ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY
By Allegra
See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the long delay in an update. I had some heavy things going on at school. Suffice to say, I'm back in action now. So on with the hurting, sorry, I mean show. I know this chapter is very short but I promise I'll post some more soon. I figured little & often might be the way to go for now.
PART 2 : GATHERING GLOOM
Lancelot and Gawain were surrounded. In the gloom, it was difficult to tell whether they were grossly outnumbered by Saxons or Woads. The two knights had barely managed to reach for their weapons upon attack and now they were forced to relinquish them. Lancelot opened his hands in surrender, the gesture doubling as a way of warding off the circle of men closing in around him and Gawain.
"Knights? Have you lost your way? You're Roman roads are so straight, it would take a fool to err!" The group around him laughed, but the man's accent was rolling and soft, making the words almost unintelligible to Lancelot.
Gawain tried to gain his friend's attention but failed miserably. Lancelot's back was turned to him and there was no opportunity for eye contact. Out of the band of Arthur's knights, neither Gawain nor Lancelot could truly be considered the hot heads. While the former watched out for the younger Galahad, Lancelot's unguarded reactions were tempered by his loyalty to Arthur. Their leader's solid calmness often required a more animated medium to get the message across to his men. That medium was Lancelot. As soon as Arthur was out of sight, it was Lancelot who brought the sceptical ones around. Nonetheless, the knight's fuse was short and, unchecked, he could be angry and reckless. Now was one of those dangerous moments.
Outnumbered, disarmed, and suddenly the object of ridicule, Gawain feared Lancelot was riding dangerously close to his limit. It was clear now that these men were indeed Saxons and they were more bloodthirsty than Woads. Gawain closed his eyes in regret when he heard Lancelot's next words, uttered in a frosty tone. "And since we are not fools, you can rest assured that we are exactly where we wanted to be."
The lead Saxon laughed mirthlessly. "Completely disadvantaged? An enviable position indeed," he jibed.
"That depends on the nobility of one's opponent," Lancelot threatened in a low tone.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion. "How so?"
Lancelot did not miss a beat. "Well, only a coward would fight two unarmed men with twenty at his back." Gawain inhaled sharply. He could see the confused faces around them gradually turning to unadulterated malice. Lancelot was either mad or a fool to take these rogues on. Unfortunately, the knight knew only too well which category his friend fell into. If he hadn't been forced to give up his most accessible weapon, Gawain would have drawn it when he witnessed what happened next.
The Saxon's lip curled into a bestial snarl and his eyes hardened into ice. "You would dare to call me a coward when I rail against your cursed smothering race, trying to claim what we have just as much right to?! You Romans came and invaded many years ago, yoked and tethered these people, looking down upon them, but you think yourselves above such treatment. We will claim this land as our own and bathe the earth in your damned Roman blood."
Lancelot's jaw quivered with barely contained rage, his own eyes burning with a vengeful fire. If there was one thing the young man could not abide, it was being mistaken for a Roman – all those ridiculous gods, the long arm of Rome stretching across any fertile country she laid eyes upon. Yet, years of duty to the Italian cause had brought with it care, a certain respect and perhaps even love for one Roman at least. Lancelot was on this mission for him, in these woods for him, and now he would fight for him – for Arthur.
Completely vulnerable and unarmed, Lancelot prayed that Gawain felt the same way as he took a breathtaking blow to the stomach for his leader, followed by an acutely painful lashing to the head. Both knights bravely held their ground, secretly praying that their friends would ride to the rescue soon enough. Their dignity might not like it but their lives might depend on it.
Arthur shifted once more as the knobbly knots of his chosen tree dug into his spine. He cursed himself for not choosing their resting spot more carefully. On the other hand, he was on first watch, and the constant discomfort helped to keep him awake at least. Bors had his back to Arthur but snores were clearly audible, even as the gathering wind caught the branches. The Roman had taken to booting his companion every once in a while to silence the cacophony but it's effect was short-lived. If no one had heard the older man's incessant curses at the natural hazards of the forest then they surely must have heard him in his sleep. Never before had Arthur so ardently regretted having the burly Bors at his side.
"Be silent, you fool!" he hissed again, kicking the man's backside with unnecessary force. To his surprise, the force still did not wake Bors merely swatted his hand in the general direction of his rear before resuming his rest.
Arthur peered up at the darkening sky and pictured his fellow knights at their rest within a few miles of him. He wondered what they might be thinking of, every man alone with his thoughts. Did they yearn for a homeland they might never see? Did they recall the faces of loved ones or were those already fading in their mind's eye? The time of their duty to Rome was coming to an end. Very soon, all the knights would be free to resume their free lives, to pursue the dreams which had been torn so rudely from them nearly fifteen years ago.
For how long had they all prayed for such a time, when life was not lived with Death's icy hand clutching at their shoulders. Now, the past fifteen years seemed alive with new humour in Arthur's eyes. He found himself almost longing for those early days when the group had years ahead of them. How time had altered them, as one by one they fell to the hands of enemies. Those few who had remained did not dare to believe their gods had chosen them to be spared, yet here they were.
Arthur felt himself torn in two. He wanted to be home, to marry and raise a family. Yet, that was a life he had not even begun. Now was his reality. The snoring Bors, the strong but silent Tristan, the pensive Gawain, the youthful Galahad, the straightforward Dagonet to the brooding Lancelot. No matter how he cared for each one of them, it was the last who held an unprecedented place in the Roman's heart.
Closing his eyes, Arthur felt closer to his comrade. He knew that Lancelot had been angry with him for leaving him behind and Arthur was sorry for it. As he mulled the turn of events over in his head, the commander felt a heaviness in his heart. His mind sensed an intangible danger rising from the darkness of these woods.
His eyes flew open at the sound of a distant cry then a rallying song of pride and victory. Somehow Arthur knew the victory would not be his own as he leapt to his feet and roughly shook Bors awake. "Come on. We must move." Bors, to his credit, did not protest, but gathered his weapons before saddling his horse.
With deep foreboding, Arthur pushed his horse forward into the depths of the forest, drawing ever closer to the sound of beating drums.
END OF PART 2
Please, please review! My creative muse needs lots of wordy nourishment before she'll send me more ideas.
