A/N: I have been terribly inactive lately. I wish I had an excuse, but this has been written for weeks now and I was too lazy/afraid to edit it. Finally, I came back to it and looked and found that it wasn't horrible. I sincerely hope that you share this sentiment. :)

Unfortunately, I don't know how frequently I'll be updating this semester, as I have a 300-level history class (basically, it's reserved for upperclassmen who are history majors; I fit into neither category) and a decent amount of work in all my other classes, but I hope to find time to write, whether it's for or getting back into the swing of working on my novels. ;)

Basically what I'm trying to do with this is delve into Lance's psyche and understand the tension between love and honor that exists in him. (This is what happens when you're an English major required to take a class on literary theory-it shows up everywhere. I kid you not.)

Oh yeah, and the title of this piece is Italian for "light of the night." It sounds too rhyme-y in English and I like the smooth, fluid, and slightly darker feel that it gets in Italian. (Plus, now that I'm actually in a class with other people, the language is invading my brain a little bit.)

Sadly, I do not own Merlin. I would really love to, though...

It was Christmastime in Camelot. Although the past few months had been a difficult time for the kingdom, this was a time of year to put aside all difficulties and celebrate the beauty of early winter before it became one tedious snowfall after the other. Uther was still unwell and Morgana was still at large, but the Yuletide celebrations of Camelot were a tradition that would not be broken by one strenuous year.

As always, there was feasting, followed by a ball. Lords and knights came from Camelot and the surrounding kingdoms simply to be a part of the festivities. Visitors had been streaming through the city gates for nearly a week. Normally, this would not pose much of a problem. However, since Morgana's disappearance, the guards and knights of Camelot had been more cautious than ever. Every incoming caravan was inspected closely.

Tonight, Arthur's knights were particularly glad to have a break from patrolling the castle and inspecting caravans. All of them were celebrating differently. Sir Gwaine was unknowingly charming half a dozen women with a particular flick of his head, whilst Sir Leon spoke with the friends whom he hadn't seen in the chaos of the season. Elyan and Percival were both being exceptionally courteous towards the newly arrived ladies.

For the majority of the night, Lancelot's eyes had been watching Guinevere, albeit secretly. He wanted to ask for a dance, but was worried that Arthur would read too much into what was meant to be an honorably made gesture.

"Just go ask her. It can't do any harm," Merlin suggested, nudging Lancelot with his elbow.

Upon tearing his eyes away from Guinevere to look at Merlin, Lancelot suppressed a laugh. He knew that Merlin was clad in the official serving garb of Camelot, but it was difficult to take the young warlock seriously when it looked as if a terribly gaudy phoenix had perched itself on the right side of Merlin's head.

"I cannot come between them," Lancelot stated.

"Lancelot, I don't think Arthur will mind if you borrow her for a while," Merlin reminded him.

The knight shook his head. "I can't. Not when I know how she makes me feel."

"Arthur doesn't know. Besides, it's just one dance."

Lancelot bit his lip, deeply lost in thought. "It's not more than a dance. Same as I'd do for any other lady here tonight," he murmured, reassuring himself.

"Thank you, Merlin," he added before walking towards the prince and his beloved.

Lancelot's heart pounded against his ribcage as he approached Arthur and Guinevere. I am asking her as a knight of Camelot, he reminded himself. Not as anything more.

"May I have the next dance, milady?" Lancelot requested, bowing deeply. "That is, if you don't mind, my liege," he added, glancing at Arthur.

Arthur glanced over at Guinevere, who nodded her approval. Before Lancelot swept Guinevere off onto the floor, Arthur took Lancelot's sleeve. "Thanks," he murmured. "If I dance much more, I'll start falling over my own feet."

Lancelot grinned before taking Guinevere's arm and leading her out onto the floor. "Thank you, my lady," Lancelot said as they began to dance.

"Oh, it's nothing really," she replied, smiling. "Arthur's a wonderful dancer, but it's nice for...a change every once in a while."

He would not act as if she were his. He would not come between her and Arthur-they were in love. Arthur loved her despite the fact that she was a servant. He could not tarnish so pure and selfless a love with his own selfish affections for Guinevere. "I have spoken with you little since-"

Lancelot cut himself off. Discussion of Morgana's betrayal was still somewhat taboo within the walls of Camelot. "Well, it's been a busy time for you," Gwen justified. "It's been...hard...for all of us."

He nodded. "It will get better, Gwen," he promised her. "Things can't stay like this forever."

Ordinarily, Lancelot was an impeccable dancer. Under most circumstances, he could put anyone else to shame.

Tonight, he couldn't stop stumbling over his own feet.

The mistakes were barely noticeable to the casual observer. However, Guinevere had noted that Lancelot's dancing was not quite up to its normal standard. "Are you all right, Lancelot?" she asked him.

"I am, although my dancing seems to be...substandard," he admitted. "Perhaps I should return you to Prince Arthur."

"Can we talk for a while?" Gwen requested.

Nodding his approval, Lancelot followed her to a corner of the room. "What is it that you wish to speak about, my lady?" he wondered.

"Please," Gwen murmured, blushing. "I thought I told you to call me Gwen. And I've barely spoken to you since you returned to Camelot."

