Soft knickers muttered through the air, as the hands slipped away. The rough palms ghosted over the furred coat as one by one each body exited the stables. A tall dark figure stayed behind, his bloodied armor still clutched tightly around his torso which he quickly tore away from his person. Dressed in a light tunic he continued unlatched the metal from around his torso and arms, before dismissing the hauberk. The articles lay in a heap on the ground as his bodied stepped away from them. His dominant hands, unburdened the horse as he undid the girth and then lifted the saddle. The mat disappeared shortly after that, and then the horse unlatched its lips from the bridle, the reins brushes against the ground as the rider moved away. He placed the reins and the bridle on a hook, and gentle poured water of the muck, slime covered metal. Proceeding towards the saddle, he placed it on the mantel situated next to the horse and brushed away the stray bits of liquid blood and straw. The slow figure then moved back towards the horse, his rough calloused hands brushing along the coat of the horse. The muted whines and the drowsy knickers marked the contentment of the horse, which leaned ever so slightly into the warm brushes on her rider.
Outside the sun had fallen, drifting towards the middle of the sky, casting a glaring light above the high treetops. The tinted colors meshed and blurred together; the soft pinks commanding attention over the darkening purple. A mass of people waited patiently as the knights and their king exited the confines of the stables. The people's murmurs grew steadier as each man exited, until at last the bodies stopped coming. People cheered and watched as some women attended to the knights, welcoming them back with gifts. The designated lovers of some made their way towards their men, claiming them with a kiss on the lips and the jealous sighs and mutters of the other women around. The mass of bodies parted as the queen marched over to her husband. No words were spoken as the couple kissed, the long time away making it more urgent than their usual displays of affection. Behind the group, the horses pranced, nudging the stall doors, trying to get rid of the excess energy which spurred their movements. Jols grumbled fluttered away, happy with the reunion but frustrated at the dancing horses, who didn't want to be touched or attended to. Only the burnt red colored horse, who's knight attended to her, was silent.
"I'm happy you're all…" the words trailed away from the queen's mouth, as she noticed a missing member. Her eyes flickered to each knight as the apparent mental calculation caught her eye. "Lancelot?"
The men looked at each other, the silent conversation passing between the five of them. How was it best to respond to that question? Arthur inched forward, wrapping his arms around his fidgeting wife, "He's not wounded."
The men stayed silent, fidgeting and glancing back into the stables were their coquettish friend still remained; his dark outline just visible under the sunspots in the stables. It had become a tradition for him to spend time brushing his horse after their long trips; especially those that had caused a lot of strain on both the horse and the rider. Lancelot squirmed at the thought of anyone else laying a hand on his mare. Even Jols, fully competent at his job, was no exception. The men had wondered when this tick had started, but it was really a very simple answer, and the men hated to bring it up. The wrench in their guts and the tug on their hearts stopped them from every mentioning or questioning Lancelot's behavior. He over protectiveness and the extreme dedication from to his horse had been the only thing that had kept him with them. Had it not been for Rai, the mare, then the knights would have lost Lancelot a long time ago. However, the queen was new and didn't know nearly as much about the weird quirks of the men; it was bound to seem odd to her. The men glanced furtively at her, noticing the wrinkled forehead and the pucker in her lips. The tension surrounding the group wouldn't leave them as they noticed her adamant stare into the stables. It was none of her business, and they fully intended to keep it that way.
"Come; let us celebrate the arrival of the king and his men." The hushed demand wavered for a second, as the lass in Gawain's arms searched the stables. Her eyes fluttered closed at the image of him and his horse, but before her mind could go wandering through the depths of her memories Gawain's kiss pulled her back. The lingering, sting along her temple caused her to look back up at him. He merely shook his head slightly, having known where her thoughts were leading her. One last time she looked at the deserted figure before facing the group again, "Lancelot will be along shortly."
The crowd by that time had faded away, placated by seeing the soldiers in their glory. Even with the light blood on their armor, and the dirtied clothes, the people were still captivated by the strong knights who defended their homes. The whispers around town had long since re-emerged after Arthur had been crowned king, and Camelot had grown in size with more and more people interested in catching glimpses of the legendary and spoken about knights. The still single knights were the most captivating, however, especially for young women who wanted to catch a husband. The single Knights – Dagonet, Tristan, Lancelot and Galahad—still had a good time when they went out with their friends, not undermined by the ravish attentions of the younger women.
The men themselves looked back to their cloaked friend before making their way to the round table. The relaxed tension was heeded by the women who took their place by their men, but never touching them. The physical attention would only make the men feel more upset than comforted. Instead the women's dulcet aura was something the men needed to feel, but not something that should weigh upon them. Some of the men took their women by the shoulders, trying to cheer the mood up with their teasing humor. Others stared ahead, trying to push away the tearing memories which would only cause them to weep long into the night. Galahad looked behind him once more, only to notice that Lancelot's head rested on top of Rai's; he knew that he ritual was coming to an end and that Lancelot would join them when his thoughts were finally back in order. Galahad turned back to the front, catching Guinevere's curious look before staring back at the dusted, stony, ground; he probably wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
It had been a close call this time, for many of the men. Arthur himself felt responsible for the unpreparedness of his knights. He should have questioned what his scouts had told him before gallivanting away from the safety. Arthur was only reacting to the skirmishes which had begun to unsettle some of the more provincial villages which were not under the direct protection of back of his militia. His men had been working tirelessly for him for a long time now; more than the fifteen years that he had originally thought. Their wounds were taking longer to heal, but the emotional scars weighed heavier on them tonight. He should have known that his men wouldn't have been there; that their minds would try to escape them and that they wouldn't be invested in the newest mission. Mourning always hit them harder and much more frequently closer to this date. Even Vanora and Devin seemed to be much in thought. He glanced at the faces of his men, who were trying to get over the shock of the battle. Only one was missing now. Lancelot hadn't been the same for a very long time.
