A/N: Sorry about the wait! Long chapter here. This chapter is kind of a go-between before the next 'plot point' if you will...so just endure it! The next chapter is fairly Lancelot-based so we'll get so more insight from him!
----
"Welcome to Kent, my lord Artorius," a townsman by the name of Milhad proclaimed, looking wonderously upon Arthur, whose nobility was obvious even atop an aged horse, the remnants of furious days of riding gathering on his worn face.
Gawain snorted, nodding his head towards his fellow warriors. "This is what we have come all this way for? A sad little fortification and villagers who have never toyed a sword in their hands?"
Bors laughed jovially, as Galahad gazed over the peasant crowd with interest, seeing much more with his youthful enthusiasm. To him, these people had greater strength than the largest Saxon army because of their passion for their cause that was evident even in their faces."
A young boy tugged at Gawain's hanging shirt tail, his eyebrows furrowed together. "'Scuse me, Sir, we might not be swordsmen like yourselves but we sure know how to use our bows!"
Tristan leaned low on his horse, grazing the top of his mane as he whispered loudly to the little child, "That is wise. Archery takes more skill!"
Bors narrowed his eyes, though a grin played upon his lips. "Never you mind boy, this one hear speaks in senseless riddles constantly. Stick with us here and we'll show you how to fight like a real man—sword and all! Why, I got myself a few nasty little monsters just like you," he said, slightly wistful for the children and woman he had left legions behind. Bors reached and patted the young boy's head, happily ruffling his dark hair into a matted mess.
"I think those bastards of yours have softened you, friend!" Gawain said, raising an eyebrow towards him.
Bors sat back in the saddle of his horse and pointed his finger accusingly at Gawain. "No one calls those little brutes 'bastards'! Except for me, that is!" He broke out into a loud chuckle, his eye's emanating the warmth that defined him, despite his protestations that he was a bloodthirsty warrior at heart.
Arthur smiled at the banter among his Knights, proud that they had not yet lost the spirit that fuelled their will to serve for a greater cause than simply themselves. He felt an even greater rush of pride sweep through him at the successful completion of the task he had set before his two most trusted, and beloved, friends. Despite his faith in Guinevere and Lancelot and his endless praying for the eternity of their good health, he quite expected to be barricaded from entering the citadel of Kent. But his prayers had been answered with good gracefulness, as his friends had reached their destination and persuaded the people of Kent to the worthy cause of ending the invasion of the Saxons.
Arthur trotted through the gates amid the cautious stares of the townspeople who both feared and respected his presence, as they realized he alone was the one who could unite the peoples of Briton to drive out the enemy that plagued them. He descended his horse, knowing he had to win the trust of the people of Kent himself in order for their fighting to be as impassioned as his was. Arthur swiftly gathered his Knights behind him, a rather imposing picture set in the minds of the village people as they glanced upon the strong-willed, valiant faces of the men who followed Arthur, and Arthur alone. Tristan, Bors, Dagonet, Gawain and Galahad stood flanking Arthur, their expressions firm, presenting an incredible vision of unity and strength to the villagers.
"People of Kent," He began, holding out his arms as to formally welcome them to the plight of all of the Isle. "I have sent before me two of my greatest friends who you have obviously welcomed into your haven. They have told you of my arrival and the reasons for it. But I ask you now, myself, here in this moment, for a task that will be neither easy nor a guaranteed success. I want to end the reign of fear and destruction the Saxons have set upon this land but I cannot go it alone. I ask for your aide in materials, in men, but above all in support and belief that we can make Britain a land of greatness once again, free of brutes more than willingly to burn all your villages and murder your families! You have every reason to shun me and shut your gates forever to my quest but I promise that should you good people stand behind me, I will endeavour to make Britain a place founded on true freedom and equality. I will break your chains!" Arthur bellowed fervently, throwing his glistening sword into the air. "What say you, people of Kent?"
The men of the village slowly left the sides of their families and stood before Arthur, no traces of fear touching their faces. Some were aged, having seen too many winters, while others had seen too few, their youthfulness radiating from their bright eyes. Nevertheless, all stared at Arthur with admiration, their hands slapping over their hearts, a symbol of allegiance.
