DISCLAIMER: Bruckheimer's got this in the bag.
A/N: So, I was generally quite dissatisfied at the sheer lack of Lancelot/Guinevere love in the 2004 version of King Arthur. I don't care if it's supposed to be more historical. As far as I'm concerned, what made the Arthur legends so great was Lancelot/Guinevere. So, for the folks who may feel the same way, I offer you Lancelot and Guinevere.
THE PRICE OF FREEDOM
Guinevere looked up at the exact moment it happened. She felt a burning in her chest, a sensation so agonizing it stole her breath away.
She saw the look on his face, and was sure her own mirrored his expression of anguish and disbelief.
His pain tore through her as if it were her own.
Guinevere felt the arrow that went through his heart as if it had gone through her own. She gasped at the exact same moment he did. Her stomach tightened, her throat constricted, and bitter bile tried to force its way up.
Lancelot. NO!
Time stood still for a moment.
Heated eyes burned through the flimsy white cloth that served as her only covering. The glowing yellow lamps inside the wagon illuminated her, she knew, so that he could see her as clearly as though the thin barrier weren't there at all.
She pretended not to notice as she continued with her bath. The lady's maid lent to her by Alecto's mother ran the soft, wet sponge down her back. She should have been cold; the snow continued to fall gently from the sky, blanketing the earth, while the winter wind howled mercilessly just over the canyon's edge.
But her skin was hot, flushed, almost tingling with awareness. It was almost like a fever, the heat that ran just beneath her skin. She released a soft, gentle sigh of pleasure as cool water trickled over her naked flesh.
She imagined she could hear him swallow down his desire.
Guinevere found that she liked his eyes on her. She found the courage—the audacity—to look up and stare right back at him through the curtains. Her heart raced, her skin flushed, and her mouth parted wantonly.
Lancelot met her bold gaze with one of his own. He did not bother to hide the intensity behind his look, the hunger and desire on his face. They were several feet apart but she could almost feel his hot breath on her skin, could almost imagine his hands touching her. A moment later, he slowly turned away from her, but not before she glanced the reluctance that shimmered in his eyes.
The moon shone behind him, snow fell around him. Guinevere's mouth went dry as she was once again struck by the sheer beauty of him.
His face was poetic perfection. Deep-set blue eyes, so deep and dark they were almost black, high cheekbones, a straight nose—a rarity in a warrior of his caliber—wide, full lips, emphasized, instead of hidden, by his trimmed beard. That beautiful face was framed by dark hair that curled around his head, teasing her fingers which longed to run through them. His body was not thick and broad like many warriors and knights' were. Instead, he was long and lean. She had seen him move; she had watched him ride his horse alongside her wagon. His movements were fluid and graceful; yet he was one of the more powerful warriors around.
She licked her lips and looked away, just as his eyes were drawn towards her again. She smiled.
Guinevere saw Lancelot fling one of his short swords at Cynric, the Saxon heir, with a full-bodied roar. They both watched with grim satisfaction as the blade sliced into the other man's chest. Yet, the satisfaction was short-lived, as it seemed like he had used his last strength in that endeavor.
He fell to his knees, and she thought she felt the earth shake around her at the impact. Her whole world quaked. She cried out for him. But her anguished moan was drowned out by the thousands of other cries that surrounded her. Death was everywhere; the clang of sword against axe, the sickening sound of flesh tearing, of blood spilling—the sounds of death were everywhere. The battle at Hadrian's Wall was their last stand against the Saxons and for their freedom.
Yet, he was on his knees.
And, she realized, so was she.
"What was it like?" she asked, letting the night wind carry her voice towards him. "Your home?"
She did not know why she approached him. But she had been drawn to him. She had been watching him since their journey towards Hadrian's Wall had started. She had caught glimpses of him astride his steed, back ramrod straight, eyes sharp and watchful. She had seen some of the glances he had thrown her way, as well. He had always looked away quickly.
But once, he had smirked boldly at her, as if to tell her that he knew she was watching him, too.
His smirk had only roused her curiosity and attraction towards him. And so she had continued to watch him.
Tonight, he had chosen gallantry over his baser desires, and had looked away. Yet, he had not moved from his post, where he could still see her in plain sight. He was sitting right at the base of the same tree he had stood under while he had unashamedly watched her bathe.
That was the paradox of Lancelot. He was a mystery she was aching to unravel.
