A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I actually have a plan for this story and everything. No longer am I writing blindly!
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As she glared up at him, meeting his eyes levelly, she felt her inner strength course through her veins once again and was greatly relieved. Since she'd met Arthur and all he encompassed, and even more so since she'd been trapped in time and space with Lancelot, she'd felt weakened as though her independence and solidarity had been slowly seeping from her. As though he'd weakened her.
"Would it please you to rest, Lady?" Lancelot inquired dutifully, self- importance tinting his voice.
Guinevere forced herself to ignore his detached manner and instead reveal to him some of her own strength. "I need not rest. But if you do, Knight-- ," she said haughtily, addressing him as formally as he had her, "I shall wait." She would play the injured party no more, nor would she naively subject herself to his reproachful attitude towards her.
"Guinevere--,"
"Quiet." Guinevere ordered, her eyes scanning the trees below them, as she realized they lay as prey, in wide sight of any eyes. She sensed a presence and listened for the slightest crack of a branch, watching for any dark shadows in the growing moonlight.
"I hear it," whispered Lancelot, sliding off his horse, as he slowly and soundlessly withdrew his swords. His movements were calculated, tense, as his eyes darted between the trees and bushes. "You continue to Kent, Guinevere. I shall remain here to teach these fools a lesson."
"Spare me your arrogant bravery. I go nowhere." Guinevere withdrew her bow emphatically, a fierce expression glowing upon her pretty face.
"This is not a discussion. Go," he hissed, descending the hill gradually, his footsteps expertly silent.
"I am no child. But if you are that fearful, worry not. Go. Or rest easy. I won't let them touch you," she replied snidely, casting him a side-long look. Guinevere aimed her bow, determined to utilize the skills she'd been born with—she would cast aside her quality for no man.
Lancelot flicked his eyes quickly to hers and Guinevere felt a strong, raw pang in the very core of her body as she gazed, slightly in a daze, at his taut, lean body, a fearless expression on his glorious face. She suddenly felt very aware of the physical needs and desires of her sex, a blush rising in her creamy skin that he, fortunately, was distracted from noticing. Guinevere sprung herself to attention, feeling more embarrassed that she'd deterred from her task, all to indulge in thoughts so natural yet so unknown to her.
"I await the skillful strikes Arthur has praised of you and your bow," Lancelot said, the merest hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"Better," Guinevere promised simply, firing a shot into the obstructing trees. Both, unbeknownst to the other, held their breath, waiting. A man's tortured cry careened into the night sky, and Guinevere and Lancelot jumped forward, knowing the positions of their attackers. A flash of weaponry and armour revealed their identities. Saxons.
Guinevere felt a boiling anger build within her, detesting the thought of those brutes ruining her land with their careless and destructive ways. She ran forward, screaming the war-cry of the Woads, plunging into a group of bulky Saxons, her dagger lifted in her hands. Lancelot was quickly behind her, impressed with her daring boldness and willingness to fight blood- thirsty, frighteningly dangerous men, though determined to protect her from carelessness. Arthur had confided in him of Guinevere's deep-seated hatred of the Saxons and her readiness to give her life to see them perish from the Isle, forcing Lancelot to promise the safety of Guinevere's life.
Lancelot gripped one of the men from behind, his sword cutting their neck viscously open, warm blood spilling over his rough hands. He whirled around in a quick circle, slicing the stomachs of two more Saxons, not remaining still long enough to see their wailing bodies crumble to the ground. Lancelot let out a low growl, feeling his own blood pulse just beneath his skin as sweat drenched his forehead. He saw now that they faced a great number of enemies, and felt trapped in time, watching as Guinevere plunged her knife, crudely yanking it upwards into the stomach of a young Saxon, his insides dripping onto the stained grass.
She looked up, meeting his eyes for an instant, breathing heavily, her hair wild around her shoulders and her eyes unnaturally bright. Bodies littered the distance between them and blood drenched the once-blossoming ground. And yet they connected in this moment, so intensely that Guinevere nearly crossed the death before her to reach him, the sounds of more Saxons distant to her desires.
Would they only be able to reach eachother with dead between them?
Guinevere, in her reverie, failed to notice a hairy, older Saxon rush behind her, grabbing her by the neck fiercely. Crying out in surprise, she looked up into the ferocious blue eyes of her assailant, as he gripped her tightly, his fingers crushing the bones in her neck. "Pretty. Pretty," he sneered, running his free hand vigorously along the curves of her feminine shape. Guinevere barred her teeth, struggling to free herself from his grasp, willing herself not to let this old man be the death of her. She freed one of her hands, and threw it violently into his manhood, watching as his face fell slightly in pain. The Saxon did not lose his hold on her but the lusty desire in his eyes was replaced with a chillingly murderous look as he brought his dagger to her neck, the cool touch tingling her.
