Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any characters thereof.

Of right and wrong he'd had no question…of his virtues he'd always been certain. In the days of his past he'd been able to outline right and wrong: It was right to lend a hand to a soul in need. It was wrong for a man to go against his word. One should strive to do one's best, just as one should not covet that which was no his to have. Blessed were those who were true, and damned was the man who betrayed his kin, his king or his country.

These were his truths...yet he thought of her all the more. Cruel truth that his thoughts of Guinevere were not virtuous, but wrong. Wrong in that they roused in him the desire to be wicked and selfish. He told Merlin that he would not come between Arthur and his love—that he would not pursue her. And yet…he longed to break his word. He desired Guinevere for himself, he envied Arthur endlessly, and in doing so he shamed himself completely. So why didn't he care? Why didn't he stop?

He didn't know. In truth his mind could scarcely stop thinking of her to ask these questions. Lancelot was enraptured with the thought of her.

Was she truly Arthur's?

"Not truly. She'd said no vows," cried a stubborn voice from the pit of his heart.

But was she Arthur's in spirit?

Though it was blasphemous, he fiercely hoped not.

"As long as I live my feelings for you will never change," she'd said to him and he'd not known her to be a liar.

Still, undeniably, he should no longer pursue her, for whatever her feelings were, Arthur's were clear and he should not betray his prince. Oh! But how he heard her honeyed words again and again in his ears, "As long as I live my feelings for you will never change."

In his mind's eye he could see her standing before him in all her brilliant splendor. She'd worn a dress of purple and blued green with golden embroidery. They'd just escaped, and she was frightened—her gentle features sharpened by the hunger that came with being a captive. Her hair was mussed and a layer of dirt delighted in clinging to her face. But when he took her in his arms, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Then, they shared a kiss. They shared a moment of intimacy that tasted of pleasure and longing and need and satisfaction…and for a moment, it was as though he'd tasted something more. It was impossible to tell for certain, but it was as though his soul had tasted the piece that made it whole.

So it was that they shared a kiss—a kiss whose presence lasted nary a moment on the string of time, but whose echo was with him still. Nothing and no one could be more beautiful he thought, and then she'd said it. "As long as I live my feelings for you will never change," and somehow, in that moment, she became more beautiful still. It was then that he was sure—so sure—that she was his.

He couldn't stand the idea of Guinevere's heart belonging to someone else, not after that kiss…not after that day. No. No. She couldn't be Arthur's! He could feel his stomach twist painfully at the thought. Without Guinevere who would he be? He was not lying when he'd said that she had changed him forever. Before her, he had nothing, of his family and indeed, his entire village, not a soul was left. He was alone—a wanderer with nothing but a dream and pocketful of hope.

Then he'd come to Camelot and his life started to change. He'd met the king and the prince. He'd fought a griffon. He'd witnessed magic, but most impressive of all, he'd met her. He'd met a woman of lore. Bards sang of women who were lovelier than spring and purer than silk with hearts that could melt the ice off frozen branches. He'd laughed and thought the songs to be merely that—songs, words to sing for sport, but Guinevere was all these things and more.

His heart ached when he first left Camelot, but he knew that he must. He'd still had his morals then, and had must punished himself for turning father against son. And if, he told himself, he and Guinevere were meant to be together, their paths would cross again. He didn't expect too much. He thought of her always, but he expected next to nothing. This was lucky, he told himself, as he got nothing. Days passed taking with them months. He found himself a wanderer again. He still had nothing tangible—his dreams had changed and his hope had all but dwindled.

Then fate ordained that their paths cross again.

"You are everything that is right in this world…"

"How wrong she was in saying so," he thought bitterly. No, he was never virtue personified. He looked out his window. Here he sat, his golden dreams realized. He was a knight, sworn to protect and defend Camelot and it's people. Here he sat inside the grand castle at Camelot's heart, inside a room that was his alone. Yes! Here he sat and dreamed of stealing away his prince's bride—virtue indeed!

He hated himself for wanting to steal her back…yet how could he help it?

That day in the Hengist's castle when he kneeled there with a sword thrust to his neck he'd been ready to die. He saved Guinevere. He'd been sure that she lived and moreover that she lived for him. His heart had never soared so high and he was sure that he had reached the pinnacle of his happiness. It was for this reason that he welcomed death—was ready to fall into its eternal embrace, but then, just as he was to die, everything fell apart. Hengist recaptured Guinevere. When they brought her in, his distress was mirrored in her face. Her eyes stared into the inner most chamber of his heart. To fail Guinevere was the most profound pain he'd ever known... For several moments he couldn't believe it, but when it hit him that he failed her, he'd felt forsaken. One minute he had it all, conquered death, the next he'd been pitched off the tallest tower into the deepest trench. They'd planned her escape; it'd been so simple. She could not die there. She had to live. In that moment he'd thought, 'never a pain can pierce my heart as this has.'

And yet, here he stood at his window and every moment that passed in her absence was an agony without rival.

His mind strayed back to their kiss—he remembered her slender fingers entangled in his. Lancelot could feel all the emotions running through him at once: Need, love, longing, passion…everything, all at once. And these were the feelings that raced around his chest every hour of every day since. All men question what purpose they are meant to serve during their stay on earth, but since meeting Guinevere, Lancelot knew. He was fulfilled in loving her. He would devote his entire being to her without a thought—without the slightest hesitation. He would throw himself at her feet and receive her will as fast as he would slay those who wished her harm. He was hers body and soul—every hair on his head, every humor in his heart.

He was hers. That he loved her completely he would admit shamelessly. For what was there to be ashamed of or abashed by in expressing love for a woman so fine?

Guinevere I would sing my love of you till the end of our days if only it would please you.

The longing he felt for her was like nothing else. Without her he was broken and empty. But as reality caught back up with him, he knew that he had to stop playing this game with himself….he could not have her! He and Guinevere were not meant to be. Though he was loathe to think it, it must be true, for if he was destined for this, why would it mean betraying his prince? Why was his virtue at stake? Surely he was wrong—stupid—mutinous by the sheer notion of loving her.

He sat in silence a long time, trying to forget—outlining right and wrong.

He would not break his word.

He would not covet Guinevere's love.

He would not betray his prince…

Outside his window clad in lilac as soft and vibrant as her face, was Guinevere. She walked with effortless grace across the courtyard. He closed his eyes and dreamt of her saying his name…dreamt of the smell of her skin…dreamt of her soft lips parting against his. Guinevere was his love, his purpose… and if his purpose could only be fulfilled in betraying his prince, then Lancelot would die willingly on Arthur's sword for he could no longer be without her.