Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any characters thereof.
The wooden doors scrapped apart as they opened. He remembered the heavy, sturdy iron handle of the door in his hands… it was the last thing he remembered touching, it was the last thing that felt real. After that it was like he was looking in on someone else's life—like he wasn't truly there. Lancelot's arm laced around Guinevere's waist. Her hands twisted into his hair and their bodies met.
It was like he was looking at the world through murky water, nothing made sense. Lancelot and Guinevere, together—their faces were confused.
Their lips met.
The air went out of Arthur's lungs—he felt like a bigger man than he'd ever faced had just punched him. The claws of lusty shadows pulled his breath out of him and in that moment it was like his mind was yanked from his body.
They jumped apart instantly, but Arthur was already gone.
"No," he breathed, " no. No, not you Guinevere."
She opened her mouth, struggling to find words. His heart was pounding. His fingers knotted around the hilt of his sword. "I fought for you," he breathed, trembling.
She was shaking her head, and protested, but her words were lost on him. A black fire was blazing through his system setting his blood to a rumbling boil. Who was she, this Guinevere? Who was she to destroy all that they'd fought so hard to build? She had dark eyes and smooth skin—in appearance so like his love, but not her. Never her.
"And you, I trusted you," he hissed at Lancelot. "I knighted you. We were brothers." His mind raced through memories of their shared triumphs: the griffin, the rescue of Guinevere, the immortal army... He trusted Lancelot from the beginning. But hadn't Lancelot proved himself to be a liar from the start—a common man not a knight, not of noble blood…a lair. Arthur should have stopped trusting him then, but no, Lancelot seemed honorable. His mind flickered to another scene, Lancelot seemed so attached to Guinevere after her rescue. Yes, he'd noticed it then but surely it couldn't have been. Then there were the looks Lancelot gave her as they plotted to take back Camelot from Morgause. But, no Lancelot would never…no he was far too honorable. He was far too trustworthy. Arthur was disgusted.
He watched from somewhere outside his body as he ran at Lancelot, sword unsheathed in an instant. He used the momentum from the run to lift the sword high and pull it down onto Lancelot's head. Lancelot scrambled to push Guinevere further away from him and barely dodged the blow, the sword slashing at his left shoulder and drawing blood. The knight unsheathed his own sword and clumsily parried the second of Arthur's blows.
"Stop this," the knight demanded, and there were cries. Guinevere's cries, they sounded warped and blurred, like she was yelling from the far end of a tunnel. Arthur swung his sword, again, and again, pushing Lancelot around the room. He led the knight into a corner and raised his sword—prepared to end him. Lancelot kicked Arthur in the chest with enough force to drive him back and flee. But Arthur didn't stop. Their swords danced together with screeches in an endless song of grinding steel blended together with the grunts and shouts that filled the room. "I don't want to hurt you, sire!" Lancelot yelled swerving out of range of Arthur's latest blow.
The words were like brush onto an already raging inferno. A primal cry exploded from Arthur's chest. "I'll kill you," he cried charging the knight. Throwing all his fury into his movement, Arthur knocked Lancelot to the floor. The knight's sword clattered and his body thudded to the ground heavily. Arthur towered over him panting, seized by rage. His blade poised, glinting with the blood of Lancelot's shoulder, ready to strike a deeper blow—a fatal blow. Suddenly, Guinevere was beside him. Her crying rang on the back of his ear, "Arthur! Stop this," she cried, "stop this!" She begged, her voice thick with emotion.
But her voice held no magic over him and he did not move. Where was his Guinevere, he thought? He stood over Lancelot readying his weapon. Her hands locked onto his arm and he could almost remember the scent of her. His mind conjured memories of the intimacies they'd shared—her gentle hands pulling him in just so. But these hands were not gentle and she yanked him backwards painfully. He stumbled back and she threw herself in front of Lancelot. He could hardly focus so many images swam through his head. Guinevere's smile, Lancelot looking at her, Guinevere's petal-soft lips, Lancelot's eyes stopping on her too long, Guinevere's scent, Lancelot kissing her hand slowly, Guinevere's walk. Lancelot….Guinevere.
And then he was back again. It was like there was a knock on the door of his mind and he walked back into the room to answer. Arthur stood in front of the scene as if seeing it for the first time. Lancelot lay on the floor bleeding. Guinevere kneeled shaking before him, her hair mussed, a wild look in her eyes. A dangerous look. There was blood on the floor, blood on his sword and a ripping in his chest that made him feel like his insides were being drawn out in bloody handfuls. Arthur's sword slipped from his fingers, clinking as it met the floor—the final note to the song of swords….then there was silence. Arthur stood still, as if moving would blow him apart. His mind was still spinning as he struggled to regain control over his body.
"Go," he commanded hoarsely.
Guinevere stared at him with those eyes. It was then that he recognized her again. Those dark eyes, though blackened with emotions he could not classify, were his Guinevere's.
"Go," he said again, his throat burning, but she simply sat before him, staring as if he'd broken something inside of her. The knot in his chest tightened. Why wouldn't they go?
"Go," he whispered, the burning in his throat reaching his eyes—blurring his vision.
Lancelot pushed himself to his feet, Guinevere rising to help him to the door. There was silence as they walked passed Arthur. Guinevere looked straight ahead avoiding Arthur's eyes, but Lancelot's eyes met Arthur's for the slightest fraction of a second. Arthur felt a beast stir within him. He diverted his glance as the two left the room. The wooden doors scrapped together as they shut.
Arthur slumped to his knees. His eyes pooled with hot tears and he doubled over, heavy with a misery that struck him like a battering ram. He was shattered; everything sturdy he had to hang onto was gone.