Yes, this is the first non-HP fic I have ever written, but I have been obsessing over this movie for two days, and the scene would not go out of my head. Just stay with me here.
Disclaimer: Not mine, although I would steal Lancelot and his sword in a heartbeat.
-
Lancelot held the blade to the Saxon's throat, believing that the man's sharp intake of breath, the metallic hiss of the steel against the man's skin were the last sounds he would hear before he fell into darkness. Drawing from his own depleted air supply, Lancelot was about to plunge the bloodied steel into his enemy when the man spoke.
"We're not so different, you and I."
Lancelot froze, his heart racing. Glancing over the man's face, his dark eyes connected with his enemy's light blue.
"I don't even know you," Lancelot hissed. "Do not say you know me."
The man gave a guttural laugh, taking care not to shift into the pressure of the blade. "I don't need to know you. I can see it in your eyes."
"Oh, really," Lancelot said, unable to think clearly through the fog that was creeping through his mind. "What do you see?"
"You have been rejected, just as I have been." The blue eyes danced as Lancelot's breathing halted. "You by Arthur, and I by my father."
"Arthur has not rejected me." Lancelot was struggling to regain control of his voice, his chest heaving as his breathing became labored. "We have never been more than friends, and we still retain our friendship."
Blue eyes laughed at him. "But doesn't it hurt when someone you've loved as family, someone you've idolized and striven to please for so long leaves you for the companionship of another?"
"He has not left me," Lancelot managed around the lump in his throat, barely holding the Saxon's gaze.
"Then explain the woman."
At this Lancelot closed his eyes, the fog threatening to take over, the lump threatening to suffocate him. "How did you know?"
The smirk that must have been on the man's face came through in his voice. "I saw it at the frozen lake, the way he glanced at her. I see it on this battlefield, how he looks for her now and then to ensure her safety. I see how he has chosen a Woad over you."
"This is all a trick, a trick to make me spare your life!"
In a sudden surge of strength, Lancelot thrust his sword through the man's neck with a hoarse cry, the warm liquid that coated his hands breaking through the fog for a moment. Lancelot opened his eyes, a single tear falling from the dark lashes and onto the body of the dead Saxon in front of him. He knew that the words the man had said, as absurd as they seemed, were the truth.
At last, Lancelot gave into the pain in his heart, the pain that numbed all physical pains he suffered from. His vision began to blur, the battlefield becoming a streaked whirl of movement in smoky grays, bloody reds, violent blues, and a sparse green. Sound ceased; all Lancelot could hear was the dull throbbing of his heart becoming ever so faint, the beats further and further apart.
As he drew his final breath, Lancelot sensed a presence next to him, but more importantly, glimpsed the silhouette of a tall, limping, bloodied knight emerging from the smoke in his direction. Consciousness slipped fully away, and the sense of abandonment that Lancelot had harbored within him since the arrival of Guinevere slipped away with it.