Lancelot sat on the stable floor, watching nothing, trying to think about the same. But he couldn't. Not so soon after battle, even a victorious battle. What was it that Gawain called it – battle frenzy or battle rush…? He couldn't recall and trying just made his head spin more.

Leaning back, he let his head rest against a hay bale and closed his eyes. Perhaps tonight he would utilize this hay bale for something other than a place to rest out of weariness.

A soft laugh drifted to Lancelot's ears and he started. He knew Jols was in the stable somewhere, but Lancelot also knew he hadn't spoken his hay bale intent aloud.

Squinting he looked around for the source. Not finding it, he contented himself that it was in his mind. Pulling a piece of hay from the bale, he twirled it in his fingers, noticing that he still had plenty of blood to clean from them before any fit wench would acquiesce to his advances.

Another laugh made Lancelot sit upright. He slowly pulled his knees under him and leaned forward, peering out into the darkened stables. Still he saw no one.

A third laugh seemed to come from behind him and sent him forward, knocking his head against a low hanging bucket. Turning and rubbing his head, he growled wordlessly into the dark.

A sound made its way to his ear then. It sounded like tsk, tsk but Lancelot couldn't be sure. No one had made that sound in his vicinity since Kay. And Kay was dead, so he knew it wasn't that brother.

He squinted into the dark above the hay bale.

"Whoever you are, whatever you think you are doing, I am not amused." He thought for a moment, adding, "Gawain if that is you, brother, it is not my fault she chose my bed over yours. I would think by now you would be used to it." He chuckled quietly, if it truly were Gawain he would know quickly.

You've not changed.

Lancelot's smile froze; he froze. It could not be. He was dead.

The soft chuckling made its way to his ears again and Lancelot swallowed hard, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

"Kay?" His voice was a small whisper in the dark. He felt so much like the small, frightened boy he'd been all those years ago… Squeezing his eyes shut, Lancelot felt the damp pool slightly under his eyes and swiped at it, not caring if the dirt and blood from his hands left mottled streaks.

"Kay?" His voice a little more hopeful, stronger, Lancelot leaned forward against the bale, wishing for all the world that his mentor, his brother, was really there. He needed him now when so many of the old Knights had passed on to the Plains; needed the guidance and stability Kay had always brought to him.

"I hate it here. I hate the killing. I hate the Romans. I just want…" Lancelot's voice trailed off as he realized he hadn't really thought of anything or anyplace he would be if not here, with his brothers and Arthur. "You weren't supposed to go. It wasn't time. The other Knights needed you. Arthur needed you. Even Agravaine still needed you, though we both know he'd never have admitted it." Lancelot let out an uncharacteristic snort.

You?

The whisper didn't take long to register and Lancelot was nodding black curls slowly, as more wetness seeped from under eyelids he'd squeezed shut. "I needed you most of all. You were…you kept me…" Lancelot searched for words but knew deep inside that Kay would understand – he always had. Resting his head against the bale, Lancelot opened his eyes, letting the water from his eyes drip to the dirt below. How he was wishing for some words of wisdom, of truth, that his brother had always brought to him.

Listen.

Trust.

Believe.

The three words that Kay had worked so hard to instill in him echoed in his ears as Lancelot chewed the inside of his lip and watched small pools form at his feet.

First you…then them.

Lancelot smiled weakly. This had been Kay's same advice before every battle, including what had been his final battle. He heard the sigh and felt the hands on his shoulders, squeezing them tight in a show of support and strength. When the cool night air replaced them, Lancelot fought back the urge to protest and instead smiled. As he rose and wiped away the tear tracks, Lancelot began contemplating the remainder of his evening plans. Feeling renewed, he strode toward the stable exit.

Behave!

The familiar scold brought a broad, wicked smile to Lancelot's features. He turned and winked over his shoulder. "Always, dearest brother, always."