She waited for the impact, for her blood to be shed, given to the land she so desperately loved. But instead she felt the Saxon's hands drop from her as he fell to his knees, his head lolling lifelessly against her. A shiny sword lay in his back, surrounding by a growing pool of bright blood.
Lancelot.
And I will save you...every time henceforth from this moment.
His pledge rang steadfast in her ears as she registered his tall figure before her, making sure she was unharmed. Lancelot said nothing, but nodded his head towards her and handed her fallen dagger and she knew now that he would not stop her again from fighting battles for a cause so close to her own heart; she had won his respect with her selflessness, whereas it was resented by Arthur. He would not hinder her, but rather would be there when she would fall. For some reason, this smelt sweeter to her than any victory in battle.
She took her knife from him, their bloodied hands touching and it was as though she had been revived, feeling the will to fight course through her once again. Guinevere stepped over the dead Saxon's oozing body, coming alongside Lancelot, whose dark curls crossed his brow.
"There are more still," he said plainly, running a finger pensively across his lips, his eyes still acutely alert.
Guinevere smiled up at him. "Then there will be no more." She crossed her dagger with his sword, cementing their bond as fellow warriors and their commitment to protect the other. She started forward, moving deeper into the forest, where more Saxons most certainly lay hidden amongst the dark bushes, preparing to pounce on the two travelers. But this time she did not head into battle alone. Lancelot walked at her side, his swords drawn for what was a never-ending battle in his life.
Guinevere no longer hid behind herself anymore nor fought only with the result of saving her own life. There was another life to save as well.
----
Guinevere looked around her, the stench of blood and sweat deadening her senses as she walked amongst the men she had killed so fiercely. To her eyes, there were none left alive and deep within her, she felt a swell of pride at her accomplishment. Unlike other women in her age, she refused to consign herself to womanly duties and had become instead a warrior, much to the chagrin of male admirers who wanted docility, not the ability to wield a sword.
She knew not where Lancelot was, having seen him aggressively fighting a young Saxon, likely not yet sixteen, not moments before. Guinevere searched for his muscular, dark-haired form, the outlines and contours of his body familiar now to her. She hurried though the forest, listening for sounds of the Knight or more incoming Saxons, eager to leave this place and continue their journey before they were again under siege.
Guinevere saw him then, a short distance away, battling a huge, broad- shouldered man. The Saxon was not the same youth she had seen earlier; this one was older, more skillful in his swordsmanship, ducking consistently Lancelot's calculated blows. She felt her heart beat quicker within her, as she watched this battle, as though she had more invested in it than simply her guide to Kent. With his free hand, the Saxon warrior, reached for a different weapon that had been flung to the ground, his light eyes still concentrated on Lancelot's juts. Guinevere gasped, as the weapon was unveiled to her sight; it was a large rock, covered in metal spikes and attached to a thick piece of rope by which it was swung. The assailant lunged at Lancelot, who was just barely able to dodge this new, clever weapon. Guinevere saw the widening of Lancelot's eyes as he realized the devastating power of the spiky rock when it slammed into the tree against which he had only just been leaning against. The Saxon grinned, and swung it towards Lancelot's mid-section forcefully. Guinevere shut her eyes, hearing only the sound of crunching armour and feeling a sharp pain in her side, as though it had been she who had been pummeled. The pain was blinding; her eyes saw nothing but sprinkles of white and black and all sounds were blocked from her hearing. She stumbled, nearly collapsing to the ground in pain, her hands searching herself for blood. But there was none. For it was not her wound. She felt Lancelot's suffering, right through to every last inch of her. Finally, she forced her eyes open, the pain slowing her movements as she pushed her hand into the grimy earth to steady herself. Guinevere glanced up, frightened of what sight might be relieved unto her straining eyes. Her eyes fluttered shut, the aching sensation breaking her concentration as she sought for him. "Lancelot?" she murmured to none but herself. Guinevere struggled to brave the pain, able to keep her eyes open for only flashes of vision.
The moonlight. The shining stars. Trees drifting in the wind.
The Saxon stood, looking down at a helpless Lancelot.
Blood, so much blood.
Lancelot's courageous face, his lips never begging for mercy, for life.
