Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any characters therein.
Lancelot often dreamed of the days that he'd shared with her. He thought of the short weeks when the sun played in her eyes and the spring rain painted on her soft flesh. They had lived freely then. They wandered over hillocks of patchy grass and raw stones, going…going. The blue sky forever beckoned them to the distant horizon. For a while, time was nothing, clouds changed to stars and back to clouds again and there they were, together. When they finally came upon the little cottage they knew it was there that they were meant to stay. And then, life progressed normally. It was beautiful, simple, it was everything—and somehow more than Lancelot could have hoped for.
There was a vast pool of water by their little dwelling; it was cool and reflective in the spring. He remembered Guinevere braiding together blades of grass accompanied by the low whiny of their horses. They talked about everything under the sky, their voices filled the days and chased off the hours. In the low light, he would hunt whatever game he could find, bring it back—bring it home—and she would cook it. Lancelot smiled remembering the more grotesque meals they'd shared—somehow it was always all right. Somehow, with one another things worked themselves out. For the first time in a long time, Lancelot imagined his life was normal.
Though the sun set more times than it rose in his memory, Guinevere was always there to bring out the stars. He would never have his village back, nothing he did would ever return it to him, the faces he lost were lost eternally…but Guinevere filled him with a golden happiness that washed over the shadows of his past. His entire life Lancelot imagined that one day he would avenge them—the shadows. He would be a knight and stamp out the evils of the world. He wondered in those days with her whether this was a boyish fantasy, whether evil could be stamped out with swords and horses. If valor and justice could defend the defenseless…
A memory—the gentle whisper of her cheek against his always seemed to say there was a different way. He closed his eyes and could almost feel her skin. Those days they shared…where had they gone?
The lights of day would fade and usher in the shines and glows of night. It was of the silvery sweet nights that Lancelot now dreamt. Dreams told of the cold nights, the fiery nights and all the nights in between that led to him waking up beside her. He dreamt of her warmth, of the sweet-pea smell of her hair, of the threadbare sheets that covered them in the chill of the morning. He remembered the pale yellow glow of the sun, of the spring, so like the inside of the daisies she'd worn in her hair. He dreamt of the first time he'd lain with her…the night before they left the castle.
Her dress came off with a single, clean motion uncovering her smooth skin. She was copper in the candlelight. Lancelot's bare chest met hers and he let their shared weight bring them down onto the mattress. He could feel her heart pattering against his skin. The cricket song of the courtyard mixed with the silence of the moment and her lips found his. His tongue tasted the sweet corners of her mouth. Their limbs wove together; her hands in his hair, on his chest, on his back; his hands on her face, arms around her waist, hands trailing down her curves. His body could feel the tight wetness of hers. He sweat in the hot press of their bodies. He remembered the symphony of their breathing.
Afterwards Lancelot felt as though his heart was beating afresh. Guinevere was curled to his side—her head nuzzled into the crook between his shoulder and his chest so that his arm had just enough mobility to wrap around her. Her sleep was divine and Lancelot doubted if ever another had lain so peacefully. The loose ringlets of her hair framed her face in a sort of halo. In the quiet moments of the dying night Lancelot's eyes traced her face, storing her every feature in his memory. He remembered the soft tickle of her breath before he too was lost to the misty realm of sleep.
But when the morning came the dream had gone…the golden sun burned it away like the last patch of snow over a green field. The way she held him like she would never let go, the way her body fit his, the sound of her breath when their lips parted…the euphoria, the peace, he could only feel in her arms…the daylight robbed him of it all. With the day came harsh realities: He was no longer a knight and Guinevere was gone.
He looked outside and watched as the anxious wind plucked bright leaves from a dying oak and tried to imagine Guinevere sitting beneath the tree. Everyday her image became more fragmented and today her features were hidden under a blurred veil. His dreams were all he had left of her and one day they too would vanish. Staring at the oak, Lancelot longed to be a leaf so that one day a wind could come and blow him away too.