He turned his face with intentional slowness towards her at the sound of her question. His curls whipped in the cold winter wind, and his handsome face was tinged by the bluish-white light of the moon. Guinevere thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
A wry, slightly wicked smile touched his full lips. "We sacrificed goats, drank their blood, and danced naked 'round fires," he drawled sarcastically. He chuckled, as if laughing at some joke that the gods had shared with him.
Guinevere was not deterred by his off-hand, almost arrogant manner. This was one more side to Lancelot that she had noticed. He liked to pretend that nothing mattered; yet she had noticed that he protected Arthur and his followers with a fierceness that humbled her. She continued to look at him expectantly, her eyes unwavering.
He finally realized that she was not laughing along with him. His chiseled face instantly sobered, and he met her eyes intensely. His head was tilted slightly, regarding her with a measuring gaze.
She stood straighter, raised her chin a notch higher. There was something about this man that made her want to be stronger, better, and more beautiful than she appeared to be.
They continued to look at each other in silence. She could hear the crackle of the fires they had lit around the campsite, the golden light mingled with the pale silver of the moon, playing beautifully over his handsome face.
His lips quirked, his expression gentled. Guinevere almost smiled. He had accepted her question as sincere. He sighed, and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. His dark blue eyes took on a faraway look, and his voice softened.
"What I do remember…home…" His eyes locked with hers, almost challengingly. "Oceans of grass from horizon to horizon, further than you can ride. The sky…bigger than you can imagine…No boundaries."
A poet warrior. A warrior poet. Guinevere felt her heart fill with the longing and pride in his voice. She understood him. She felt herself step ever closer to a precipice of feeling she wasn't sure she was quite prepared to jump into. But Lancelot drew her step-by-small-step closer to that edge.
"Some people would call that freedom," she said softly.
He smiled at her, a genuine smile. Her heart skipped a beat. He had a tender smile, too, this warrior. He looked away, shyly. He had told her something about himself—perhaps a vision, a dream, a memory that no longer really existed but in his heart—that he may never have shared with anyone before.
She stepped closer to him. "That's what I—we—fight for—our land, our people," she said her voice gentle with understanding.
She knew that at any other time, they would have found each other on opposite sides of the battlefield. But tonight, they stood not four feet from each other, sharing parts of themselves as they would never have had with anyone else.
"We fight for the right to choose our own destiny," she declared, her voice strong with conviction. This was something she truly believed in. She hoped he would understand. "So you see, Lancelot, we are much alike, you and I."
He was on his knees, but he continued to hold himself up, his other sword used as a crutch. His strength gave her strength, and she found her feet taking her towards him as fast as she could. Bodies stood in her way. She dodged past these obstacles.
Her mind slipped in and out of reality. She fought and thrust her sword and dagger into anyone who dared stop her from getting to him. She barely noticed the number of bodies that fell at her feet.
All she saw was him, staggering slowly, the arrow protruding out of his chest. She could almost feel the warmth of his blood trickling out of his wounded heart. A hundred feet, a thousand soldiers, and a wall of fire separated her from him.
She knew in her heart that she would not reach him. They were too far apart.
Lancelot ducked away from her, refusing to meet her eyes. He stared off into the distance, as if weighing her words for their worth. She tilted her head, frowning. He was shaking his head, and her heart was breaking. But then he looked up at her and met her eyes again. There was a kind understanding and a grudging respect in his eyes.
She knew he did not agree with her. He did not believe in destiny, nor in one's power to choose one's destiny. He would not grant that they were at least similar in their views of freedom.
Yet he gave her leeway for her opinions and thoughts. Not very many men would have allowed her that much. Most men would have argued against her until she relented and agreed with them.
Not Lancelot.
He smiled and nodded. Just once. But that was enough for her. And she knew when to ease into another topic, one that would not fray the tender truce they had at the moment.
She took a few steps towards him, emboldened, falling still closer to that magnetic feeling that pulled her to him. "And when you return home, will you take a wife? Have sons?" The words escaped her lips before she could stop herself.
Why ask questions when she knew the answers would only break her heart?
Because despite the fact that they were only two feet away from each other, they were still enemies, born of a different blood.
But she could not stop herself from asking, any more than she could stop herself from looking hopefully into his eyes. The glow of the fire cast his midnight eyes in gold light, sending sparks in their depths that lit like stars in the sky. Like a moth, she was drawn helplessly to his flame.