His own sword raised high, about to betray him, it's faithful owner. Guinevere felt a sudden energy strength her heart and then invigorate her body. She could not let him die. The wind once again told her that to watch this death, of all the ones she had been privy to, was fated not to happen. Wait, Lancelot, wait, she urgently called to him in her thoughts. Gathering the very last drops of her spirit, Guinevere leapt infront of Lancelot, shielding his body from harm, her bow meeting the forehead of his assailant, whose sword was raised for a final blow to Lancelot. "If you want him, come and claim him," she dared evenly, knowing she could strike him with five arrows before he would have time to even contemplate impaling her.
The Saxon snarled at her, clearly unhappy about the prospect of running from a mere woman. He leaned forward, his long greasy hair shielding his face, and spat on her feet, yelling incomprehensibly as he scurried away. Guinevere, disgusted, allowed the man to run from his battle, her bow still raised as she counted to ten under her breath. Ten. She shot an arrow, seemingly a blind attempt, into the trees, watching contently as the nasty Saxon abruptly scampered without direction, his leg lacerated by her arrow. "Men." Shaking her head, Guinevere whirled around into the drawn, surprised face of Lancelot, the man designated by Arthur to protect her. "Is it bad?"
Lancelot said nothing, his breathing uneven and haggard as he fell back against the tree. "You must--," Guinevere started, but spun back around, guarding her Knight, after hearing a great rustling amongst the trees. "Do not move!" Realizing that Lancelot could fight no more, she ran rapidly, feeling the branches slap her soft skin like whips but taking no notice as she was anxious to lead the Saxons away from him. Guinevere spied a break in the forest around a small pond, a plan already formulating in her quick mind as she skillfully climbed a huge tree, still listening for her followers. The Saxons knew little of light treading, that much was certain. Guinevere pulled a rock she'd nabbed from the shore of the pond and tossed it into the forest resuming on the other side, watching intently as the Saxons stumbling upon her trick, looking to the opposite side of the pond, where they believed she'd gone. There were three. Narrowing her eyes, Guinevere took a deep breath, knowing she only had three hasty shots to chance and that to miss was to suffer death. One. She fired, her breathe ceased in time, as her eyes looked, relieved, upon the falling figure of one of her assailant, an arrow piercing his skull. The other two Saxons gazed around them quickly, eagerly searching for the mystery shooter, their own weapons held warningly high. Guinevere grinned in her hiding spot, knowing victory was but two arrows away. Licking her lips, she felt at home in this warrior-persona, feeling nothing of her earlier affliction over Lancelot. There was no weakness to be had in her now. As she aimed, she dedicated her final victories of this battle. For Arthur. Two. Her prey plummeted to the ground, instantanesouly dead with a shot to the heart. Guinevere exhaled loudly, feeling the breeze ruffle her hair and tree leaves lifting in the air, dancing in the invisible wind. She felt it now; the spirits of her people flowed through her and bid her the courage she needed for victory. But something else enlivened her soul to survive, a feeling nameless by her choice. Guinevere aimed, feeling the unknown force drive her will and feed her strength. For Lancelot.
----
Guinevere scanned the bloodied corpses that stained the once-luscious grass, making sure that none of the attackers were left alive to bring more harm unto them. "Lancelot? They are all dead..." She glanced up, her eyes searching the field for where he had once stood, seeing no sign of his tall, imposing figure. "Lancelot?" She moved quickly to where he had last stood, her bow held high in her arms in case a devastating trick was being played upon her. Still, he was no where to be found, as though he'd melted into the nighttime mists. "Lancelot?" she called frantically, tiny beads of sweat forming on her brow. Panic. Panic was an emotion unknown to her before this night. In times of stress and worry, Guinevere had always been held on a pedestal by her people as a beacon of calmness and had been praised for her ability to look beyond the trying crisis. But now Lancelot clouded her sight and thoughts, he was all she could see and think of. There was nothing but fear in her heart, all other emotions dissipated to her loss. She treaded softly, making her way into a shadowy nook, untouched by the moon. Lancelot. He had collapsed, sprawled across crushed blades of glistening grass and his face contorted in suffering. "You are hurt," Guinevere fell along side him, examining the fleshy wound around what was left of his armour. Lancelot pushed away her hand, the movement bringing a flicker of pain to his eyes.
"You must remove--," Guinevere began as though his words were invisible to her ears.
"I do not need your assistance!" exclaimed Lancelot bitterly, a trail of blood seeping from a scratch on his cheek.
