At first Lancelot had fought for ideals. Things like honor and justice, righteous causes. But the world has little time for such noble sentiments, and Lancelot learned that the hard way. What had started as such a virtuous quest had become little more than scraping by day to day. He sunk deeper and deeper until he was working for Hengist as nothing more than after dinner entertainment. He stopped thinking, stopped feeling. Life was nothing to him.
Then he saw her. In that filthy, miserable place, Guinevere had shown like pure sunlight. It was then that Lancelot had understood. He knew then why he had been brought so low, why he had dishonored himself and his dreams. It was all so he could be by his lady's side in her hour of need. It was for Guinevere's sake.
Lancelot had been the walking dead. Now he was alive again. And even in the heart of Hengist's despicable castle, the world had been beautiful. How could it be otherwise? The world was in Guinevere's smile, her eyes, the feel of her hand in his. He would fight and die to protect that world.
Even as she was thrust into that horrible cage, even as they waited for death, he felt no despair. He had given everything for her, and in return she had given him back his faith. It was more than would have ever dared ask for.
No, he felt no despair as he was about to die. It was only when he saw the look in Prince Arthur's eyes that the feeling curdled in his heart. Arthur loved her, the emprince/em loved her. And why shouldn't he? Had Lancelot truly been so naïve as to think that he was the only one who saw Guinevere's light?
And Guinevere felt something for Arthur. They were barely burgeoning feelings, but they were there all the same.
She would make a magnificent queen. So wise, kind, and just; ruling nobly at the king's side. How could Lancelot dare keep her from that? What right did he have to destroy her future? She could have a prince or a penniless, dishonored pretend knight.
He had to leave. Leave without talking to her, even seeing her. Just one glimpse of her would destroy his resolve.
emCoward/em, whispered a angry voice in the back of his mind. Lancelot forced himself to ignore it. He had to do this.
Guinevere would never be his, but he would always be hers. Hopefully, she would forget him, but everything he did would be in her name.
"I fight for Guinevere of Camelot," he said before he went to sleep and in the mornings when he awoke. "I fight for Guinevere of Camelot," he told the men he defeated who would prey upon the helpless.
Life was still harsh. Many nights he went cold and hungry, his clothes frayed, his boots wore through. He had nothing but Guinevere, but that was all right because she was all he needed.
"I fight for Guinevere of Camelot."
And that was all that mattered.