Resurrection

By MSC 7/22/04

The two lovers had torn his heart in that moment. As the battle raged all around him, he had looked from the lady he did not know to his captain. Who should he aid? Arthur was one man fighting several of the Saxon beasts. Guinevere was a woman, Woad or not. His instincts bid him go to the stranger, the one who had seemingly stolen his best friend. Was she any less capable a warrior as Arthur? He did not know. But in that moment, he had decided whom to aid. And in the fleeting minutes that he fought off her opponents, it had seemed that he had chosen right. She already bled from the blows received, and Arthur seemed to be handling himself well. Every other moment, Lancelot would glimpse the Roman. Always was Arthur under his watch, whether or not the captain knew it. It had all seemed so unreal. He fought in the same manner he had always kept, and she had stood watching him. He had never seen the arrow coming. And it had come, coincidentally, in the same moment that his attackers had fallen dead.

He had frozen in the hit. It was had not been a long arrow, but it's head had pierced his chest, so close to his heart. His eyes had gone wide, as they always would when he was shot, and his body had only flinched slightly. He could see her disbelief, her horror. He fought to resist dropping his swords, as every shuddering breath rippled his flesh with pain. He could not see who it was that had caught him, and he wondered if pleasure resided in his gaze. All he could think of as silence replaced his surroundings was Arthur. He should have thought about home. He should have been angry that death had seized him when freedom was so close. But all he could think about was his captain.

He had hardly felt himself fall. It seemed like the earth was reaching up with tender arms, embracing his tired body. The soil, however tainted it was, felt like a soft bed that had been calling to him for ages. His black curls splayed across the ground, his armor gravitating toward the earth, and his body was suddenly limp in the curves of the dirt. He no longer looked upon anything in the world, no longer heard the sounds of war that had belonged to his life for so long. He could not remember his fellow knights for more than a fleeting second, and even Arthur faded from his mind. As death reached out to him, he could think of nothing except a despair that had been harbored in his heart for too long. He felt every shudder of his failing heart, every surge of pain when he breathed and consequently shifted the arrow. He let his eyes slip closed and let go, sinking into darkness as if it were the sea.

She did not return to fighting. Though it went against her warrior nature, she abandoned the battle and knelt at his side instead. Her hands reached out to touch him, but he did not move. His eyes were glazed with death, staring blankly into the clouded sky, where the sun had long disappeared. He had come to her aid, though she was a stranger and an enemy, and here he lay dead for her. What had made him do it? What foolishness seized you, she thought. Blood pooled in his mouth, coating his lips, and she found that it caused her to feel bitter. How would Arthur take it? She knew the pain would be inhuman for him to bear. Better, she thought quietly, that he die in this battle as well, though I love him. Her eyes burned with an unfamiliar emotion.

He rushed toward her, relief overwhelming him at the sight of her still alive. Things had grown still around him, and he had killed Cedric at last. He carried the pain of Tristan's death as another fresh wound, harder to bear than the wound that bled freely through his armor. He did not understand why she was on the ground, her weapons abandoned. As he approached, his eyes flitted about, seeking his knights but finding no familiar faces. It was in the next moment that his heart sunk into the ground, when his eyes fell upon Lancelot, lying still before Guinevere. He fled to his side, stumbling to his knees opposite of his lady, but he seemed to be too late. Lancelot's eyes were unmoving, robbed of their depth and intensity that Arthur had always admired. Pain reverberated throughout his own eyes, as he looked into Lancelot's and found nothing. His heart flinched, crumbling in on itself, as his hand stretched out to caress Lancelot's hair with bittersweet affection.

" It was my life to be taken," he cried out to God. " Not this. Never this." He barely noticed Bors and Gawain at his side, their own faces wrought with pain as they looked upon Lancelot. Arthur bowed his head once more, his fingers entangling themselves in the familiar black curls. He could not keep his tears at bay for so much a moment – perhaps for any other knight but not Lancelot. Soundlessly, he began to weep, his body sinking into a slouch, his shoulders turning inward, and his heart aching with a pain he had not known existed. Lancelot had met the end he had wanted for himself, and if Arthur were not so grieved, it would have angered him. No one touched him or spoke, but allowed him the tears and moment of despair. They knew he could not be comforted.

After a time, he tried to gather himself back into composure, deciding he would take the arrow from his knight's flesh now, instead of waiting until they reached the wall. He wanted to carry the body back as Lancelot always was and preserve his friend's honor, which might be tainted with a Saxon arrow. Gently, as if Lancelot yet lived, Arthur took the arrow in his grasp, his other hand planted firmly on the man's chest, and eased it out as best he could. The others looked away as he did this, but their heads snapped back to attention when the silence was torn by a sharp gasp.

Lancelot had returned. He was panting for breath, his eyes wide, and he began to cough up blood. Arthur seized him by the shoulders, the arrow forgotten, his eyes boring into Lancelot's soul. He wasn't sure if he was still breathing or not. It felt as if his heart had shot up into his throat and frozen there. Gawain and Bors had fallen to their knees as well, looming over Lancelot's head, holding their breath along with Arthur and Guinevere. Arthur's hand had slipped under Lancelot's head, supporting him as the knight was racked with a coughing fit. Regardless of Lancelot's dark armor and his own tears, Arthur could see the blood rising up swiftly.

" Arthur," the knight spluttered, fighting to breathe.

" Hush," Guinevere said, intent on the knight who had saved her.

" Be still," Arthur urged, his own wave of emotions threatening to undo him. He pressed his hand to Lancelot's wound in attempts to staunch the blood, feeling his friend's heart racing up into his palm. The knight must be tended to immediately, lest he die. With Lancelot's head still in his hand, he felt himself breathe again. Panic was mounting in his chest, dangerously mounting. Lancelot's eyes were locked on his own, speaking volumes unto him. The knight was failing. His blood was fleeing all too quickly. His heart was slowing on its approach to death.

" Arthur." Galahad's call rang out through the tension, but only Gawain had room to be gladdened at his arrival. Their last knight was astride his horse again, waiting for his captain's words.

" It is Lancelot," Guinevere spoke out, getting to her feet. The young knight's eyes shifted from Arthur to her, sharpening at his comrade's name. " He fades," she explained. " We must get him to the Wall."

In the next moment, the others lifted Lancelot up to Galahad, their hands sending him off with prayer and hope. He slumped forward, in front of Galahad, who held him to his chest. Lancelot's hand held fast to Arthur's, his narrowed eyes looking to him as he breathed heavily.

" I'll take him as fast as possible," Galahad promised. " Do not linger long." They nodded, and Lancelot's hand was snatched out of Arthur's, as Galahad faded into the distance on the wings of haste.