeply.
“Probably. Chrono-spatial identity is so limiting.”
Maika blinked. “Right.”
Aiden leaned in to Maika’s ear. “I think the cat just winked at me.”
“Don’t engage.”
Merlin clapped his hands. “Right! I suppose you want to get home, or find your destiny, or snog dramatically in a field of roses while an orchestra explodes—”
“Can we do all three?” Aiden muttered.
“—then you must complete a Quest,” Merlin announced, sweeping a hand toward the table. A scroll unraveled itself midair and whacked Maika gently in the nose.
The scroll read:
Quest of Booty and Valor
Retrieve the Sacred Sword of Questionable Naming.. Excalibutt
Currently hoarded by a chaotic entity of gnomish persuasion (see: pain in the arse)
Beware:
-One neurotic King
-One dangerously vain Knight
-Mushrooms of minor prophecy
-Possibly a goat named Kevin
Maika blinked. “Excalibutt?”
Merlin nodded sagely. “The sword of power. Shaped like perfection. It clenches destiny.”
Aiden choked.
“Retrieve it,” Merlin said dramatically, “and you may just find your way forward. Or backward. Or into a tavern where no one questions your relationship dynamic. Either way, you’ll love it.”
“I want to go back to the ‘shaped like perfection’ bit,” Aiden said, blinking.
Maika pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll take the quest.”
“FABULOUS!” Merlin whooped, spinning in a little circle. “The forest will guide you. Probably. Kevin might too.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
Baaaah, said something outside. Very ominously
Scene 3: Knights of the Obliviously Yearning Heart
The forest opened like a stage curtain, parting to reveal rolling green hills, flowering meadows, and one aggressively majestic castle.
It perched on a crag like it had been painted there on a dare, with banners flapping dramatically in the breeze and a moat that glistened as if lit from beneath. Somewhere, a harp began to play uninvited and suspiciously well-timed.
“Did we just walk into a stage production?” Aiden asked, tilting his head. “I feel like I’m about to be serenaded by ducks.”
Maika smiled faintly, brushing pollen off his shoulder. “It’s Camelot. Everything here is probably enchanted, overdramatic, or about to burst into song.”
A signpost stood nearby. It read:
WELCOME TO CAMELOT
Where Chivalry is Mandatory, Shirts are Optional, and Mushrooms are Not for Consumption (Merlin).
“Oh look,” Aiden said. “They know their wizard’s unhinged.”
They followed the cobbled path toward the castle gates, passing a knight doing lunges in full armor while reciting his own virtues. Nearby, a bard performed for a flock of doves who threw rose petals at themselves. And on the wall, someone had scrawled in chalk: LANCELOTHOTPANTS STRIKES AGAIN ...with little hearts drawn around the name.
Maika squinted. “Is… that graffiti in iambic pentameter?”
“Camelot’s got issues,” Aiden muttered.
Inside the castle, the grand hall gleamed. Tall windows spilled sunlight over polished stone. Tapestries lined the walls depicting glorious battles, suspiciously shirtless knights, and an occasional unicorn that looked… suggestive.
On the throne sat King Arthur, noble brow furrowed and trying to hide his short of stature , crown perched like it was trying to escape.
He scribbled furiously on a scroll while muttering, “No no no, ‘oath-bound valiant soul’ rhymes better with ‘whole,’ not ‘goal’—blast it, Lancelot, now I’ve lost the meter!”
Beside him stood Sir Lancelot, a vision of vanity in motion. His armor shimmered with polished obsession. His hair cascaded just-so across one shoulder, like it had trained at the School of Theatrical Heroism. He leaned on his sword as if posing for a statue of himself.
He glanced up at their approach and offered a dazzling, slightly-too-long smile.
“Welcome to Camelot,” he purred. “Are you two lost, in peril, or on a noble quest?”
“Option D,” Aiden replied. “Summoned by a mushroom prophet with a robe full of birds.”
“Merlin,” Arthur said, voice tight. “Of course.”
“That madman still owes me three goats and a siege plan,” Lancelot muttered.
