A/N: Sorry about the wait guys...it's been a crazy week at work! Thanks again guys for all the support and reviews—I love them. And also thanks for all A/G fans for still giving my fic a chance! I figured we needed a different pairing, what with all the Lancelot/Arthur slash! I think that's one of the reasons fanfic is so great—you can build whole new relationships among your favorite characters! Variety is the spice of life, right?

This chapter was actually supposed to be a lot longer but I've decided to break it up as it's already impossibly long and I still have one more scene to write, which shouldn't take long. So prepare for another update rather soon, I promise!

I've been chatting to a reader of this fic and we've discovered a hole in my story...Lancelot died, right? In the movie, yes. In my story, no. This story takes place before the final battle that will lead to Arthur's kingship—it is coming. Sorry, if people were confused. I just never really think things all the way through! R & R, please!

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As day broke upon the sky in streaks of vibrant pink and rich oranges, Guinevere rested silently in the short grasses, delicately pulling apart a loaf of bread with her fingers. A short span away, Lancelot sat, huddled like a child over his rations, eagerly anticipating sustenance.

She felt a smile crawl across her face as she watched the innocence and child-like quality shine through his shadowy, infallible exterior. It was a welcome transformation in her observant eyes and Guinevere found herself unable to stay her peaceful silence, feeling driven by some sort of force to break their stalemate and end their drama.

"Did your parents teach you nothing of proper dining matters?" Guinevere criticized unintentionally, realizing she sounded harsher than she'd wanted, a simple jest having been her goal.

But Lancelot did not defend himself with insults, and smiled in such a mischeiveous manner, his teeth sparkling brightly in the emerging sunlight, that Guinevere dare not stray her sight from him. His cheeks were rosy with the morning's cool winds, gentle curls framing a forehead free of worry creases. "Coming from a wild spirit as yourself, I suppose my manners must truly be pitiful. Perhaps you could enlighten me?" he teased.

Guinevere grinned, rising from her spot to sit nearer to him, her arms wrapped around her knees. "Do you jest of my upbringing?"

"Do you of mine?" he returned, no traces of anger clouding his voice.

"Ah, never. And neither were you. Knights do not laugh. Nor jest," Guinevere said lightly, her hands warming slightly as she passed him a piece of bread, their hands touching in the briefest of contact.

His eyebrows raised speedily. "Then what, pray you, is it we do?" asked Lancelot, playing to her easy banter.

"You bloody your swords to no end. You are but a fighter through and through!" Guinevere explained, biting her lower lip.

Lancelot laughed, a sound sweet upon her ears. "You must think me a simple man indeed."

"Is there more yet to see, then?" she played, gesturing with her arms, a smile brightening her glowing skin. She felt at ease for the first time since being rescued by Arthur. There were no expectations of her at this moment, no one looking at her with eyes full of hopes and promises for her to fulfill. There was no Arthur, who, for all his brilliance and amicability, saw her as his object of passion, his pension for personal happiness. "For I have tired of your sword tricks!"

Lancelot scoffed, his eyes sparkling as shivers tingled her spine. "More tricks, the lady begs! Well, there is one I'm sure you have yet to see." He leaned close to her, his manly scent wafting over her, as her consciousness slowly faded and her mind fell to sleep. Her heart kept its beat, the sound bellowing in her ears and she saw nothing but his handsome face drawing nearer to hers, the leaves and clouds obliterated from her sight. She waited for his touch, a caress, or a brush of his fingertips or a soft kiss on her cheek, or dare she imagine, upon her pink lips.

But he passed her, his lips daringly close to her ear, whispering something only for her to here. "Magic."

Guinevere let a small smile grace her lips, hiding her unexpected disappointment. Did she desire more from him than words? So it would seem. As he pulled away from her, he reached behind her ear, a shiny gem suddenly appearing in his hand. Guinevere was astonished, her eyes widened in true amazement as she cast aside her bread and examined the beautiful stone in her hands. "How did you...wait, there is no possible way--,"

"True wizards do not reveal their secrets," Lancelot said, taking a sip of water, confidence emanating from his gaze.

"Who showed you that? Certainly not from the rest of your fellowship!" Guinevere asked.