He stood up slowly, stretching his body almost languidly, as he measured his response. He took one step towards her. His voice was distant, bleak, and he did not look her in the eye. "I have killed too many sons. What right do I have to my own?"
Her heart ached at the loneliness she heard in the deep timbre of his voice. "No family, no religion…" she murmured. "Do you believe in anything at all?"
She wanted desperately for there to be something to save him. Because this poet-warrior did not deserve the loneliness that enshrouded him. He pretended so hard that he enjoyed the fighting—and he was certainly skilled enough to make others believe it—but Guinevere sensed that he longed for a peaceful existence.
Not even freedom. Maybe just peace.
He looked far away and sighed heavily—resignedly. When he looked back at her, his face had changed. Gone was the gentleness and the poet. The man who stood before her, armor on, two short swords crossed over his back, dagger tucked against his hip, and eyes unreadable, was Lancelot the Pretend Warrior.
"I would have left you and the boy in that dungeon to die." He said with brutal honesty. His voice brooked no arguments, his face was cold and unyielding. He pushed her away with those words and shut her out as if he had physically slammed a door shut in her face.
Then he turned around and walked away.
She held back the tears that welled in her eyes at the thought that she would never be able to get inside of him. That she wasn't allowed inside.
No family. No religion. Guinevere did not doubt once that Lancelot loved fiercely, but exclusively. He held everything he cared about close to him, and allowed very few to penetrate his defenses.
He had a hand around the tail-end of the arrow that extended out of his chest. Guinevere watched as he supported the deadly piece of wood and metal that had pierced right through his armor and into his heart. Blood trickled over his fingers.
She roared angrily as another bearded man dared cross her path. She parried his blow, ducked around his swinging axe, and swiped her sword effortlessly across her enemy's spine. It all happened in a matter of seconds.
Then her eyes sought his staggering form again. It was almost like a mockery…that tiny piece of wood that stuck out over his heart. He had always been so careful to let anyone into his heart—yet here was the death blow: an arrow that had broken through his armor and pierced his heart.
She wanted to cry out his name. But she knew that he would never hear her.
Guinevere had always known what her destiny was. She was the daughter of Merlin; she was a leader, a warrior-princess of her people. Her destiny had always been to bring freedom to her people.
And she knew that the path to freedom lay in the hands of Arthur.
She heard her father's calls that night. She walked into the darkness of the woods, luring Arthur to follow in her footsteps.
She had always known her destiny, and she had always known that this was the path she would choose. But she had not expected the weight that hung around her heart as she looked over her shoulder once more, expecting to see Arthur, but meeting Lancelot's gaze instead.
She wanted it to be him.
She wanted her destiny to be entwined with his.
Yet, he had no family. No religion.
He was not the one.
She couldn't read the look on his face—he was too far away, and the night had truly fallen—but she knew her expression was desolate. Maybe…Lancelot was right in not agreeing with her.
Nobody really chooses their destiny after all.
Her breaths came out in gasps. Lancelot was kneeling in front of Cynric now, delivering the final thrust of his sword through the Saxon heir's neck. She could almost hear the slide of the blade cutting through flesh and sinew, through blood and bone.
He was finishing the job. Killing the Second-in-Command would leave the Saxon army crippled.
Cynric's cold blue eyes stared unseeingly into Lancelot's hard gaze. Guinevere watched dispassionately, still struggling to reach Lancelot, as the bald Saxon fell to the ground in a heap.
Lancelot's body followed him on the ground.
She screamed his name.
The wind screamed through the canyon like the anguished cries of a banshee. Guinevere stood, bow and arrow in hand, ice beneath her, cold wind whipping her hair about her. A platoon of soldiers drew ever closer to them. She had never been prouder of her warrior heritage than to stand in a single line among Arthur and his six knights.
She tested the strength of her bow, pulling over the tautness of the bow string, feeling its power. She felt eyes on her form, and looked up, knowing exactly who was watching her. She lifted a brow at his perusal.
"Your hands seem to be better," he commented drolly. He had his two short battle swords balancing over his shoulders, crossing behind his head, his hands gripping the hilts lightly. He drew closer to her, his swagger almost laconic and bored. His eyes were lowered slightly, and his lips were lifted in one corner.
