A/N: Thanks guys for all the support! Much appreciated. And I guess I know I'm not sticking to the movie but I'm kind of taking what was there and extrapolating on it...and omitting details (i.e. the ending!!) But bear with me and thanks again to those who have spent the time reviewing.
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"I'd rather continue."Lancelot's dark eyes powerfully pierced Guinevere's, giving her the unnatural feeling of being truly exposed and she moved a step away from him, intent on shielding herself from...him, in every sense of the word. "We are under protection of darkness and shall take rest," he ordered softly, descending leisurely from his horse.
Guinevere did not move, laying her hand upon her own horses mane to caress it gently. "I regret to inform you that is you who accompany me, Sir. We go on!"
"We have ridden legions, Lady, and my horse is weary of any more distance," he returned, forcefully pulling a blanket from the saddle and letting it strike the firm ground heartily.
"Your horse, or you? Legend tells of great Knights that know little rest and peace but whose skills are such that they have no need for such trivial things! Guinevere challenged, a fiery pink glow arousing on her cheeks as she spoke vigourously.
Lancelot's full lips upturned, nearly smiling at her determined protests. "I am but a simple man. Hence, I need what all men need. Rest in the form of sleep and peace in the form of time away from chickens that do not cease their squawking!
Guinevere's eyes widened at the implied insult of his words, despite his easy, tender tone, now more resolute to counter his jest. "You need not despair of being kept by a chicken, Lancelot. No chicken will ever have you!"
He laughed at her sharp retort and nestled comfortably against a huge tree, the leafy branches sheltering him from the biting winds nipping at their heavy cloaks. "That is well then. I do not want for a chicken."
Guinevere slide off her horse, suddenly forgetting her reasons for resisting a pause in their travels, and locked her eyes with Lancelot's, invisible threads of connection sprinkling into the refreshing evening air. "What is it you desire, then?" she asked quietly, uncertain if this was a query for him or for herself.
"Do you not know?" Lancelot replied, his voice so gentle, so passionate, nearly lost in the wind as his gaze leveled hers.
A warm glow spread throughout her at his steady stare, as she tried to deny the fire that passed between them at that moment, knowing that this was a chance to allow the past months fall to the ground and uncover a new path, full of hope. Alas, Guinevere let the past stay its course and lowered her eyes, severing the heated, though unnamed link between them and sat, hooded by leaves, at a tree opposite of him.
And so they rested, silence heavy in the cool air that was full of unspoken truths and revelations. Guinevere gazed at the starry sky, her eyes making shapes among the tiny, bright bubbles of light as she felt herself drift onto the uninhibited world that was sleep.
----
You will have a love that shall endure yet may never be entirely realized. This love, this man shrouded in shadows, can bring only pain to the hearts of those in your life.
Love that shall endure
Man shrouded in shadows.
Pain.
Arthur. No.
Lancelot.
Guinevere. Guinevere. Guinevere.
Guinevere's eyes burst open, her torrid dream alivening her senses and her body taut. But her sleeping story was not entirely fiction, as Lancelot crouched before her, his brown eyes masked in concern and his hair messily adoring his smooth face.
"Guinevere," he whispered, beckoning her back to the land of the awake, and out of a world where time had no essence and there was only truth. The purest of truths riddled in clues. She had seen the pieces of her fate but knew not how to complete them, or whether she desired it.
He had said her name for the first time since they had met, always having kept a personal distance from her. Guinevere. She was certain that it had never been called more gently or more soulfully then in his voice. She drew her cloak around her, shivering from the damp dews of early morning. Yet she shivered still, as Lancelot kept his gaze, his handsome face betraying a sort of innocence she had not noticed before. "Has something changed, Sir? Am I worthy now to have my name dwell on your lips?" she demanded, her tone hoarse as she tried to steel herself against betraying her strong, unemotional character.
"It is a beautiful name," he replied simply, his heart frantically trying to scribble on his gentle exterior. But Guinevere saw that he struggled and would not allow himself to show the honest soul that rested deep within him. "It is a good thing we took rest. Clearly, you were in need of it." He stood up, his expression calm and unreadable once again, all traces of sincerity and kindness obliterated.
Guinevere rose, her legs shaking slightly after hours of disuse. "We. I need no more rest than you."