"We will defeat them!" yelled Arthur, the rowdy cheers and roars of the crowd fuelling his confidence and energy. He left the courtyard of the village, his heart full with love for the people who had so willingly offered their faith to him as he walked, now eager to reunite with Guinevere and Lancelot, the two responsible for winning him this support. The other Knights too were most eager to meet again with one of their own, and thus complete their ring of friendship once again. "Guinevere? Lancelot? Where are they? I am most eager to see them," Arthur asked of Milhad, who was racing to keep pace with Arthur's broad strides.
Arthur stopped at the end of long corridor upon hearing nothing from Milhad, who had fallen behind and stood, cowering slightly. "Milhad?"
Milhad coughed, his eyes not daring to touch upon Arthur's. Bors lunged forward, a violent madness flashing in his eyes, and pushed the townsman against the cold wall, the man's face smashing against the rock. "Where are they?!"
Galahad ran forward, yanking Bors away from Milhad but unable to dispel the wild look on Bor's face. "Bors! Honestly, Vanora would have your tongue if she could see you now!"
Bors grunted, a tiny smile glowing on his reddened face at the mention of his lady. "I fear that woman more than any Saxon and that's the truth!"
"Milhad, tell me now what has happened!" demanded Arthur, his pulse quickening at the mere thought of a horrible fate befalling either of his fresh love, Guinevere, or old friend, Lancelot.
"My Lord, Lancelot has been gravely wounded. He is but holding to life by a thread," the townsmen explained grimly, feeling true pity for the noble man before him.
Galahad and Tristan dropped their eyes, their pleasant smiles cast from their face in place of solemn frowns. Dagonet said nothing but carefully trained his eyes upon Bors, calmly expecting an explosion from anger from an already-heated man who had begun passing between the walls. Gawain looked at Arthur, his mouth opening to speak but Arthur held up his hand to silence him, his face pained. Arthur swallowed, the news bearing down on him like a knife but refusing to settle in his consciousness. "Take me to him."
----
He found Guinevere huddled on the hard floor, her head resting in her arms upon the bed peacefully, her eyes and ears closed to all but the whispers in her dreams. Her long, silky hair framed her sleeping beauty of a face and her pink lips were parted ever so slight. Arthur felt the breath of life cease within for a moment at her pretty sight...until his eyes cast upon the reason for her being there. Upon the bed lay a still figure, cloaked in heavy blankets despite the warmth of the chamber. Arthur knew instantly it was Lancelot and that his friend was not well, as the stench of death hung threateningly in the ceiling.
Arthur walked slowly to the other side of the bed, bending atop his friend, his palms crashing together in a soft prayer. He placed his hand on Lancelot's forehead, feeling his friend's cool sweat press into his skin as he begged his God to spare this life, and to take his instead. Arthur recalled Lancelot's destiny spewed from his own lips.
I will die in battle, of that I am certain.
"It is not yet your time, brother," he whispered, willing Lancelot to live. Guinevere stirred as he spoke, her eyes fluttering open, bestowing him the beautiful darks of her eyes.
"Arthur," she said softly, gazing at him for a brief moment, still sleepy, across Lancelot's immobile body. She raised herself on her elbows, glancing at Lancelot's peaceful face as she searched for signs of improvements in his condition. "He does not wake."
Arthur ran a rough hand along his tired face, a great regret settling within him as it always had when one of his men had been injured or killed. "The fever...has it taken him yet?"
"Yes," Guinevere replied distractedly, looking down at Lancelot so intently that it was though Arthur was not with her in the chamber. "He is so close..." She could not finish, brushing a hand across her eyes quickly.
"How did this happen?" inquired Arthur, wondering how his infallible Knight had been broken and also how Guinevere had come to show concern for a man she had disliked so recently.
Still, her gaze drifted not from Lancelot, her voice so gentle that Arthur strained to listen. "We were attacked...in the forest. Saxons. They had weapons I'd never before seen. We barely made it here before he collapsed..." Suddenly Guinevere looked up into his eyes, tears threatening to overflow unto her smooth, pale skin. Arthur was struck by this sight, seeing a softness in her he had never seen before, nor expected to see ever. He longed to pull her into his arms and smell her sweet hair and stroke away her worry but he could not. For Lancelot lay between them, a dark barrier that for some reason he felt he could not overcome or cross.
