#3 Alike

Winter was slow in coming that year, slower than any one previous that I could recall. Though autumn had passed dressed in all her radiant glory and warm abundance, my days passed colorless and monotonous. The same patterns occurring each and everyday, relentless in their similitude. I was never alone, never had a chance to breathe or decide my day. I resented those who had forced me into this life, and I resented the men I was forced to serve.

I had never liked my job of washer woman, but now I loathed it. It was a never ending task and I think once the knights found out what I was, they made it so. Each and every day I had a huge mound of clothing to wash and mend, whether it needed it or not. Many times I found the same article of clothing I had washed the previous day splattered in mud and torn, though its owner had worn something different and my hands began to feel the brunt of it.

I had always had strong hands, hands that were calloused by daily use of my chosen weapons. They were hands that I had felt proud of. They had been the hands of a competent warrior. Now my hands betrayed me and with the constant wet and dry and now the increasing cold they had begun to crack and split. I bit down the pain as best I could, appreciating it on some level. It kept me clear headed when everything would have gone hazy and disjointed. I wrapped them as tightly in scraps of linen and bore the agony until one morning I woke and discovered that I could not close my fists without breaking open a scab on each and every joint and knuckle.

As I sat and stared at my mangled hands, I felt for the first time -- shocking I know, the prickling of hot tears behind my eyes. I felt utterly hopeless and completely alone. There was no one here who cared whether I lived or died – no one anywhere who cared. My family had been the ones to send me away and yet I ached for a familiar face and a comforting shoulder to cry on. I longed for someone I could talk to, someone who wanted to know me, but it was not to be and my sorrow increased for it and the knowledge of the difficult day ahead.

I knew I could do no work and if I could do no work, then I had no purpose. If I had no purpose, who was to say Arthur would keep me? Perhaps he would realize what he had not that first day, that I was useless and an utter failure. Tears that had begun as a slow trickle, began to fall in earnest. I know it is rather pathetic to cry over one's hands -- of all things, but I felt so wretched and alone and not even a shadow of the person I had been so proud to be that I could not stop the tears and it wasn't exactly for my hands that I cried. I cried for my unceasing solitude, the revulsion I had for myself, and for the life I could not live. Perhaps it would be better to end it all, but before I could act upon my rash thought, there came a sharp rap on my door, followed by a stern voice.

"Kellan." It was Lancelot and I, typically an early riser, had not yet left my room and he had come to learn the reason why.

"Leave me." I growled loud enough for him to hear through the door.

There was a moment of silence in which I thought he had decided I was not worth the effort, but then the door flew open and he entered without so much as a word, a scowl on his face, his eyes dark, his shoulders tense and ready for a fight. He was always ready for a fight. His annoyance seemed to fade as he saw me sitting on the edge of my narrow bed with tear stained face and bleak eyes, blankets clutched to my bare chest with bloodied hands.

"Are you ill?" he asked sharply, so his annoyance had not faded as much as I had hoped.

I looked away in shame and shook my head. It was bad enough that I was crying over my hands, but to have him see my tears caused a fresh deluge that I had no control over.

"Well then, what is it?" I could tell he was getting more irritated by the moment and when I looked up he folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow.

It could get no worse, so I held out one poor hand, which was now stinging and oozing blood from the wounds that had broken open the moment he had kicked my door in and I had clenched my fists at the sudden surprise. I kept my eye averted, so as not to read the disgust I would see on his face. Lancelot surprised me when he stooped to pick up my discarded shift and tossed it to me. It was followed by none of his usual sarcastic comments and after a thoughtful moment on his part, he left me alone, pulling the door quietly closed behind him.

Good, I thought as I screwed my bloodied fists into my eyes and began to sob anew. You can imagine my utter humiliation when strong hands firmly moved my own from my face, my chin was lifted and I found the man kneeling before me gently wiping the tears and blood from my face with a damp cloth. When my face was cleaned he took the shift from the floor where I had once again let it fall and pulled it over my head and deftly slipped my arms through without getting a single drop of blood on in the faded fabric. I saw that he had returned with a basin of warm water, clean rags, and a small jar of pungent salve and now he knelt at my feet, dark eyes full of some emotion I didn't understand and wasn't sure I wanted to.