"Don't blame yourself, Gwen. There hasn't been much time," Lancelot pointed out.

Guinevere looked off into the distance, a slight smile curving her lips. "I remember when you first came to Camelot," she murmured. "You were so bent on knighthood-so noble and devoted to your cause."

She paused for a moment. "Not much has changed, really."

Lancelot shook his head ever-so-slightly. Everything had changed. He might not have truly known himself in his earliest days in Camelot, but at least he had had a chance with Guinevere. Sometimes, he wished that he could return to that day and decide to stay at Camelot. Perhaps Gwen would...

No. That was all the past. From the moment Lancelot had been knighted, he had given himself fully over to the service of Camelot. Romance had been out of the question for a long time-especially with the crown prince's ladylove.

"You've been awfully quiet," Gwen pointed out.

"I'm just thinking about everything...how different I am from those days," he murmured.

At Gwen's look of confusion, he continued, "I spoke of honor so often, but I don't think I really understood. Those months I spent fighting for my life taught me the importance of knighthood. It's a step beyond fighting-it's devoting yourself to a cause so fully that you'd give your life for it."

Guinevere smiled softly. "And even before you knew what it was, you would follow it," she whispered.

Lancelot was speechless. He didn't dare speak for fear of what he might say. It would be easier if she wasn't standing so close to him, moving closer, tilting her head upwards...

"Mind if I steal her for a dance or two?"

Gwaine stood in front of them, offering his hand to Guinevere. If he had noticed any unusual interaction between Lancelot and Guinevere, his face showed nothing. "Of course," Lancelot reassured him, smiling.

As his fellow knight led Gwen off onto the ballroom floor, Lancelot sighed deeply. He was thankful that Gwaine had shown up-had he waited a few moments longer, he would have interrupted something much more intimate than a conversation. Of course, the conversation may have been intimate enough for Gwaine to infer things about what existed between them...

Nothing. There was nothing and it would always remain so.

"So, I saw you talking with Gwen earlier," Gwaine said, elbowing Lancelot in the ribs. His words were running together more than normal, a sign that the knight had already had a fair amount to drink.

"Your point?" Lancelot wondered.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "You don't talk to women like that-at least, not that I've seen." He lowered his voice and leaned towards Lancelot as he murmured, "I know it's different with you and Gwen."

Lancelot met his friend's eyes, cautious. "I cannot control what I feel," he admitted.

"No man can, Lance," Gwaine said lightly. "I'm just telling you so you know that you don't have to hide it from me."

"That doesn't make it right," lamented Lancelot. "She loves Arthur-who am I to come between them?"

Flipping his hair, Gwaine replied, "You're both honorable men, Lancelot. I know you well enough to know that you'll stand by Arthur and Camelot until the end. You can't come between Arthur and Gwen unless she wants you there."

Lancelot looked away, biting the inside of his lip as he pondered what Gwaine had said. Gwen wasn't the sort to toy with someone's emotions-but tonight's events did not necessarily mean that she looked at him as she looked at Arthur.

For several more dances, Lancelot stood at the edge of the room, letting his mind wander as he watched the people of Camelot sweep across the floor.

"Lancelot?"

He looked up at the sound of her voice.

"Arthur's been talking with his father for a while, so I figured I might give them a little space," Gwen said. "If that's all right."

"Of course," he responded, smiling. "Guinevere...may I have this dance?"

She smiled at his formality-how customary of Lancelot, to keep everything neat and orderly and according to the ancient customs. "You didn't need to ask," she murmured, offering him her hands.

He took them and led her tenderly onto the ballroom floor. This time, Lancelot allowed himself to be carried away by the moment. He did not worry about what might be between himself and Guinevere or how that might affect her relationship with Arthur. There was only this time in which they now danced.

A few songs later, Lancelot found himself and Guinevere off in a particularly secluded corner of the room, partially concealed by a few decorative plants. Together they stood, Guinevere's fingers still intwined with Lancelot's, although they were no longer dancing. For a few moments, no words were necessary.

Guinevere looked up into Lancelot's eyes. He was looking at her so warmly, a slight smile upturning his lips. She leaned towards him, making herself taller as her lips moved closer to his. Lancelot leaned down and their mouths met for a few blissful moments.

They gradually moved apart. Guinevere immediately glanced over to Arthur, who was still occupied with Uther. She breathed a sigh of relief-he hadn't seen anything.

For a few seconds, Lancelot looked down at Guinevere, shocked by what had just happened. "Gwen, I'm-"

"No, it-it was me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "And I didn't mean-well, I'm not...I don't know, Lancelot."

Lancelot shook his head sadly, wishing that he could somehow comfort her. But how could he after this had just happened?

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair.

They locked eyes for a few moments before Lancelot walked away from her. He resisted the urge to shake his head at himself, disgusted. How could he have-especially after how he'd worried about this, how he had tried to draw the boundaries so clearly for himself.

Of course, there had been no formal acknowledgement of what was between Gwen and Arthur-so in the eyes of some, what had happened between the knight and the serving girl was innocent.

Lancelot, who held himself to a nearly impossible standard of honor, did not feel this way. In the deep parts of his heart, he felt that the kiss had been wrong.

And yet he could not bring himself to wish it away.