Their companionship of late had obviously disappeared. She raised her eyebrows, her fingers still delicately prodding his wound, searching for remnants of a weapon. "Because you do so well on your own, Sir?" Guinevere knew this would sting his manly pride, because despite his new-found respect for her, he most likely resented having been protected by her, the woman of whom he was designated to safe-keep.
"That man was as good as dead," said Lancelot, defending what little pride he held steadfast in his heart as he realized the deeper meaning of her words.
"Then the bow aimed at your heart...was that an illusion, then? Was it a myth I dreamed with mine eyes?" Guinevere asked, her voice firm though tranquil as she looked deep into his eyes.
"If it is gratitude you seek, look elsewhere," he replied shortly, though his eyes did not share the same sentiments, as they were cloaked in both despair and ache.
Though stung by his obvious disregard, Guinevere said nothing, leaning towards him to wipe the darkening blood from his face.
"Leave me, please."
Guinevere persisted, her heart unusually grave with worry and silently she prayed to Arthur's God, to the moon and stars to spare Lancelot's life. Do not take him from me. The thought was natural to her as the sun's light on the earth, but she knew not why. She lifted his armour, sighing forlornly as bright blood poured from his wound, obviously deep and serious. With haste, she tore a piece of cloth from her dress and as gently as she could, pressed it over the wound, hoping to stop the flow of blood.
"Aargh," Lancelot groaned, biting his lip to brace himself against the sting. "Guinevere, go. I do not need you." He turned from her, breathing heavily with effort and trying not to take notice of the tenderness in her concern.
As she sat, her knees dug into the ground and his back to her, Guinevere could not relent despite his cold treatment that injured her soul. Hesitantly, she reached her feminine hand to his broad shoulder and said nothing, wanting him to know without words that she alone could help him now.
Lancelot shrugged her hand away, and jumped up from the grass floor, spinning around to face her, his expression hostile. "Will you not desist? There is nothing you can do for me."
"I can help, if you would simply let me! Lancelot, look at me. Look at me," Guinevere implored, allowing herself to show a softer side so few had ever seen.
Slowly, Lancelot looked up at her from underneath his beautifully long eyelashes, his skin pale and drawn. Guinevere stepped closer to him, tilting her head sweetly, kindness emanating from her eyes. "You saved me. Yet you refuse to take my aid. I can save you." She knew once those words floated on her lips once again that she hadn't simply meant his physical self but that she could save the man within him, the man chained to the legend so desperate to be released. Guinevere thought she saw a flash of softness splash unto his handsome features and felt herself as though standing atop a cliff, merely waiting for the fall. Something was coming. It was shining in the trees, the stars, the wind.
He pursed his lips and a moment of silence hung in the cold air between them before he spoke finally, his hands now bloodied as he clutched his injury. "I do not need to be saved. And if I did, it would most certainly not be by you. You are naught but a silly girl trying to show the courage and skill of a man. You carry only dreams, not reality!" he said cruelly, though his brow furrowed and flinched as he spoke.
Guinevere felt a single tear slide down her pale cheek as she registered the harshness of his speech, feeling as though it was she who had been impaled by a sharp blade. Yet the air was still full of the unspoken and unfulfilled and Guinevere knew that now was her time for reckoning. For truth. She was not a broken woman torn apart by malicious words. She had been and was intent on remaining a fighter, determined to counter any foe who dare cross her path. "I have tired of your attitude. You are no more than me though you very well may be less. I have offered you assistance this night and this is not the first time you have shunned me. Why is it you detest me so?"
Lancelot tried to speak in his defense but Guinevere held up her hand to quiet him. "I have no care for what you will say. I do not understand, Sir, why you impress upon myself your loathing for me one moment and than are as gentle and kind as any friend the next?!" she exclaimed heatedly, freeing herself of the burden of her endless thoughts on the matter.
"Lady, I do not loathe you! Far from such a feeling in truth," Lancelot fired back at her, his nostrils flaring in infuriation. "But I need not of friends! Is it not enough that I have been imprisoned on this isle for 15 years fighting and yet continue to stay for the cause of your people!"
"Answer me this then, Knight. Why do you stay if you find this land so insufferable, then? Why fight for something you care not for?" Guinevere demanded.
Lancelot had reached his breaking point, his anger bursting from his once- calm disposition. "I do not fight for nothing! I fight FOR YOU!" he yelled at her through clenched teeth. Finally his frustration was now open to her furious eyes.
"It is my own fault. He is here for my quest."
"No. He is here for something else."
Her conversation with Arthur haunted her as she realized the meaning of Lancelot's words, her lips faltering to respond and her eyes wide with bewilderment and sheer disbelief.
