Well, I was watching King Arthur, then I heard the (excellent) song "Bullets" by the (equally excellent) band Tunng. This is what happened! Hope you like.
He was falling to pieces, and it was the most alive he'd ever felt.
As he stood by Dagonet's grave, he watched them feed the hungry earth with yet another of his brothers. The grass grew thick and green here, the putrefying dead beneath the earth giving nourishment to the ground around them. The rich soil quenched for now with the blood of a brother, of a friend. With every death Lancelot became more conscious of the air in his lungs, sweet and full of life. Oh yes, he mourned Dagonet, but he would not lie to himself. While part of him grieved, another part savoured the acute agony of loss, at coming so close to the emotions he'd buried so far down inside.
He knew how it went. The others would all go to the tavern now, and drink themselves into a stupor. They would rail drunkenly against their overlords, the Roman Empire, and they would hear Vanora sing early in the evening about the rolling plains of home. Gawain would become morose; Galahad would snarl and try not to sob. Arthur would be absent, painfully aware at times like these of the ties of race and culture which held him from his Knights. Bors would be numb; and after singing, Vanora would be silent.
But he? Lancelot would sit quietly, nursing his drink and perhaps a wench or two. At some point in the evening, he would meet Tristran's level stare across the room. Tristran understood. As they chopped and slaughtered their way through the bloodied fifteen years, the light-heartedness of youth had been stripped from them, leaving their insides charred and dark. The only things that were safe from Rome's clutches were the pure feelings locked away inside him, long ago. Only the desperate emotional pain that came from killing others and losing his countrymen and brothers could reach them; that last unsullied vein of gold, precious to him beyond worth. Oh, it hurt to find it, but there was a peculiar pride in bearing the pain.
Lancelot sighed, and turned away from the freshly-turned grave. He made his way through the long grass back towards the Wall, to the tavern, where he knew his comrades would be. The women would flock to him as always, and he would give his usual charming performance. Others would watch him and mutter about his womanising ways, his charismatic nature. If they saw the true Lancelot, they would shrink from him as they did from Tristran; label him bloodthirsty and heartless, a Sarmatian barbarian. So be it. The less they knew of him, the better. All this was his burden, and his alone; the one thing on this cursed island that was truly his.
He mocked Arthur and his beliefs by day. But in the dark, and more than once, he would whisper prayers up to a God in whom he'd never believed, just to pretend that he was not so terribly alone.
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