Arthur shook away his thoughts and smiled reassuringly at Guinevere. "He is young still. Death will not take him yet."
Guinevere repeated his words silently. Death will not take him yet. Death will not take him yet. If she willed them to destiny, the perhaps it would become a truth. She gently ran her fingers along her temples, growing more weary with every passing minute that she sat at Lancelot's motionless side. She had little of sleep or even waking rest since their arrival in Kent but she knew that even had she desired it, it would not come to her. Guinevere knew not what her heart had willed her to wait for but only that she hovered just above the realm of madness, her entire being threatened by Lancelot's stupor. He must wake. There were things left unsaid between them and Guinevere could not send him to a shallow grave without speaking her peace. Somehow Lancelot had linked their souls together, a link that death would not severe, but would pulse endlessly within Guinevere if all truths that lay between would remain sealed. "Arthur, Merlin. Where is he?" asked Guinevere suddenly, an idea settling itself in her path so that all else was of little importance to her now.
"He stays in the forest, just beyond the village here, keeping a watch for Saxon invaders," he explained, not yet realizing the meaning of her question. He too was unable to remove his gaze from Lancelot's sleeping form and its child-like grace. He had witnessed the deaths of many of his men, some friends, others simply a name but there were seven men whose fates dearly mattered to him. To lose one weighed greatly upon Arthur's conscience; these were his men, who had allowed him to guide them, command them, in a territory foreign to them for 15 years. And it was Lancelot's life now that was being gambled; Lancelot, his finest Knight but more so, his truest friend. They had kindred spirits, alike in so many ways that their differences were often outweighed and their ages meant little. The prospect of this loss pierced Arthur's very soul and muddled his thoughts.
Guinevere rose, a new hope invigorating her to livelihood, and moved to stand before her Arthur, her dark eyes looking up into his, silently begging him. "Arthur, you must send for him. Please. She lifted her hand to his cheek, her fingers making long, featherlike strokes along his weather-beaten skin. "I cannot tell you why," she answered the question he had dancing on his lips. "You must trust in me to help Lancelot."
Arthur pondered for a moment, the question of why Guinevere was so anxious to ensure Lancelot's life stayed upon this ground and no other flickering his mind as quick as a candle being blown out. He reached for Guinevere's hands and placed his comfortingly on top, feeling the delicate softness of her skin soothing his rougher, hardened hands. "There is little I would not trust you with, my Lady. I will do as you ask," he conceded, his dark eyes betraying a look of such unwarranted adoration and love that Guinevere cast down her own eyes, fearing she could not meet his passion.
"Barricade the door until you have returned," Guinevere requested, her voice low.
Arthur turned to leave, bowing his head customarily, worry lines still daunting his face. Guinevere caught his elbow and without pause, fell into his arms, nestling her head sweetly in the crook of his neck. Arthur felt her silky hair, glide over the sensitive skin of her neck as she clutched him tightly with her arms, whispering barely audibly, "Thank you. You are a good man, Arthur." Arthur blushed unknowingly to her, feeling pride in her high opinion of him and said nothing. But he did not know the impetus behind her words; they were true, yes, but Guinevere felt a guilt she knew not what for and as though she could not match his goodness or gracefulness in any way. It was as though she was making amends for a crime or injustice that she had not yet committed. But you already have, a small voice whispered within her. Guinevere cast it aside quickly, lacking the eagerness to pursue her conscience as she pulled away from Arthur and knelt back by Lancelot's side.
She did not look after Arthur's retreating figure, her thoughts once again consumed by Lancelot's state. She lay her head next to his and brushed her fingers along his hairline, feeling his soft curls move through them with ease. Slowly she lifted her body onto the bed, lay on her side and watching the sweetness that was Lancelot's sleep. The warmth of his body glowed unto her own shivering form, his steady breaths comforting her tension as she slowly matched his breathing patterns, feeling a sort of relaxation drift over her for the first time in days.