"It has always been you and, more than death, I fear it will always be you. I stay for you, Guinevere," Lancelot continued in a quieter, sweeter voice, his eyes losing their untamed nature, finally at peace.
She shook her head in astonishment, stumbling away from him and tripping over a hidden tree root, crumbling to the dewy grasses. Lancelot flew to her side, the pain from his wound forgotten as he looked down upon her, his eyes shining with a fire Guinevere had never seen in the eyes of a human. "Are you alright?" he inquired, scanning her face for signs of illness or injury, his hand at her forehead.
Her eyes shone with confusion as she gazed at him, uncertain of herself, of him, of her path. With the answer to a simple question, it seemed as though everything had changed and could never, would never be the same again. Even the forest did not look the same to her, a brighter colour to the leaves and flowers, as though she was only now truly seeing its beauty. But why to her? It was he who had confessed and she had no truths of her own to make known.
What is it you desire, then?
Do you not know?
Finally she was able to speak. "I don't understand. Never have you extended your hand in friendship to me. From the moment I met you, you looked down upon me, as though I was lesser than you and in no way fit for a man like Arthur."
Lancelot bowed his head before lifting his deep, warm eyes to meet hers once again. "I suppose, it was my way of reconciling...what I felt. If I acted as though I detested you, perhaps in time I would learn to believe it. It was a fool's game that ended only in failure,"
"And pain for me? Arthur has wanted us to be friends since the beginning and I chanced it but so many times. Do you know what it is to search for kindness and acceptance on a frozen lake, merely waiting for the ice to crack into a thousand pieces?" Guinevere retorted, anger flashing in her delicate eyes as she masked her shock with spite.
Lancelot's face was suddenly caressed with pain at her harsh analogy to his person, growing paler. "It was never my intention to hurt you. Believe that if you believe nothing else."
Guinevere felt her reserve begin to perish, his tenderness hard to bear so coldly. "Oh, but of Arthur, have we betrayed him by only speaking of such a thing?"
He came to her quickly, his hands wielding her by her shoulders, an impassioned twinge in his eyes. "We are safe, Guinevere, we are safe...Never in all my days shall I ever betray Arthur, I would rather cede my life than commit such a crime. We are safe for it is I...the carrier of this...inconvienence, not you. As long as you feel not the same, all will be well. I have to believe that," Lancelot explained, trying to quell her worry as he sat back on the damp grass, his entire being drained of liveliness. Yet still he dared not say the words. Those fateful words that would cement his soul to hers without hope for a happy, enduring future for him; to say it would be to hang himself by her heart for eternity.
Guinevere trembled still, her mind unsettled by his words...or lack of words, for that matter. He was right; her feelings did not match the level of his affection and was thus spared from the fearful feelings of betrayal and suffering that plagued Lancelot. But more importantly, what she had truly been afraid of was not and would not come to pass. For an instant, when his sincere feelings had been exposed to her, she'd truly believed that he indeed was the man Merlin had spoken of in that prophetic conversation that seemed ages upon her soul. But now, upon his spoken truths, Guinevere knew she had been mistaken. Lancelot held deep affection for her, that much had been implied. But love? Nay, he did not love her with the passion anticipated by Merlin's prophecy; he had not professed love nor had 'love' in its purest linguistic form ever grazed his lips.
Why, then, rather than relief did Guinevere feel only a dull ache throb in deep within her, where Lancelot's affectionate gaze could not penetrate?
"I bear this burden, Guinevere, not you," finished Lancelot, his hand placed over his heart, as thought it now aches him, his battle-wound forgotten.
Tomorrow Guinevere and Lancelot would arrive at Kent, do their task and await Arthur's coming. What had passed between them o'er their travels would be but a fleeting memory for her and a delicate bruise for him. The present moment in all its glory was a final chance to reconcile the truths uncovered that night.
She would not close herself entirely to a man so dejected and sad with care for her. Guinevere had not the cold heart for that. Slowly, she removed his armour, her lips silent as words were no longer of use to either one of them. She then pulled his shirt, the fabric light on her fingertips. She ran her hands from his firm jaw down his neck, her fingers then grazing down his down his hard chest, his muscles tensed. Guinevere betrayed the yearning and lust in her heart, and instead gently pressed the fabric to his wound, feeling her own fingers stained with his blood. She moved into the bend of his body, nestling her head on his bare chest and closing her eyes, seeking a peacefulness she feared she would never know again after this night. He too desired comfort, and rested his head upon her smooth neck, his eyes closed to reality as well.
Finality.