“Didn’t he once convince you a toadstool could teach swordsmanship?” Arthur asked absently, quill pausing.
“It gave excellent footwork advice,” Lancelot said stiffly.
Maika coughed to hide a laugh. “We’ve been tasked with retrieving a lost relic of great power… though the name is regrettable.”
Arthur blinked. “You don’t mean—”
“Excalibutt,” Aiden said solemnly.
There was a silence.
Then Arthur stood up sharply. “It is not called that.”
Lancelot winced. “It’s Excalibur. Excalibur. Only Merlin insists on the other name.”
“Because it is shaped like—” Maika began.
“—Destiny,” Arthur interrupted quickly.
“Cheeks,” Aiden corrected, then added helpfully, “Very sculpted cheeks.”
Arthur blushed so hard the ends of his ears went pink.
“We don’t discuss the curvature,” he muttered.
“It’s distracting,” Lancelot mumbled under his breath.
Their eyes met.
The room held its breath. Aiden leaned toward Maika. “One of them is going to write sonnets in the other’s handwriting, I swear.”
“Three days,” Maika whispered back. “Tops. Two, if Merlin shows up and says ‘the stars have spoken, kiss already.’”
“Do you think they’ve kissed yet?”
“No, but they’ve definitely fantasized about sword polishing together.” Aiden grinned.
“We are horrible.”
“We are correct!"
Arthur recovered first. Barely. He cleared his throat and adjusted his crown, which only made it more crooked.
“The sword was lost,” he said carefully, “during the... incident with the gnome.”
“Grovomil,” Aiden and Maika growled in unison.
“You know him?” Lancelot asked, eyes wide.
“Unfortunately,” Maika said. “We’ve been hurled through time, space, and emotional trauma by him more than once.”
“He’s stolen Excalibur—sorry, Excalibutt,” Aiden said, savoring the word like a fine wine. “Merlin says it must be reclaimed.”
Arthur rubbed his temples. “And I suppose the world will end if we don’t, or worse, Camelot will be renamed after buttocks.”
“That ship’s already sailed,” Lancelot muttered.
“Very well,” Arthur said, sighing. “You may pursue the sword. But beware, Grovomil has made his lair in the Cursed Glade, where illusions dance and logic goes to die.”
Maika nodded. “Sounds like our last vacation.”
“And should you succeed,” Lancelot added, stepping forward and offering a dramatic bow, “you will be honored guests at a celebratory feast. Songs will be sung. Garlands will be thrown. There may be shirtlessness.”
“Damn right there will be,” Aiden muttered.
Maika gave a short, graceful bow. “We accept your offer. And your wardrobe choices!"
As they turned to leave, Arthur called after them. “Wait.” They paused.
Arthur glanced at Lancelot. Then away. Then back.
“Return safely,” he said at last, softer. “Camelot… could use more heroes.”
Maika smiled gently. “We’ll bring the sword.”
Aiden winked. “And maybe a mushroom or two.”
Lancelot’s armor clinked slightly as he stepped forward. “If… should you return victorious… there’s a song I’ve been composing. Perhaps the four of us might perform it. Together.”
Arthur froze. “You wrote a song? About—”
“I said nothing.” Lancelot turned sharply, cape flourishing.
Aiden leaned into Maika as they exited the hall. “They’re so doomed.”
“They’re so in love,” Maika whispered back.
The forest opened like a stage curtain, parting to reveal rolling green hills, flowering meadows, and one aggressively majestic castle.
It perched on a crag like it had been painted there on a dare, with banners flapping dramatically in the breeze and a moat that glistened as if lit from beneath. Somewhere, a harp began to play uninvited and suspiciously well-timed.
“Did we just walk into a stage production?” Aiden asked, tilting his head. “I feel like I’m about to be serenaded by ducks.”
Maika smiled faintly, brushing pollen off his shoulder. “It’s Camelot. Everything here is probably enchanted, overdramatic, or about to burst into song.”
A signpost stood nearby. It read:
WELCOME TO CAMELOT
Where Chivalry is Mandatory, Shirts are Optional, and Mushrooms are Not for Consumption (Merlin).