She curled her fingers. Marius and his overzealous monks had tortured her for days, dislocating each joint of her fingers. Arthur had reset them.
But Lancelot had tended to her hands for days. Each time, he had massaged them, exercised them. Each time, he had refused to speak with her, nor look her in the eyes. But he had taken care of her.
She wrapped her fingers tightly around the bow and delicately, but powerfully, pulled at the string to full extension. She threw him a challenging gaze, and he chuckled easily as he took his place to stand next to her.
They waited in silence, the distant sound of war drums drawing ever closer. She felt tension coil in her belly, the grip on her bow tightening, and her breaths coming out in small uneven gasps.
He threw her a sideways glance. "You look frightened," he teased.
She lifted her eyes to his, and he grinned at her. "There's a large number of lonely men out there." Even while his tone was light and teasing, his meaning was unmistakable. He wished her to leave with the rest of the people towards the safety of Hadrian's Wall.
She would prove herself worthy. A small smile twitched on her lips. "Don't worry, I won't let them rape you."
She saw the answering smile of grudging admiration and pride in his face. Her chin lifted higher, her heart soared. She felt bold as she threw a coy glance at him. She had always been bold, but never in this manner. She had always been a woman who spoke her mind and declared her intentions…but always in defense of herself and of her people.
She had never been one to boldly draw attention to herself. Not until she met Lancelot. Not until she wanted nothing more than to see more of those smiles on his handsome face. "Are you one of them?" she asked softly.
He lifted a brow at her, his finely-featured face a mask of amusement. "One of whom?"
"The many lonely men out there." She declared boldly, her dark brown eyes meeting his intently.
His wide, sensual lips lifted at the corners, his eyes crinkled slightly in silent laughter. He faced her fully, despite the oncoming army in front of them. "Look your fill at me, Guinevere," he drawled, his blue eyes twinkling. "Do you see any cause for me to be lonely?"
He was baiting her. She appraised him boldly, her eyes wandering over every inch of him. From the curls that danced in the wind, to the sharp angles and soft planes of his handsome face, over his broad shoulders where the hilt of his short swords protruded from their sheaths on his back, to the wide chest covered in his breastplate of leather and gold, the narrow hips encased in steel and leather, the long legs in their armor and boots. He had strong hands that gripped his bow. His fingers were long and almost delicate, but she could see the calluses and scars over the knuckles. He was the finest man she had ever laid eyes on.
Indeed, he may have no cause to ever be lonely should he ride into any village. He would never be one to have to force his attentions on a woman.
Her eyes met his deep-blue ones again, and there was no more amusement in them. Instead, a heat so intense glowed in their midnight depths.
She smiled slyly at him. "Cause for loneliness, Lancelot? Perhaps your arrogance."
"Is that so?" he drawled. "I may not be arrogant enough, then."
Her lips parted in silent retort, before she looked away from him. "You do not know it, Lancelot, but you are a lonely man." She said softly, suddenly serious.
She glanced at him out the corner of her eye. His jaw had tensed, and she saw a muscle working spasmodically on his cheek. "No more lonely than the next soldier engaged in a never-ending war, I assure you."
"No…not that kind of lonely," she insisted. "The kind of lonely when you have no one to turn to."
"I have the company of Arthur and the rest of the Knights," he snapped.
"They do not understand you."
"Arthur and his knights are my closest friends. I trust that they know me well enough to know when a conversation is most unwelcome," his voice was now as cool as the winter chill.
"Why do you do that, Lancelot? Push people away?"
He ignored her, and focused his attentions on the drums and the horde of Saxon warriors that were rounding the river bend. Her focus, on the other hand, was only on him. She saw the stark beauty of his profile, the way his eyes sharpened at the sight of the enemy, the way his hand flexed and gripped the bow in his hands, how he leaned forward towards the impending fight.
She noticed how the others somehow leaned towards each other. Yet Lancelot stood as if he were an island. A part of the team, yet a single soldier all on his own.
"I think you are the loneliest man I have ever met," she murmured.
His head turned sharply towards her, his eyes blazing with fury despite the fact that his face remained calm. "Make no mistake in thinking you know me, Lady Guinevere. Do not imagine things that are not there." He warned icily. "I assure you that I am far from the loneliest man on this world. Men, like Arthur, are by far more alone."
