Title: Nocturne
Category: Het (Canon)
Characters/Pairings: Lancelot/Guinevere
Rating/Warnings: M
Summary: Not even the most powerful enchantment was enough to prevent a resurrected soul from remembering a love that was stronger than death itself. Instead, it gave him the freedom to act upon his passions in ways that had never been possible in life. Set during Episode 4x09.

Part I: His Mistress

The life within Lancelot had departed like a whisper when the blackness of the veil had closed around him. A languid drowsiness had stolen the strength from his limbs, gently urging his eyes to close, and then he'd known no more. Perhaps it had been due to the fact that he'd chosen his fate willingly, but death had been quick and painless, surprisingly gentle compared with the end he'd always expected for himself.

When awareness returned, however, it was something else entirely. Gone were tender thoughts of the people he'd saved through his sacrifice, beloved, familiar faces that had comforted him as he'd drawn his last breath and found his eternal rest.

No, dying had been the easy part, warm and soothing. Coming back to life was quite the opposite – a gasp of shock as the frigid water stabbed his reawakened flesh like a thousand tiny swords, inhaling by instinct, only to choke when his mouth filled with foul tasting mud rather than the air his body desperately craved.

There was illumination from above, muted rays of sunlight that barely penetrated the murky depths, but he understood. He needed to rise, and quickly... why, he didn't know, but he had to rise.

He kicked off from the bottom, awkwardly at first, as his stiff muscles gradually came back to life. Then up he swam, his oxygen starved lungs burning with agony as he fought his way to the surface.

She called to him softly from the recesses of his blank mind, already beckoning him to her as he lifted his head above the water and remembered what it was to breathe again. Calling, calling, and he began to move in the direction from whence her voice had come, knowing she'd be there before his eyes ever fell upon her black clad figure in the distance.

He knew so many things without quite understanding how the knowledge had come to him. The words that formed his thoughts made complete sense, although he couldn't recall how he'd learned them, or if they'd ever fallen from his lips in the past. Did he have a past?

It didn't matter, for the only certainty that drove him was the one that compelled him to open his mouth and acknowledge the woman he felt a overwhelming desire to serve.

"My name is Lancelot, my lady," he murmured softly, giving her a respectful bow. "I am yours to command."

She didn't speak at first, just smiled to herself as her eyes traveled slowly down his naked chest. Come out of the water, he felt her beckon silently, as she turned and made her way to shore. Come out, we have work to do...

Lancelot followed at her heels without hesitation, as if he were bound to her by invisible shackles that left him with no possible alternative. But unlike a prisoner who was chained against his will, he trailed after her retreating figure eagerly, his entire awareness wrapped up in a burning need to serve his new mistress, to please her, to do everything possible to bring her satisfaction. He was hers and hers alone; that was all he needed to know.

She faced him again when they reached solid ground, suddenly reaching out to wrap a warm hand around his cold, damp fingers. There was a flurry of words he didn't understand, followed by a brilliant flash of gold in her green eyes, and then the world was spinning, turning, whirling past his bewildered gaze so swiftly that he could distinguish nothing beyond splashes of color and the frigid wind that chilled his naked flesh.

And then it was over. He was standing before her in a dimly lit dwelling, shivering, hungry, exhausted beyond all comprehension, but it never occurred to him to give voice to these needs. All Lancelot knew was that he must wait for her command.

"Sir Lancelot," she said softly as she circled around him. "Once known to one and all as a matchless warrior. I wonder what other skills he possessed in life?"

He wanted to answer her, for no other reason than the simple desire to never leave her wanting for anything. His eyes drifted shut as he struggled, searching in vain through the recesses of his empty mind for some clue about his former identity. The blackness shifted a little, punctuated by the briefest flashes of sound and color, but there was no logic to the mishmash of scattered images that fluttered by. And when he opened his eyes again, they had vanished.

Morgana seemed to sense his inner battle. "No matter," she said with a smile. "Don't try to remember. From what I understand, it's impossible for one such as yourself. I will teach you all you need to know."

Lancelot bowed his head submissively as he waited for her to continue.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

Without thought, he stepped forward and pressed his lips against hers. There was something pleasant about the sensation, strangely familiar, yet foreign at the same time. It was as if he'd done this before, many times, but the taste and the feeling were not the same as the faint echo that pricked at the back of his mind, recalling something sweeter, more gentle than the mouth that connected with his forcefully, the probing tongue that roughly demanded entrance.