“Oh look,” Aiden said. “They know their wizard’s unhinged.”
They followed the cobbled path toward the castle gates, passing a knight doing lunges in full armor while reciting his own virtues. Nearby, a bard performed for a flock of doves who threw rose petals at themselves. And on the wall, someone had scrawled in chalk: LANCELOTHOTPANTS STRIKES AGAIN ...with little hearts drawn around the name.
Maika squinted. “Is… that graffiti in iambic pentameter?”
“Camelot’s got issues,” Aiden muttered.
Inside the castle, the grand hall gleamed. Tall windows spilled sunlight over polished stone. Tapestries lined the walls depicting glorious battles, suspiciously shirtless knights, and an occasional unicorn that looked… suggestive.
On the throne sat King Arthur, noble brow furrowed and trying to hide his short of stature , crown perched like it was trying to escape.
He scribbled furiously on a scroll while muttering, “No no no, ‘oath-bound valiant soul’ rhymes better with ‘whole,’ not ‘goal’—blast it, Lancelot, now I’ve lost the meter!”
Beside him stood Sir Lancelot, a vision of vanity in motion. His armor shimmered with polished obsession. His hair cascaded just-so across one shoulder, like it had trained at the School of Theatrical Heroism. He leaned on his sword as if posing for a statue of himself.
He glanced up at their approach and offered a dazzling, slightly-too-long smile.
“Welcome to Camelot,” he purred. “Are you two lost, in peril, or on a noble quest?”
“Option D,” Aiden replied. “Summoned by a mushroom prophet with a robe full of birds.”
“Merlin,” Arthur said, voice tight. “Of course.”
“That madman still owes me three goats and a siege plan,” Lancelot muttered.
“Didn’t he once convince you a toadstool could teach swordsmanship?” Arthur asked absently, quill pausing.
“It gave excellent footwork advice,” Lancelot said stiffly.
Maika coughed to hide a laugh. “We’ve been tasked with retrieving a lost relic of great power… though the name is regrettable.”
Arthur blinked. “You don’t mean—”
“Excalibutt,” Aiden said solemnly.
There was a silence.
Then Arthur stood up sharply. “It is not called that.”
Lancelot winced. “It’s Excalibur. Excalibur. Only Merlin insists on the other name.”
“Because it is shaped like—” Maika began.
“—Destiny,” Arthur interrupted quickly.
“Cheeks,” Aiden corrected, then added helpfully, “Very sculpted cheeks.”
Arthur blushed so hard the ends of his ears went pink.
“We don’t discuss the curvature,” he muttered.
“It’s distracting,” Lancelot mumbled under his breath.
Their eyes met.
The room held its breath. Aiden leaned toward Maika. “One of them is going to write sonnets in the other’s handwriting, I swear.”
“Three days,” Maika whispered back. “Tops. Two, if Merlin shows up and says ‘the stars have spoken, kiss already.’”
“Do you think they’ve kissed yet?”
“No, but they’ve definitely fantasized about sword polishing together.” Aiden grinned.
“We are horrible.”
“We are correct!"
Arthur recovered first. Barely. He cleared his throat and adjusted his crown, which only made it more crooked.
“The sword was lost,” he said carefully, “during the... incident with the gnome.”
“Grovomil,” Aiden and Maika growled in unison.
“You know him?” Lancelot asked, eyes wide.
“Unfortunately,” Maika said. “We’ve been hurled through time, space, and emotional trauma by him more than once.”
“He’s stolen Excalibur—sorry, Excalibutt,” Aiden said, savoring the word like a fine wine. “Merlin says it must be reclaimed.”
Arthur rubbed his temples. “And I suppose the world will end if we don’t, or worse, Camelot will be renamed after buttocks.”
“That ship’s already sailed,” Lancelot muttered.
“Very well,” Arthur said, sighing. “You may pursue the sword. But beware, Grovomil has made his lair in the Cursed Glade, where illusions dance and logic goes to die.”