The round table greeted them as the stepped into the room. The lamps flickered at their posts by the wall, and weakly heated the stone room. A cold draft from the air outside washed into the room, causing the flames to waver before strengthening again. The last of the servants disappeared back through the door, as the men and women entered the dome. Goblets filled with wine had been placed out in front of everybody, and a slightly more ruckus tone catapulted into the air as the wine was pushed down. The vanished Lancelot was forgotten about with more and more sips or gulps of wine. Suddenly the doors creaked open and Lancelot's curled head came into view.
"Lancelot!" Devin's call spurred the group into the greeting the numbed face. Her toned arms worked themselves around his body. Suddenly Lancelot gripped onto her, bringing her into his chest where he could feel her pulse against his own. Devin's black hair sunk between his fingers and the fabric beneath his fingers crumbled. He wrenched away from her, guiding her away from his arms before reaching for the goblet in her hands.
"When are you going to leave your pretty man and come home with me?" the teasing gesture wiped the concernedly painful look from her face. Lancelot brought the goblet to his mouth and took a large gulp before placing the painted gold back into her hands. Though he smelled of war and horse, Devin knew why many women would consider their man attractive. Still, he was her brother in arms and there was nothing more than harmless flirting between the two of them; she couldn't help but laugh at his outrageous facade. His moment of weakness was jumped over by the rest of the room, as they snickered along with the joke, some gesturing towards Gawain's passive face.
Devin pulling the cup away from Lancelot's glinting eyes only quipped back. "I don't need your petty flirts. I have a real man, Lance."
"Hear that, Lance. You may be losing your touch!" Galahad jibed, watching as his older brother in arms crossed the room and joined the table. Lancelot's eyebrows arched, staring at the boy in disbelieve.
"We'll see whose's talking when I'm the one walking home with the lady tonight, Galahad."
Arthur gathered the attention as he stood from his seat. His armored body firm and resolute as he extended his hand, to the glowing fire in front of him. The goblet radiated out, a flash flying across the corners of the room, as the reflection from the fire swerved. The men's joyous grins turned sour as they watched. The hand didn't move; steady in the middle, illuminated by the fire. The rest of the men and their respective aldies also rose and stretched their hands in the air. Devin quickly handed out a goblet to Lancelot, who had tottered over to his seat.
"Let us remember those that have been lost. But also let us continue to thrive and live our lives to the fullest extent." The room was quiet as the men took their goblet to their mouths.
Lancelot drunk deeply, the cold wine washing into his mouth with a bitter taste. Gone was the sweetness that had clung to the air around them. Instead the fire flickered before them, muffled by the sudden depressed thoughts from the brothers. Faces flashed beneath their eyes and names rose from their lips in cursed whispers. Lancelot allowed his eyes to flicker over to the clasped hands which rested on the table before him. Gawain and Devin's fingers intertwined, holding each other with a force normally exerted in battle. He marveled at the whiteness of their skin; at the none-apparent contrast between newly calloused skin and worn softness.
Catching Devin's eyes, Lancelot's gaze moved back to the marble table, and to the seat that stood next to his. It was pushed slight out from the table, as if it had been pushed in towards the table in a hurry. The faded fabric ripped and holes could be seen as the thinned velvet fabric ripped. The stitching had come undone and the seams allowed the hollow inside of the chair to be seen. Dirty spots, filled with unwashed oil, marked the wood of the arms. But still her scent lingered in the faded red color, and in the dark stains of sweat. He envisioned her sitting next to him; their hands brushing underneath the table. The remembrance of her calloused skin, covered with a thin sheen of sweat, caused him to shudder. His eyes fluttered closed, just picturing her warm body next to his.
"Lance? Lancelot?" the voice grew stronger as he was dragged away from his memories. The burning ashes could have clogged his nose, but he still smelt the leafy dew mixed with her salty sweat. Even the smell of horse dung smelt more familiar to him, than the cold, crisp, ashen air that now traveled around him. "Lancelot?"
The voice returned to its masculine owner as Lancelot pulled his eyes back to his brothers who mostly didn't catch his gaze. Their flickered gazes spurned him as he stiffened and felt his pride willing to bark back at them. He didn't need those eyes. Lancelot's shoulders shifted so that he was facing Arthur, whose face wrinkled with concern. Lancelot reared back, gently tugging away from his brother and into the confines of his own body. The sensations of thick fingers across his shoulders and back had disappeared long ago, replaced only with the intense shocks of unwanted touches. The captain and his right-hand's conversation stayed between the two of them, as Arthur backed away. Arthur's gaze dropped as he went to pick up a long contained. His cautious steps echoed in the once against mournful room.
Guinevere's gaze stood primarily upon the two that mimed their thoughts, and wondered why today the fire didn't seem to fill up the whole room. Her curious eyes watched the other brothers who only pulled in closer to each other, and found safety within their tight circle. Nobody came to explain to her, but even then Guinevere could feel a penetrating aura that surrounded the room. Another soul that lay upon the boys' hearts and minds which pressed upon their shoulders and encased them in a tight hug filled the room; a last goodbye, perhaps, from an unforgotten, wandering spirit?
"This may not be the best time or place, but I thought you may want to have this." Arthur suggested, sliding the box over to this stiff friend. Arthur's eyes searched those of Lancelot's stone face, as he found himself pulling the mahogany box open. The white roll, stayed stuck in the box as Lancelot's hand wavered over it.
"She doesn't need this Arthur. She was already freed a long time ago." The box shut with a snap, and the last of the burning embers flickered away as only smoke rose from the pit to settle into the air. The smog curled and wafted through the room, floating out of the unsealed windows.