"How old are you Kellan?"

His softly phrased question caught me off guard and my crying stuttered to a hiccupping stop. I couldn't imagine how that mattered. I was old enough to be married had I a man who wanted me and the inclination and I was old enough to be humiliated with myself at my less than dignified behavior.

"Sixteen in two moons." I answered somewhat suspiciously. I wondered what he hoped to gain with his actions and was put on my guard. But I felt myself relaxing as he began to wash my hands and oh, how wonderful that warm water felt and how soothing his ministrations.

"Hmm," he replied with a knowing nod. "Why were you sent here?"

I blinked in bewilderment, he knew why, "To spy."

He looked up at me, a dark eyebrow quirked, "They send a girl, not much more than a child, to do a man's work? What happened, Kellan? Why are you really here?"

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat suddenly huge and I refused to say anything more. How could he see so much? I had always thought him the least attentive of the knights, yet he had come to the correct conclusion all on his own, but I was not ready to reveal my shame.

His dark eyes searched mine for a moment longer before he bent once again to his task, "You have never been away from home have you." It was a statement and while not exactly true, it was close enough to the truth. I had never been from the forest before and that had been the only home I had ever really known.

I might have jerked from him, bristling at the insinuation in his voice but he held me firmly. "I am not a child." I protested stubbornly, knowing I had never sounded more a child, or appeared more like one in all my years.

He was calm and serious and there was no hint in his smooth voice of the sting it normally carried, "I never said you were."

"The forest was my only home. I was taken from my parents when I was five."

He raised his eyes to mine and I could read his surprise and also an understanding that I was sure he wouldn't want me to recognize. There was pain buried deep within him and it was so tangible in that moment that had he not been holding my hands so tightly, I would have instinctively reached out to comfort him.

"But it was different." I nodded at his statement. It had been different from the reason he and his fellows had been taken, he continued, "It affects us each differently when we come to the realization that home is nothing more than a memory."

As I stared at him, I wondered how that realization had affected him. Was it in his cutting sarcasm and deep cynicism? Was it in the way he took to his bed any willing maid, yet would have none of them? In the only way he knew, was he searching for the same things that I found myself searching for: a familiar face, comfort, peace, and acceptance? In my innocence and selfishness, I had thought the knights always as they were, unchanging and unfeeling, but I saw now, I had been wrong.

I had failed to remember that they had not always been warriors, that they had once been children who had been taken from their families, in some cases at a very young age and been thrust into a world which immediately stole their innocence and changed them for all time. I understood then, that we were more similar than we knew and truth be known, there was very little to separate his people from my own. They were as we might become.

Lancelot was quiet as he finished salving and wrapping my hands and I sat still contemplating what I had just learned. He had shown me a side of him I had never before seen and certainly never expected. He had been gentle throughout the washing and wrapping, almost tender. His voice had been soft and soothing; I caught the scent of sorrow coming from him.

"I'm sorry." I said softly, knowing he would understand what I meant.

He rose and gave an easy shrug, his cocky attitude returning and he smirked at me, "How sorry?"

My jaw dropped and before I could stop myself, I had lashed out and hit him in the arm – hard, as if he had been a friend instead of a jailor. It was worth the flash of pain to see the expression on his face as he rubbed what I knew would turn into a colorful bruise. "Never that sorry." I said.

He shook his head at me and started out of my room, "Get dressed, Kellan." He ordered. "You need to eat. You are entirely too thin for my tastes."

As I dressed, I felt more myself than I had since leaving the forest. I felt strangely hopeful and it warmed me. It made me feel as if I could go on and that perhaps, against all odds, a friendship could be had even as I lived among my enemies. How strange it was that such an uncomfortable and humiliating situation could end with me feeling almost happy. I hummed as I ran a comb through my hair and left to join Lancelot.