Maika nodded. “Sounds like our last vacation.”
“And should you succeed,” Lancelot added, stepping forward and offering a dramatic bow, “you will be honored guests at a celebratory feast. Songs will be sung. Garlands will be thrown. There may be shirtlessness.”
“Damn right there will be,” Aiden muttered.
Maika gave a short, graceful bow. “We accept your offer. And your wardrobe choices!"
As they turned to leave, Arthur called after them. “Wait.” They paused.
Arthur glanced at Lancelot. Then away. Then back.
“Return safely,” he said at last, softer. “Camelot… could use more heroes.”
Maika smiled gently. “We’ll bring the sword.”
Aiden winked. “And maybe a mushroom or two.”
Lancelot’s armor clinked slightly as he stepped forward. “If… should you return victorious… there’s a song I’ve been composing. Perhaps the four of us might perform it. Together.”
Arthur froze. “You wrote a song? About—”
“I said nothing.” Lancelot turned sharply, cape flourishing.
Aiden leaned into Maika as they exited the hall. “They’re so doomed.”
“They’re so in love,” Maika whispered back.
Scene 4: The Glade of Cursed Cheeks
The Cursed Glade didn’t look cursed at first.
In fact, it looked downright cheerful, wildflowers swayed in the breeze, birds sang questionable lyrics, and sunlight filtered through the trees like it had just received a spa treatment.
Maika eyed a daisy suspiciously. “Don’t trust it. It’s too… perky.”
“Pretty sure it just winked at you,” Aiden said, drawing his sword. “Also, I’m ninety percent sure those squirrels are chanting.”
They were.
Softly. In harmony.
“Oh yes,” Maika muttered. “Definitely cursed.”
As they stepped further in, the illusion started to unravel.
The trees… pulsed. The flowers whispered. The air grew thick with magic, not the gentle, dreamy kind from their forest nap. No, this was chaotic gnome-grade nonsense magic. The sort that made your eyebrows dance and your shoelaces tie themselves to your regrets.
Aiden blinked. “Did that rock just call me a dilf?”
“Yes,” Maika said. “And honestly, I’m not arguing.”
A path of glowing mushrooms led them deeper into the grove, and there, at the center, sat a throne of twisted vines and glittering bones.
Upon it: Grovomil.
The gnome wore a robe made of mismatched fabrics and bad decisions. A crown of moss and spoons perched lopsided on his bald, tattooed head. His staff sparkled with cosmic spite. And beside him, embedded in a pedestal of obsidian and glitter, stood… Excalibutt.
It gleamed. Its hilt was carved like twin cheeks of divine symmetry, and it pulsed with a soft glow of “come hither” energy. A faint, bass-heavy hum throbbed through the air, possibly magical. Possibly disco.
Maika stared. “It’s… beautiful.”
Aiden nodded reverently. “I feel spiritually unworthy.”
Grovomil grinned. “Well well well. Look who finally figured out how to use portals without screaming.”
“Eat a mushroom, you pointy-shoed menace,” Aiden growled.
“I did this morning. It whispered state secrets and told me where you were.” Grovomil leaned forward. “You’ve come for the Butt.”
Maika stepped forward. “We’ve come for the Sword.”
Grovomil cackled. “That’s what he said.”
Aiden groaned. “You’ve gotten worse since Woodstock.”
“Lynda gave me oils,” Grovomil replied. “My chakras are open and I’m extremely powerful.”
The gnome slammed his staff down. The ground shuddered. The squirrels from earlier scurried into the glade and formed a line, now wearing tiny helmets. From the shadows, enchanted vines crept forth like snakes, twisting into spirals.
“This is your final chance,” Grovomil hissed. “Turn back, or face the consequences.”
Aiden drew his blade. “You kidnapped us, flung us through multiple realms, and interrupted a perfectly good snuggle. Consequences are due, short stack.”
“Also,” Maika added, stepping beside him, “you defaced destiny with glitter glue.”
Grovomil growled.
And then... all at once.. it exploded.