"Arthur is a Briton with Roman allegiances leading an army of Sarmatian knights. He is alone as dictated by those circumstances. You, on the other hand, Sir Lancelot, are alone by choice," she insisted calmly.
He looked at her, his face unreadable. "I believe this is neither the time, nor the place for such a discussion. End it. Here. Now."
"I'm sorry," she murmured. She turned her attention to the amassed army in front of their band of eight. "Sometimes I speak out of turn when I am frightened, as you have pointed out. Are you not afraid?"
"I am not afraid of anything," he replied curtly.
"Perhaps it is because you have nothing to lose."
He threw her one final indecipherable glance. "Perhaps you are right."
She was still too far away. Her mind blanked away the fact that he was not hers, and she was not his. She forgot that she had promised herself to Arthur. It was her heart who gave her strength now. It was her heart that drove her faster and more desperately to his side. It was only her heart that she listened to this time.
She would not forget the look on his face.
He had knocked on Arthur's door, calling him to stand on the wall and look out on the Saxon army that had amassed just outside of Hadrian's Wall.
She had been inside—with Arthur—willingly giving herself to him and fulfilling her destiny.
Except, she hadn't counted on the stricken look on Lancelot's face at finding her there, her dress fallen off one shoulder, skirt raised well above her knees. He had looked away quickly, but she could not erase the feeling that she had hurt him far more deeply than any wound he had ever received in battle.
Arthur rushed past them and out the door, ever the leader, already battle-ready.
Lancelot continued to stand at Arthur's doorway and she saw a muscle ticking in his jaw. Guinevere never expected to feel so ashamed and lost as she did now. It did not make sense. She had made no promises to Lancelot.
Except that…she had. In her heart and soul, she had known that she belonged to him. And to be caught with another man—even one she had chosen of her own free will—felt like the darkest betrayal.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
He glanced coolly at her. "You have nothing to be sorry for. He is a good man. You chose well."
"Who says I had a choice?"
His dark eyes pierced through her. His wide, full lips mockingly twisted. "Was it not you, my Lady, who claim that we have the freedom to choose our paths? Our destiny?" he drawled ironically.
She stared at him in dismay. "You may be free, but I and my people have not yet gained our freedom, Sir," she murmured. She felt drawn towards him again, and she took a step closer. He, too, stepped into Arthur's bedchamber, closing the small gap that had been between them.
Their breaths mingled in the cold air of the castle. They were so close, all she had to do was raise her lips and his would meet hers without a doubt. She licked her lips, wanting, wondering at the taste of him. "Had I been free to choose…" she whispered.
"Lancelot!" Gawain's voice shattered the illusion of privacy and intimacy.
Lancelot snapped his head up quickly, and stepped away from her as if she had burned him. "I must take my leave, Lady," he said, and he tilted his head in a slight bow. She watched him walk away, allowing herself the moment to wallow in her misery.
He had called her 'Lady' twice. He had already given her to Arthur, had already addressed her as Arthur's bride. It was yet another door he had closed in her face. And she could not blame him. After all, was she not standing here in Arthur's bedchamber in the middle of the night?
"Guinevere! You must come, too!" Arthur's voice boomed down the stone hallways. She lifted her chin and held herself together as tightly as she could.
Tomorrow, there would be a war. It was certain with the arrival of the Saxons.
Tomorrow, Lancelot was to leave. To return home to Sarmatia, after nearly twenty years of servitude—slavery—for the Roman Empire. He was finally free to see the never-ending sea of grass and the blue skies that stretched to eternity.
And she would remain behind, and fulfill her destiny.
Nothing made a mockery of her destiny so much as his death.
Nothing else made the world clearer and starker; her desires more obvious, her needs unmistakable. It was only him that she saw now. It was to him she was running towards. It was only his name she was crying out loud.
"Lancelot!" she cried after him as he walked down the stone hallways. He was leaving. "Wait!"
He stopped his ground-eating strides, and turned abruptly to face her. His face was blank and cold. "Yes?"
"I have said I was sorry," she whispered, her eyes flooding with tears, begging him to understand.
"And I have, in turn, replied that there is nothing for you to apologize for."
"Then why are you leaving?" she asked, her voice shrill.
"Because I am a free man as of today, Lady," he replied calmly. "I am free to go home. I have served nigh twenty of my years to the Roman Empire. I have lived only for this day in all of those twenty years."