But still, he granted it gladly, immediately taking control when he sensed that was what she wanted. It was exciting, pleasurable, sending waves of heat through his shivering body as she murmured her approval and pressed herself closer.

"Touch me," she commanded in a husky voice. "Take my clothes off and touch me."

Eagerly, his fingers drifted down to the ties of her dress, clumsy in their haste both to please her and to discover what other pleasures lay in store for himself. He wanted something... something he didn't understand, something he couldn't name. But suddenly, he wanted it far more than he could imagine wanting anything.

But Morgana pushed his hands aside and stepped away, fixing him with a chastising look that filled him with a deep sense of shame, though he had no idea what he'd done wrong.

"Not like that," she said shortly. "Slowly, Lancelot. Gently. You are not a beast, but a man who was surely a capable lover in his prime. I need you to play the part. Now try again."

And so he swallowed his own desire, sliding the dress from her body by inches, his fingers trailing across each expanse of newly exposed skin with a soft, lingering touch. Images flickered briefly in his mind again, the faintest memory of not doing this, exactly, but wanting to... some barely remembered dream about trailing his lips down a different neck, across another collarbone, then back up to steal a kiss as he lifted her in his arms.

Morgana gasped in surprise when he picked her up and carried her to the bed, but she didn't protest. She lay on her back, dark curls spilling wildly across the pillow, her green eyes studying him speculatively as he devoured the sight of her naked body, from the pale, rose tipped breasts, to the flat stomach and the gentle curves of her hips. His gaze lingered hungrily upon the dark thatch of hair between her slender thighs, before he finally stretched out beside her and ran his hands over all the places he longed to touch.

"Very good," she murmured breathlessly, as he dipped his head to take a taut nipple in his mouth. "You're doing well."

It was all instinct from there... instinct, combined with traces of past fantasies that told him what to do. He shut his eyes, envisioning a fuller breast, a flash of tawny skin flashing behind his tightly closed lids, as he gently sucked and teased with his tongue, drawing back just a little to allow his hot breath to caress the sensitive skin before switching to the other.

Morgana shivered, her lips parting in a soft murmur of approval as she threaded her fingers in his hair and pushed him down.

This, too, Lancelot understood, though he wasn't quite sure how or why. He was meant to touch her in that hidden place, the place that called to him in a language without words, begging for his hands, his lips, his seeking tongue...

He caressed her gently as he knelt between her legs, groaning aloud at the persistent, throbbing need that pulsed through the hard length that rested against his own thighs, a craving that swiftly grew unbearable as he penetrated her with his fingers and began to thrust with motions that were instinctually familiar to him. So soft, so warm, and in a blinding flash, he understood exactly what he was supposed to do.

But Morgana wouldn't allow it. "Not yet," she said sharply when he reached down and wrapped a hand around himself, eager to guide it to the place it was obviously meant to go. "Be patient. You'll know when I'm ready."

Lancelot wanted to ask, "How?"

He didn't want to seem disobedient, however, and so he waited, the motions of his hands and mouth becoming more and more effective as he concentrated on what seemed to elicit the most noticeable sounds of pleasure from her lips. She was building to something; he wasn't sure what it was, but her moans were growing louder, her soft thighs trembling around him, and he desperately wanted her to reach it. He sped up the movements, fingers aching, tongue cramping, not that he cared in either case, and then...

Morgana let loose a loud, shuddering cry, her back arching for a moment before she collapsed against the pillows. Lancelot looked up to find her staring down at him with heavy lidded eyes, and he knew...

He took hold of himself again and rose to kneel between her legs, meeting not a whisper of protest as he eased himself into her.

It felt so indescribably good, being enveloped in that warm, wet heat... far better than any sensation he could possibly imagine. He groaned with pleasure, ravaging her mouth with a deep, hungry kiss that came more from instinct than conscious choice as his hips began to move. He wanted... oh, he needed...

"Slow down, Lancelot," she said again, the sternness in her voice barely noticeable in the breathless words. "You must pace yourself."