Magic screamed across the glade like an unhinged orchestra. Squirrels launched acorns the size of apples. Grovomil summoned a flaming aura of sparkles and spite. Aiden was immediately in motion, blade flashing, dodging vines with werewolf grace.
Maika spun his dagger in one hand, weaving threads of silver light with the other, forming barriers and blasts of radiant force.
“I’m going for the sword!” he shouted.
“Go!” Aiden ducked an exploding mushroom. “I’ll distract the gnome!”
Grovomil shrieked, “You’ll never touch the cheeks of fate!”
Maika sprinted. Vines lunged, he sliced them. Magic bolts shot toward him, he deflected with a spinning ward. As he reached the pedestal, Excalibutt shimmered with anticipation.
“Here we go,” Maika whispered.
He reached out...
And the sword sang.
Not metaphorically. It literally sang.
“Ooooh touch my hilt, baby—destiny calls! Take me home, sweet Elven darling…”
Maika blinked. “That’s… a Barry White voice.”
“It’s canon,” Grovomil shrieked.
Maika gritted his teeth and pulled.
Light erupted. The ground cracked. Vines screamed. Grovomil wailed. Squirrels scattered.
And the Blade of Bootyful Destiny came free in Maika’s hand.
He spun, elegant and feral, channeling magic through the blade’s thicc curves. A burst of radiant power blasted across the glade, knocking Grovomil off his throne and into a pile of singing mushrooms.
The grove fell silent.
Grovomil groaned from the ground. “Okay. That was hot.”
Maika lowered the blade, chest heaving, eyes glowing faintly from the power surge.
Aiden walked up, bleeding from a few scratches but grinning. “That sword suits you,” he said.
Maika looked at him, flushed and buzzing with power. “You mean because I wield it like a champion?”
“No,” Aiden said, stepping closer. “Because I want to grab your hilt and kiss you stupid.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
“I really do.”
They kissed — hot, intense, victorious. The sword hummed approvingly.
Somewhere behind them, Grovomil rolled over and muttered, “Gods, I hate how much chemistry they have.”
The glade rumbled.
A ripple of energy crackled through the air. A mushroom blinked. Then groaned. “It’s happening again.”
A swirl of blue and silver light began to spin behind Maika and Aiden.
“Oh no,” Aiden said. “Not again.”
Maika tightened his grip on Excalibutt. “Well, we’ve got the sword.”
“And we’ve got each other.”
“And Grovomil’s down.”
“And the sword’s humming a sexy bassline.”
They looked at the portal. Then each other.
“Shall we?” Maika asked.
Aiden held out his hand. “Always.”
They stepped through together one hand on destiny, the other on each other..
The Cursed Glade didn’t look cursed at first.
In fact, it looked downright cheerful, wildflowers swayed in the breeze, birds sang questionable lyrics, and sunlight filtered through the trees like it had just received a spa treatment.
Maika eyed a daisy suspiciously. “Don’t trust it. It’s too… perky.”
“Pretty sure it just winked at you,” Aiden said, drawing his sword. “Also, I’m ninety percent sure those squirrels are chanting.”
They were.
Softly. In harmony.
“Oh yes,” Maika muttered. “Definitely cursed.”
As they stepped further in, the illusion started to unravel.
The trees… pulsed. The flowers whispered. The air grew thick with magic, not the gentle, dreamy kind from their forest nap. No, this was chaotic gnome-grade nonsense magic. The sort that made your eyebrows dance and your shoelaces tie themselves to your regrets.
Aiden blinked. “Did that rock just call me a dilf?”
“Yes,” Maika said. “And honestly, I’m not arguing.”
A path of glowing mushrooms led them deeper into the grove, and there, at the center, sat a throne of twisted vines and glittering bones.
Upon it: Grovomil.
The gnome wore a robe made of mismatched fabrics and bad decisions. A crown of moss and spoons perched lopsided on his bald, tattooed head. His staff sparkled with cosmic spite. And beside him, embedded in a pedestal of obsidian and glitter, stood… Excalibutt.