She looked away. "But there is a war about to rage just outside these walls…" she trailed off, too choked in the betrayal of his flight. He was well and truly leaving her behind.
"Not my war. Not for my land. Not for my god. And not for my people." He pronounced softly, enunciating every word so that they were driven like stakes into her heart. "I am free now. I hold no allegiance for anyone save myself."
She took a step back away from him, feeling as if he had physically slapped her. "Very well. Then I bid you goodbye."
He gave her a small curt bow. "Goodbye, Lady Guinevere. I wish you and Arthur…" he trailed off leaving his wishes to her imagination, then shook his head. He spun around on his heel and walked down the hallway, his booted feet resounding heavily on the stone steps.
But she found that it was too painful to watch him leave. "You would leave your closest and dearest friend on the eve of the biggest fight of his life?"
He stopped, freezing in his tracks. He looked at her ominously over his broad shoulder. She was chilled to the bone by the anger in his eyes. He slowly turned to face her.
"Twenty years, Guinevere," he whispered, his voice carrying through the silence of the halls. "For twenty years, I have wanted nothing more than to go home. For twenty years, I have fought battle after battle, war after war, enemy after enemy…all at Arthur's side, all for the promise of my freedom. Would you deny me that? Do you understand?"
Her lips parted slightly, and she bowed her head in shame. She understood. He had paid his dues, had done everything, given up everything for this moment. And she was trying to rouse his guilt into staying.
She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. "And you have no other reason for staying?" she whispered softly.
He stopped breathing for a second. His eyes roamed over her face, and she saw such longing in their blue depths her knees almost gave out. No man had ever looked at her the way Lancelot looked at her.
"You cannot ask me to stay," he said with a shake of his head. He slowly walked back towards her, advancing like a hunter towards its prey. Yet, she stood her ground, lifting her chin higher to continue meeting his eyes even as he drew closer towards her. "You have made your choice, Lady Guinevere. And I could not have chosen a better man for you."
He was so close now that his breath tickled the dark hairs just over her forehead. She shivered, and her hairs stood on end in awareness of his presence. Her eyes drifted close and she allowed herself to feel the warmth and strength that radiated off of his body.
"Had it been any other man save for Arthur, blood would be coloring my hands by now," he murmured, his lips almost brushing her hair. She inhaled his scent deeply. He was a mixture of leather and steel, horse and man. He smelled of winter nights and fire-lit moments. He smelled of poetry and laughter; dignity and duty. "Arthur is a good man. You have chosen well."
"You misunderstand, Lancelot," she confided softly, her eyes still closed, her face lifted towards his now. She opened her dark eyes to gaze deeply into his shadowed ones. "Had I the dare to choose…I would have chosen you."
His face was taut, his lips pressed tightly together. His eyes were infinitely sad, perhaps, mirroring her own. "But you did not."
"I chose for my people," she admitted. "Not for myself."
He nodded briskly once. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was suddenly far away from her, walking away. She reached out and caught his hand in her own. He stopped, but did not look at her.
"I cannot stay," he said to the dark hall. "I cannot walk the same halls as the two of you; I cannot sleep in the same house knowing that you are his and not mine. You are right in stating that he is my closest and dearest friend. I cannot betray him, Guinevere. Not by look, nor word, nor deed, I cannot betray him!"
"You would not," she insisted.
He turned to her, his eyes ablaze with passion and fury. "I am not nearly half so noble as you believe me to be, Lady Guinevere." Then, in one swift movement, he pulled her close to him, their bodies melded together from shoulder to knee, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her small form like bands of steel.
His lips crushed hers in an angry, bruising kiss.
Despite the pain, she moaned in welcome of his kiss. She opened her mouth and drew her arms to wrap around his neck. Her fingers caressed softly the hair that curled over his collar, slipping into his scalp. She stood on tiptoe and leaned further into him.
"By all that you hold holy, Guinevere," he muttered hotly across her lips. "Do not let me do this."
"I want this."
He groaned, and hauled her even closer to him, lifting her off her feet. His kiss had gentled, his mouth and tongue exploring hers, leaving her bare and open to him. He kissed her as if he would steal her soul.
He pushed her against the wall, as if he, too, could no longer stand on his own two feet. Guinevere knew that this kiss would forever be seared into her memory.