Lancelot looked at her as he welcomed his horse to a new day, exasperation overshadowing him. "Must you argue always?" He sighed, and swung himself atop his faithful horse. "Besides, what one needs and desire are not always given. I sleep little these nights."
Guinevere once again followed him, climbing onto her own horse, feeling him tremble as she settled into the saddle. "What is the cause of this sleepless reverie?" she asked quietly, knowing that it was she, not him, who chipped away the walls of her boundary.
Lancelot paused before speaking somberly and when he did, Guinevere was surprised, hearing a genuine answer, not a teasing comment. "Honour." He spurred his horse, and quickly rode away from her, escaping as his confusing word settled in her thoughts.
As they sped over hills and through grass, his revelation lingered in her mind, unwilling to fall into memory of past things said and done. What was his meaning? Honour? Honour won or lost? And why did that word strike at her heart like a sword, as though she played some role in Lancelot's relentless plague. Her rationality spoke that she had no part in his life; he was a figure in hers, as Arthur's friend and a Knight but not as a man. And she clearly had no part in his life, judging from his cold treatment of her since their first meeting. Dreams were nothing more than fanciful stories with no real meaning.
Still, Her dream lingered in her mind, carrying Merlin's words as a torch. But this torch would not be extinguished. She could not forget his warning. And never could she cede herself to entanglement of any sort with any man except Arthur. He was honour. But her dream had shunned him and dangled Lancelot's name before her instead. Lancelot was not the man in the prophecy; of this Guinevere was certain. All encompassing, passionate love, Merlin had told her once, was not of one for another. It was an intense bond between two people that only death had the power to challenge. And Lancelot felt nothing for her but cool disregard and a sense of duty because of his relationship with Arthur.
Finally at peace with her confliction over Lancelot and fully prepared to meet his spite with friendship, she drove her horse ahead, lifting her face to the sun, warmth spreading through her body. Though her lover had not passed into her reality yet, Guinevere felt confident that she could spurn the prophecy and begin the next chapter of her life with Arthur.
And friendship with the Knight Lancelot.
----
But friendship was not written in the sky of that evening as Guinevere stood impatiently, her eyes lifted as dark clouds hovered above her. "We've been going in circles."
Lancelot lifted his head slowly, as he crouched low to the damp ground, his eyes alert and uniquely tense. "We are not lost."
"No? Then perhaps we wander on the same paths for a reason? Enlighten me, then!" Guinevere replied, anger touching her tone as she strode to stand before him. Despite her supposed quest for a platonic alliance, she refused to submit to his leadership simply because of her sex and had every intention of forcing him to reveal their course. Critical time was being wasted. After ages of endless riding, Guinevere had begun to notice that the trees and wildflowers recurred through their travels, eventually coming to know that they had been not moving forward but riding in an endless ring. But more than any other reason, Guinevere believed Arthur moved farther into the distance and would soon be but a pleasant memory if they did not make haste. Though her loyalty to him remained steadfast, his dominance of her innermost thoughts dwindled to little more than passing glimmers of fondness and respect. Instead, her body yearned for a passion unfulfilled, for a love built on more than common quests and companionship. And every hilltop she cascaded down and grassy knoll she crossed, Guinevere knew she was drawing nearer to it, unable to deter. To her fate. She was frightened, this was true. Only this morning she had felt certain that she could be master of her own destiny and now, she doubted her ability. Of all things to fear, she feared love above blood and cruel death. But a part of her was welcoming, deeply desiring to love and be loved with fiery delight. The question was: Which side of her would emerge her destiny was bestowed upon her? Honourable Guinevere, loyal to her future sovereign? Or a woman wanting to be saved from the cold dankness that was love based on friendship?
As though he was blessed with the gift of reading minds, Lancelot rose to his full height and for an instant, Guinevere felt something within her submit to his daunting, though beautiful character. He said nothing, but brushed a finger lightly against her rosy lips, silencing her impassioned protests. A strange heat trembled along her spine at his touch and she recoiled from him, determined not to allow Lancelot to see the effect his simple contact with her skin had on her. It was unexplainable. But Lancelot moved quicker than she, pulling her by the waist nearer to his body, their faces close and eyes level. Guinevere did not draw away this time, feeling her own will enticed by his presence, nor did she avert her eyes, finally for the first time able to read the emotion of his gaze.
