Title: East Wind
Fandom: King Arthur movieverse
Rating: PG
Pairing: A/G, A/L friendship, G/L friendship
Summary: Takes place after the movie. Arthur and Guinevere talk over Lancelot's grave.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. They are from the movie King Arthur, which belongs to Disney and Jerry Bruckheimer, which was based on Le Morte d'Arthur.
East Wind
Arthur and Guinevere walked slowly over the green, sloping landscape. Guinevere held a bouquet of flowers, mostly heather, gathered as she walked. Both of them paused as they reached the top of a small hill. From there, they could see over a valley. Down in that valley lay a small forest and two small stone markers. Slowly, they made their way to them.
Arthur laid a hand on the first stone. Into both of their minds crept the picture of a silent warrior. On his arm sat a hawk, bright eyed and not unlike her master. She had stayed at his grave for a week before winging off into the bright British sky. Gawain held that she had gone to meet her master, something they all wanted desperately to believe.
Turning, they both looked at the second stone. It marked no body, rather, it was a memorial to the man that had fallen and refused to be buried. 'Cast my ashes to a strong east wind.' He had cried passionately. Arthur took small comfort in the fact that he had kept that promise, if he had not kept the other.
"He should not have died." Arthur whispered quietly.
"Neither of them should have." Guinevere agreed. "But Lancelot chose his fate."
"To choose one's fate. That is not something that all of us can claim we have done. But what did he choose? To die, as though he was not a great warrior who had survived 15 years of battle?"
"He chose that I should live." Guinevere said. "If he had not sacrificed himself, you and he would be standing over my grave."
"I loved him like a brother. I do not like to question his honor, but-"
"You question his honor?" Guinevere asked, a slight edge to her voice. "He chose that I should stand at your side for the rest of our mortal lives."
"I have not known him to do such a thing." Arthur argued weakly.
"Something troubles you, Arthur, or you would not have uttered such a thing. What is it?"
Arthur stared a moment at her, then dropped his head, eyes never leaving Lancelot's grave marker. "I have nightmares, Guinevere. I see his death from every angle: through my eyes, through his eyes, through your eyes, through his killer's eyes. I relieve it every night. I wake up and feel as through I have blood on my hands. His blood. My brother's blood. I feel as through I am to blame for his death. If I had not stayed, he would not have stayed, and he would be alive." A slow tear trickled down Arthur's cheek. Guinevere reached up to brush it away.
"You are no more to blame for his death then I am. Arthur, it is I who should be carrying that weight, not you. You were not there, staring as he stood over you, protected you, and took an arrow through the heart for his trouble. Yet I have had no nightmares since he was buried, perhaps because I reconciled myself with him on the battlefield."
"There is no way for me to reconcile myself to him. He is gone, Guinevere, and there is no way for me to bring him back."
"No way to bring him physically back. If your God does not let the dead finish their business, I find him rather cold." She looked up at him, eyes softening with tears. "I was told once, by a very brave night, that the souls of Samatian warriors come back as horses, great, strong, mighty horses. Horses that run as fast as the wind. Do you deny that it is possible that Lancelot's soul, his spirit, lives on?"
"I find it hard to believe that he is gone. I do not want to believe that he simply ceased to exist. I won't believe that."
"So reconcile yourself to him." Guinevere said simply. She put the flowers she had brought next to the stone and walked a little ways away, giving Arthur his space. Arthur turned to the stone.
"Lancelot." He said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I cannot stop blaming myself for your death. I see it, I feel it, I relive it every day. I want it to go away. I want to stop feeling as though I am to blame, that your blood is on my hand. Yet I am afraid. God, I am afraid, Lancelot. I am afraid that as the years pass, and I grow old, you will be forgotten. The name of Lancelot will fade from memory, maybe even mine." Arthur looked up at the sky. Then, he felt a slight breeze. It grew and grew, until it was a strong wind. Arthur looked at Guinevere, tears streaming from his eyes. It was as though Lancelot had spoken to him, through the wind. He had asked him to release his burdens.
'You are not to blame for my death, brother.' The words formed in Arthur's mind. 'As Guinevere said, I chose my fate. I would rather you morn me and live with her then morn her. She can give you what I cannot."
Guinevere walked slowly back to Arthur. Both turned to face the wind, as through they were saying their last farewell to the dark haired knight they both loved. And around them, a strong east wind blew.