He leaned his forehead against her. "I cannot stay. I am no knight who rides to the rescue of his lady. Do not pretend to know the book of my life, for it is not open to you."
Guinevere gasped when he released her suddenly. She fell back against the wall, her fingers drifting towards her bruised lips. He looked at her, his face expressionless. Then without another word, he spun around and walked away.
Her heart ached so that she thought she had stopped breathing. Her heart ached as she watched him disappear, blending into the darkness of the early dawn. Her heart ached most of all, because she had not dared to go with him.
"LANCELOT!" she cried at the top of her lungs, no longer caring who saw, heard, or witnessed her anguish. She fought furiously past the hordes of enemies that slowed her down.
His body lay prone on the dirt, curled on his side.
"Lancelot!" she cried again, her voice hoarse with fear and despair.
She could not help but think that his death was all her fault. He would not have died had she let him go.
She was crouched, hidden amongst the trees. The blue paint of the Woad warrior covered her from head to foot. Gone were the shifts and mantles, trappings of the more civilized clothing that was Roman dress. She was clothed in almost nothing, as was the way of her people.
"Guinevere!" The whispered call came from one of her sisteren. She turned around from her watchful post.
"What is it?"
"There is a Knight who wishes to speak with you."
"Tell Arthur that we have discussed all there is to discuss. Everything else hangs in the balance of what happens today," she replied, turning back around to continue her watch.
"It is not Arthur."
For a second, all breath locked in her throat, and her heart skipped a beat. She gave the other girl who had come for her with a quizzical look. "Who…?" she started to ask, before she shook her head briskly. "Take over my post. I will be back."
Then she ran.
He sat astride his steed, already in full armor. He sat straight and tall, his horse dancing slightly in nervousness as it was surrounded by blue-painted warriors. His handsome face was encased in his helmet, a smirk on his lips.
"Lancelot." She was breathless at the sight of him.
He quickly dismounted from his black stallion, and removed his headgear. His dark mop of unruly curls fell over his forehead and he brushed it quickly away. He approached her, and she came up to him.
He was still wearing that smirk, his face amused and delighted. "You should…never give up your customs," he drawled. "Especially by way of dress."
She ducked her head shyly. Never had she been shy about her body until it was almost in full view of this knight. "I'm glad you seem to be enjoying yourself."
"Oh, the view is fantastic," he grinned.
She looked up at him wonderingly. Her eyes alight with pleasure. There was something different about him today. Something she had not seen in him before.
"You seem…different," she noted softly.
"So do you," he replied playfully. "Blue truly does suit you, my Lady."
"Lancelot," she warned, though a smile touched her lips. "Have you come to waste my time on revelry and charm?"
His grin softened into a smile. It was there that she realized that his eyes were brighter than she had ever seen them before. "A few hours of freedom has done you well," she murmured, as she boldly reached her hand to rest on his cheek.
The scruff of his neat beard scratched her hand, and the heat of his skin seemed to burn right through her.
He took her hand and held it in his, gently, the way he used to when they had been swollen and broken. It had only been a few months ago, but that time seemed like lifetimes ago. She felt like she had known him for several lifetimes and more.
"Funny that you should mention that," he muttered.
"What?"
"Freedom."
She tilted her head to listen to him.
He dropped her hand and walked a few feet away from her. He stared out into the distance, where they could both see the dark smoke of burning tar and the outline of Hadrian's Wall ahead of them.
"For years, freedom was the ends of my very existence," he whispered. "I longed to be back home, to see my mother's face again, to laugh with my sister, and to shake the hand of my father."
She continued to listen to him. His horse whinnied, and he laid a quieting hand on its back. "I wanted to see home again. To live a peaceful and quiet life, where I could see where the green grass and blue skies melded into one."
"Yes," she said, urging him to continue.
"But I realized, as we rode away from here," he said, throwing her a look. "That we were knights and warriors. For most of our lives, war and bloodshed had been all that had defined us. And our freedom had been the reward at the end of the road."
"Then we found ourselves at the end of that road, and we realized that freedom came with a price," he whispered. "Freedom came with decisions." He turned to face her, his features solemn and vulnerable.
"You were right, my Lady," he murmured. "I now have the freedom to choose my destiny. To choose the reason for my very existence. To choose what to fight for."
"And what is it that you have chosen to fight for? Arthur?" she asked.