It gleamed. Its hilt was carved like twin cheeks of divine symmetry, and it pulsed with a soft glow of “come hither” energy. A faint, bass-heavy hum throbbed through the air, possibly magical. Possibly disco.
Maika stared. “It’s… beautiful.”
Aiden nodded reverently. “I feel spiritually unworthy.”
Grovomil grinned. “Well well well. Look who finally figured out how to use portals without screaming.”
“Eat a mushroom, you pointy-shoed menace,” Aiden growled.
“I did this morning. It whispered state secrets and told me where you were.” Grovomil leaned forward. “You’ve come for the Butt.”
Maika stepped forward. “We’ve come for the Sword.”
Grovomil cackled. “That’s what he said.”
Aiden groaned. “You’ve gotten worse since Woodstock.”
“Lynda gave me oils,” Grovomil replied. “My chakras are open and I’m extremely powerful.”
The gnome slammed his staff down. The ground shuddered. The squirrels from earlier scurried into the glade and formed a line, now wearing tiny helmets. From the shadows, enchanted vines crept forth like snakes, twisting into spirals.
“This is your final chance,” Grovomil hissed. “Turn back, or face the consequences.”
Aiden drew his blade. “You kidnapped us, flung us through multiple realms, and interrupted a perfectly good snuggle. Consequences are due, short stack.”
“Also,” Maika added, stepping beside him, “you defaced destiny with glitter glue.”
Grovomil growled.
And then... all at once.. it exploded.
Magic screamed across the glade like an unhinged orchestra. Squirrels launched acorns the size of apples. Grovomil summoned a flaming aura of sparkles and spite. Aiden was immediately in motion, blade flashing, dodging vines with werewolf grace.
Maika spun his dagger in one hand, weaving threads of silver light with the other, forming barriers and blasts of radiant force.
“I’m going for the sword!” he shouted.
“Go!” Aiden ducked an exploding mushroom. “I’ll distract the gnome!”
Grovomil shrieked, “You’ll never touch the cheeks of fate!”
Maika sprinted. Vines lunged, he sliced them. Magic bolts shot toward him, he deflected with a spinning ward. As he reached the pedestal, Excalibutt shimmered with anticipation.
“Here we go,” Maika whispered.
He reached out...
And the sword sang.
Not metaphorically. It literally sang.
“Ooooh touch my hilt, baby—destiny calls! Take me home, sweet Elven darling…”
Maika blinked. “That’s… a Barry White voice.”
“It’s canon,” Grovomil shrieked.
Maika gritted his teeth and pulled.
Light erupted. The ground cracked. Vines screamed. Grovomil wailed. Squirrels scattered.
And the Blade of Bootyful Destiny came free in Maika’s hand.
He spun, elegant and feral, channeling magic through the blade’s thicc curves. A burst of radiant power blasted across the glade, knocking Grovomil off his throne and into a pile of singing mushrooms.
The grove fell silent.
Grovomil groaned from the ground. “Okay. That was hot.”
Maika lowered the blade, chest heaving, eyes glowing faintly from the power surge.
Aiden walked up, bleeding from a few scratches but grinning. “That sword suits you,” he said.
Maika looked at him, flushed and buzzing with power. “You mean because I wield it like a champion?”
“No,” Aiden said, stepping closer. “Because I want to grab your hilt and kiss you stupid.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
“I really do.”
They kissed — hot, intense, victorious. The sword hummed approvingly.
Somewhere behind them, Grovomil rolled over and muttered, “Gods, I hate how much chemistry they have.”
The glade rumbled.
A ripple of energy crackled through the air. A mushroom blinked. Then groaned. “It’s happening again.”
A swirl of blue and silver light began to spin behind Maika and Aiden.
“Oh no,” Aiden said. “Not again.”
Maika tightened his grip on Excalibutt. “Well, we’ve got the sword.”
“And we’ve got each other.”
“And Grovomil’s down.”
“And the sword’s humming a sexy bassline.”
They looked at the portal. Then each other.
“Shall we?” Maika asked.
Aiden held out his hand. “Always.”
They stepped through together one hand on destiny, the other on each other..
