The Black Chalice

Fifty-Three

He opened his eyes.

"Shhhh, drink this."

The king tried to part his lips to pour water down his throat, and Alymere shook his head.

He regretted it instantly as a wave of nausea welled up within him. He rolled over onto his side and vomited onto the grass. His stomach heaved again and again until there was nothing left to come up save for bile.

Cradling him in his arms, Arthur pressed the Chalice to Alymere's lips, forcing him to swallow a mouthful of water. He emptied the rest of the water before Alymere could take a second gulp. Then he gripped Alymere by the jaw and turned his head left, then right, studying him. "You'll be fine. A little bruising, a few loose teeth for a while, and of course, sore as hell in the morning, but fine." He waited a few moments, studying Alymere's face, and then asked, "So, tell me, am I lying?"

Alymere looked up at the king, taking his time to collect himself. Everything hurt. He rolled his head slowly on his neck, feeling the muscles and tendons stretch and throb with the tentative movement. His head did not fall off, which was a small mercy. "No, sire."

Arthur smiled. "Excellent. Now perhaps we ought to get you somewhere more comfortable before Bors decides to smack you again for your impertinence. That's quite a tongue you have on you for one so young, Sir Knight. It is fortunate he is not one to hold a grudge. Quick to anger, quicker still to forgive, that is Bors."

"I deserved it," Alymere said, rubbing at his jaw.

"That you did, boy. That you did." It was the first time the king had called him boy since his return to Camelot.

Alymere didn't feel himself. He looked around at the Maypole and the concerned faces of the few bystanders who had gathered around after the commotion. He tried to rise, but his body was having none of it. The bonfires were burning bright now, turning night into day. Every bone in his body rattled.

"I have made a fool of myself," he said eventually; but mercifully, beyond the punch, the details of it refused to come back to him.

"People will forget it soon enough."

"The day Sir Bors knocked out the newly knighted Sir Alymere with one punch."

"Or when you put it like that, perhaps not."

"Where is Bors?" Alymere asked. He felt a shadowy presence at the back of his mind, clawing at his consciousness. Struggling to be free.

Arthur didn't answer him immediately. Instead he gestured for someone to come forward from the crowd. Katherine. The maid hurried forward and knelt at his side. Again there was pity in her pretty eyes, but this time it had nothing to do with his disfigurement. She pressed a wet rag to his chin, and pulled it away red with blood from where his teeth had cut into his gums. He hawked and spat blood into the grass beside him.

And the voice inside his head whispered insidiously: I will not give you up without a fight, Alymere, Killer of Kings. You are mine. You are me. We are.

And he shivered. Leave me alone. I do not want to kill the king. I do not. I. Do. Not. I…

Do… the Devil whispered.