"We have all returned. The five of us that are left: Bors, Tristan, Galahad, Gawain and myself. We have fought with Arthur, and for Arthur all our lives. We cannot turn back now."
She nodded in understanding.
"Do you want to know a secret?" he asked softly.
"Is it mine to keep?" she asked.
"Only yours," he replied. His dark blue eyes bore into her. "I'm afraid today."
She frowned softly. "The Lancelot who once told me that he feared nothing?"
"Today, there is something different," he murmured. "Today, I have something to lose."
"Your freedom?" she guessed.
He shook his head. "You."
Her mouth went dry, and she could not think of anything to say to that. But he was already chuckling ruefully.
"It seems rather discordant, don't you think? That I would be so afraid to lose you…when you have never been mine to lose."
She advanced towards him, and took his hand in hers. She raised it so that his palm lay flat over her heart, so that he felt the way her heart raced at his touch. "I belong to you in a way that transcends our differences, our purposes, and our destinies. I belong to you."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently. "And I am yours, at your service, my Lady," he whispered, as he placed his foot into one of the stirrups, preparing to leave. He threw one leg over the side of his horse, and sat tall and mighty. Then with a small bow towards her, and a gentle grin, he turned his horse around.
"Hiyah!"he cried, spurring his horse to a gallop.
She watched him ride away, her knight in shining armor. He was far nobler than he ever gave himself credit for. But she knew him, and she loved him all the more for that.
She watched as he rode up towards the top of Badon Hill. Arthur's silhouette also stood on that hill, his large, broad body atop his own mount. He raised his banner, a flying dragon over his head. Then, Lancelot's dark form joined Arthur's atop the hill.
He, too, raised his banner, the lion.
Guinevere smiled sadly. On that hill sat the man she was going to marry, and the man she loved with all her heart.
She finally reached him.
Her heart pounded so loudly and painfully, it was the only sound that roared in her ears. She dropped to her knees next to him. He had turned himself onto his back, his breathing labored and shallow.
His handsome face had turned the light-gray color of near-death. Tears blurred her vision as she tentatively reached for him.
"My love," she whispered. "My love, please."
He raised tired, dull eyes to her. "My lady, forgive me," he whispered, his lips tainted red by his blood.
"There is nothing to forgive you for," she whispered tenderly, as she carefully lifted his head to lay on her lap.
The sounds of war had all but died down around her. The battle was over, the war had been won.
But to Guinevere, all seemed lost, as his eyes grew dimmer. "You were wrong, my love," she whispered through her tears. "You are my knight who rides to the rescue of his lady."
"He will take care of you," he gasped. "He will love you. He will…"
"Shhh…I know," she murmured, gently placing her fingers over his soft lips. "I have no doubt."
"Guinevere…" he rasped. Blood poured out of his wound, thick and pungent.
She leaned close to him, her lips brushing his ear. "I choose you."
A small smile touched his lips, just before she watched the sun go down in his eyes. Her face crumpled in her anguish. Hot tears poured down her face, her hands fisted over him, fingers tangling in his soft hair. She raised her head up to the skies, and cried out her rage.
She stayed like that, screaming, almost howling in her grief for long moments. Through the blur of her tears, she looked at his face. Even in death, he was beautiful. She had closed his dark, unseeing eyes, and he looked to be asleep. But the blood that trailed from his lips to the side of his face marred the perfection of his face. She traced his handsome features slowly, feeling a small sense of peace steal over her at the simple act.
She held him to her, even as Arthur knelt beside her. There was nothing left to hide from him—he had already witnessed the depth of her grief. She almost fought Gawain off as he tried to take his body from her. She almost stabbed Arthur when he tried to take her in his arms.
"He is gone!" he cried urgently into her ear. "You must let us take his body. You must let him go."
She couldn't let him go. She couldn't. It was like tearing apart her soul.
But eventually, she was tired out from her grief, and all she could do was fall limply against Arthur and watch Galahad and Gawain bear Lancelot and Tristan's dead bodies away.
She took the smallest comfort in knowing that he looked like he had finally found his peace in death.
For 200 years, Knights had fought and died for a land and for reasons not our own, but today…I put my life in the service for a cause greater than I have ever fought for.
What is that, Sir Lancelot?
For love.
THE END.
A/N2: I hope you have all enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I think this is currently my favorite love story that I have written by far. Thank you for sharing it with me.