Urgent desire rejected the command and yet, her will was still stronger than the pressing need inside him. With a great deal of effort, he brought his hard, frantic pace under control, switching to a succession of slow, deep thrusts that elicited a whimper of approval as Morgana's hands trailed restlessly up and down his back.

Lancelot buried his face in the curve of her neck, closing his eyes again as he lost himself in the rhythm of the movements, suddenly remembering another time, another life where he'd imagined doing this very thing to a woman with fathomless dark eyes and soft, tawny skin.

Traces of the fantasy lingered longer this time... the slow build he'd once envisioned in his mind coming to him quite naturally as he thrust a little faster, just a little harder with every movement of his hips. He remembered... oh, the words flashed across his mind, words he'd once dreamed of whispering into a different ear as he sought to give her everything... everything she could possibly want, and more.

No, Lancelot couldn't speak to Morgana of loving devotion. He knew that somehow, but the other words that flitted across his memory came easily... whispers of her incomparable beauty, how amazing she felt, how much he wanted her, needed her, how he couldn't possibly get enough of the pleasure she gave him.

She shivered as he murmured in her ear, making soft, hungry noises as her hands clawed more and more urgently at his straining shoulders, her sharp fingernails biting into his flesh as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Harder," she gasped breathlessly, as her heels dug into his backside to further emphasize the point. "More!"

Another fleeting thought danced across his mind, causing him to abruptly withdraw. Before Morgana's whimper of outrage had the chance to turn into words of censure, however, he'd flipped her roughly onto her stomach and dragged her up by the hips, swiftly positioning himself, then slamming into her with all the force he could muster.

It happened again, the uncontrollable cry of pleasure, but it was more like a scream this time, as he felt her body tighten and pulse around his aching length. She went limp again, her eyes tightly closed, her face glistening with sweat in the dim candlelight as she panted and struggled for control in the aftermath.

Lancelot didn't give her a chance to recover. There was nothing anymore, no fleeting images of tenderness to keep him in check. He stared down at Morgana's trembling body with burning eyes as mindless hunger overtook his senses, his fingers digging into her hips with a bruising grip as he pounded into her with a jarring intensity that had her hands scrabbling for the bed frame to steady herself.

And then he was leaning over her, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking her head back to sink his teeth into her soft neck, immediately gratified by the sharp cry of mingled pleasure and pain as he tasted a hint of her blood in his mouth.

"Do it again," he demanded in a harsh whisper. He was close, so close to that thing he wanted... that need that made it feel as if he might die all over again if it were not fulfilled. But before that, he wanted to hear it one more time... that ragged cry that meant he'd driven her beyond all control. Once more, he wanted to feel her heat close in around him, pulsing with waves of almost unbearable pleasure that he now recognized and wanted for himself.

It happened on command, both the words and the relentless thrust that accompanied them combining to drive Morgana over the edge. She cried out in helpless abandon, her voice trailing off into a ragged sob as her body shuddered around him. Her strength gave out as the climax washed over her... she started to collapse, but no, he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Gripping her hips more tightly to hold her in place, Lancelot pounded into her furiously – once, twice, a third time, and then he was groaning, grunting, releasing himself into her with a series of violent spasms that nearly made him weep from the indescribable pleasure.

And then he collapsed on the bed beside her, his body drenched with sweat as he closed his eyes and panted in the darkness. For a few minutes, there was no sound but their mingled breathing, harsh and unsteady at first, then settling down into a calm, quiet rhythm.

Lancelot soon grew drowsy, not quite understanding what it meant, but craving the peaceful blackness that beckoned him forward. Sleep, that's what it was. He needed to sleep.

But just as he'd started to drift off, Morgana sat up and persistently shook his shoulder until he opened his eyes and fixed her with a bleary, unfocused stare.

"Not yet," she said, looking just a little too pleased at his noticeable discomfort. "There are more important things than sleep just now. You've passed one test, but there are many more before your purpose can be fulfilled."

The compulsion instantly took over again, forcing Lancelot to drag his exhausted body from the bed and follow her across the room. "Of course," he said automatically, watching with no real interest as she rummaged in a cabinet and withdrew several items of clothing. "I am yours to command."

As she peeked back at him over one shoulder with a cruel glint in her green eyes, Lancelot had the fleeting impression that if he'd possessed the ability to hate her in that moment, he probably would have.