A dark cloud drifted across the moon, shielding its comforting light. Shadows danced across Lancelot's face and Guinevere stepped back abruptly, her hand falling from his. Shrouded in shadows.
The prophecy...was it...?
Lancelot's soft expression hardened and without a single word, he pushed Guinevere to the ground powerfully. She cried out in surprise, looking up in time to see a single arrow whiz through the air where she had just stood. Guinevere searched for her bow among her belonging on the ground, her shock now replaced with rage at this being that dare take her life without having the courage to show his face. Lancelot was faster, drew his sword and mightily threw it into the trees and bushes, seemingly aimless. But Guinevere heard the painful shriek of a man but seconds from death a short distance away.
Alone, Lancelot strode through the forest, coming upon on the man he had blindly killed embedded by his sword into the trunk of a weighty tree. Blood drizzled onto the ground as he pulled his trusty weapon from the dead man's chest, collapsing slightly as he sat on the grass beside another mark on his killing tally. No one, not even Arthur, knew the strain taking lives had placed on him. For every man he killed, regardless if he be an enemy, a story stood behind that bloodied body; a wife, sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, homes, friends...Every man had a purpose and Lancelot had always struggled to see enemies as nameless beasts who deserved death.
Yet taking this man's life did not weigh on his conscience. Not at all. She had almost been killed.
Guinevere emerged from the trees and stood boldly in the clearing, her bow raised to any other attackers. Lancelot lifted his eyes to her emptily. "There is no one else."
"You do not know that! Surely this man was not alone?" Guinevere insisted, alert to even the slightest sway of the trees or whimpering of the wind.
He shook his head, rubbing his hands together as he gazed at them, fixated by the fresh blood stained on his fingertips. "No. This man has been tracking us all day...which is why I did not move further and went in circles, as though we knew not of our path, to give him an opportunity to reveal himself."
Guinevere lowered her bow, knowing now that their close moment had been a product of Lancelot's plot to lure this man to show his identity and nothing more. He had quieted her to save their lives not...not for other reasons. He was not the man Merlin spoke of. "I see," she replied simply, trying to forget the shadows that had crossed Lancelot's face and the truths that had laid so open to her but were now lost.
"I killed this man."
His tone was steady, but his eyes were wild and deceived the heartless character the stories of him told. "I have taken the lives of many."
Guinevere saw the man of the legend was gone, a simple human taking his place. "It has not been in vain," she sympathized, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from his eyes. She saw that he was troubled by his actions, both past and present, and that killing was not an easy matter for him. "It is the men themselves that trouble you, not the act. You wonder of their families, their loves and friends. Of who they are."
Although Lancelot said nothing, his body still, Guinevere knew she was right. For she felt the very same, despite her willingness for the warrior- life she led. Gently, she took his face in her hands, not thinking him weak or cowardly for regretting ending the lives of his enemies. Her thumb ran the length of his cheek as he was stirred to run his hands through her loose hair, resting them on her open throat. "I do not regret killing this man though," Lancelot said in a low, emotion-filled voice, finally willing to speak. "He nearly took your life. Because of my gamble, you were nearly lost to me."
Guinevere trembled under his touch. Lost to me. "Lancelot, I--," she breathed.
"Lost to Arthur," Lancelot interrupted, reverting back into his guarded self, having nearly made an unfixable mistake.
"Yes," she replied, distracted by his speedy switch, her heart still beating rapidly. "You saved me," Guinevere said, reaching out to lay her hand on his arm as he jumped up, feeling heat reverberate through her, even from such simple contact.
Lancelot moved forward, as though he had not heard her speak. At the edge of the clearing, he stopped and turned towards her, an obvious battle playing across his face. "And I will save you...every time henceforth from this moment," he promised, his voice breaking slightly, disappearing into back through the trees.
Guinevere was left alone, confused and weary. She had always been a woman of rational thought and intellect, governed by her will and mind, not her heart. Her soul screamed to her now to follow him, to discover his mysteries while her mind told her that he was merely a man broken by endless battle and reminded her of his earlier disinterest and coldness towards her.
It was her choice and she knew she had few to make concerning her fate. Nevertheless, if she only had this one, her mind must be in the right. It had never failed her before this night.
Or had it just never encountered Lancelot?