Lancelot's grin faltered and his gaze drifted to the skies above, his eyes searching for something too far away to rest upon. "My father. My father was a great man, full of tricks and mischief," he said answered finally, his tone somber.

"You miss him." It was not a question, but a statement. Guinevere sensed that though Lancelot had left his family in Sarmatia 15 years ago, they still lingered around him in shadow.

"Yes." He bent his head, signaling an end to their conversation and Guinevere knew that their time had ended. She stood up, intending on taking a short walk before they set out on the second-last day of their journey. It was an end she welcomed.

"He is dead now, I am sure," Lancelot broke in unexpectedly, his voice laced with pain as his darted to and fro, unsettled.

Guinevere rested again on the soft ground, a sympathetic expression adorning her face. "You do not know that, Lancelot."

He nodded, his eyes still untamed in the distance. "I do. I do. The Romans treated us likeslaves, keeping us alive for their use and killing those too old to serve. Disobedience, for even the smallest of crimes, was punished with death."

Guinevere said nothing, her own eyes softening as she looked at this broken boy hidden within a fearless man. "Before I left, there was a boy in my village, Gilhiad was his name. His family was starved, the Romans deliberately allowing them all to turn to dust. Gilhiad could not bear to watch his mother fade, her suffering too painful to observe, and so one day, as the guards rested, he stole bread and fruit from their camp. It was not an act of vengeance or violence, he merely wanted to feed his family," Lancelot continued, trapped in the still burning fires of his past. "Do you know his punishment?...He was nailed to the gate of our village, left to starve or be picked apart by the birds, whichever came first. Anyone seen helping him was to suffer the same fate. And the day I left Sarmatia, to come here, I was thankful, as I passed Gilhiad's rotting corpse. I wanted to leave...I deserted my family and was glad to do so." His voice broke, and he jumped from the ground, his arms leaning against a tree and his head bowed dishonourably.

Guinevere followed him, wanting nothing more than to comfort him but fearing his reproach as he had always done in the past. "Lancelot, you bear no blame for leaving your family. It was not a choice."

"But I desired to leave. To save myself and leave them to fates unknown, but most certainly horrific," he insisted savagely, his back still dauntingly towards her. "I can never forgive myself for deserting them. I should've stayed and died with them."

Guinevere hurried forward, ducking under his arms and settling herself between him and the tree-trunk. "Don't ever say that. Would that be what they wished for you? Death? Nay, Lancelot, they would be proud if they could look upon you now. For you have survived countless trials and battles."

He raised his head, looking deep into her eyes. "Would they be proud of their only son's murderous ways?"

"You have saved lives," she persisted, reaching to pull him from the darkness that enveloped his soul. "You have come to the aid of your friends many times. And to Arthur." Lancelot looked away, trying not to take heed of her impassioned words, but Guinevere grabbed his chin, pulling his gaze back to her. "You have saved me!"

"Can you save me, then?" he replied instaneously, his eyes full of fervor.

She realized then how close they were, his warm, fresh breath whispering on her skin and his dark eyes boring into her, searching for answers she had not. But Guinevere did not run from him, nor betray what her heart desired to speak. "I believe I can...but you have to let me." She let her eyes wander his soul, their very cores suddenly bonded to one another.

He looked at her peculiarly, the corners of his lips upturned in a tiny smile as he traced a finger along her lower lip. "No. You are Arthur's saviour. You will do right by him, Guinevere." This time, it was he who had broken their moment, though Guinevere felt shame when he had mentioned Arthur. Betrayal.

Lancelot pulled away from the tree, the Knight replacing the gentle man she'd been witness to an instant before. "We should carry on. We have a fair day's ride today," he said distantly, as though she was a simple charge of his.

"Lancelot?" she called out delicately, intent on severing the distance he'd placed between them.

"Ready?" He ignored her platitude and climbed upon his horse, spurring him to life.

As she hurried to follow, a voice inside of her screamed with frustration, outraged at his sudden coldness. Why was it every time they grew closer, he pulled away, determined to set great distance between them? Why could she not read the tales written in his eyes? What was it he hid so desperately?

Riddles resolved to stay forever unanswered.