"Do you remember that day when Arthur saved me from that horrible little cage and certain death? When I first met him? And you. And the others? For eternity, I lay within those bars, certain that if I was not tortured to death then I would die by starvation. I had accepted my destiny and was willing and content to die. But Arthur came. I saw his noble face, those eyes of his so full of concern and heard that strong voice of his command my freedom. You know all this, Lancelot, as you were there. But there is something you do not know. I saw...I saw you first, before I ever set eyes upon Arthur, I saw this face," she told him softly, her fingers running along the smooth bone of his cheek, the slightest tingle jumping into her own skin. "You saw me too, before Arthur, but you did not draw near. Why?" she whispered, knowing it was a question that would remain unanswered, at least for a time. "It matters not, I suppose. But you must know that it was your face that brought a glimmer back into my life. A hope. In your eyes, I saw my own freedom, my life. And I shall never forget it, Lancelot, I promise." She laid her lips upon his cool forehead, daring not to touch his still-warm lips and then rested her head on his chest, over his heart, the faint but consistent beats beautiful sounds to her.
Guinevere heard sounds of heavy footsteps and slid quickly back to the floor, her cheeks colouring unstoppably. Again, she felt as though she done wrong. Wronged Arthur. She knew without looking that Merlin had entered the chamber, just from the lightness in the air and the sense of magic that enveloped his body. He stood in the doorway, offering no greeting but nor did Guinevere welcome him.
"I know why you have asked me here." Merlin's voice was haggard, heavy with the weariness of many battles fought.
"And yet you do not move," she observed dryly, turning finally to meet his eyes, her skin stretched across her face in consequence of her seemingly never-ending awakened state.
Merlin's glittering eyes peered into her, searching to affirm the thoughts he anticipated she carried. "I cannot, Guinevere," he answered her unspoken desire, his expression softening towards the girl he had reared since her first breath.
"Merlin, you must spare his life," Guinevere appealed finally in a breathy voice, the madness again returning to her eyes. "It is not a request."
"Guinevere, I am a healer but I carry no certainty. My gifts have limits," replied Merlin, tranquilly, his hands folded together.
Anger flicked across her pale face as she rose rapidly, her youthful, toned figure looming over his brittle, shrunken one. "That is a lie. You have breathed life time and again into many of ours who lingered on the brink of death. There is a reason why you will not help Lancelot and I demand to know it!"
Merlin lifted a frail, bony hand to Guinevere's dark head, stroking her soft hair. "Child, do you not think I have wisdom?"
Guinevere backed away, rejecting his kindness though it caused to pain to flinch from the man who had raised her. "If wisdom is letting a good and worthy man die, then you have it!"
A great suffering then appeared upon Merlin, as though she had attacked him physically, and he struggled to settle into a chair. Guinevere reached her arm to aid him, her anger dissipated as she knelt before him, her eyes speaking the apologies she could not.
Merlin gazed at Lancelot and then back to Guinevere, an unknown expression on his face. "It might...might be easier if this life was forfeit," he suggested carefully.
She knew not of his meaning and shook her head sadly. "No, Lancelot is deeply loved by Arthur and the others. It would greatly dishearten their spirits to lose him. It is for Arthur I request this," she lied; it was not for him alone.
Merlin said nothing but sat quietly, his mind crowded with intertwining thoughts. At long last, he coughed and found the courage to speak. "I will heal him, Guinevere, but you must know, that it is against my own counsel that I do this. I fear that saving him will do unto you all more pain that good."
Guinevere flung her head into his lap, so thankful that she did not take heed of his warning, and then stood again, knowing that she must leave Merlin to summon his gifts in peace. "Merlin?" She paused at the door, sensing he had something more to say.
"Be cautious, child. I have given you all the warning I can. And remember that denying the truth has the potential to be more damning than any lie." He turned his back to her, hovering over Lancelot, his lips already mastering the spells that would save the young man's life.
She left the chamber, her skirts rustling about her. Merlin's words had been clear but she lacked the one piece that would make everything mysterious known to her.
What was missing?
----
Later that evening, Guinevere gazed out the window, captivated by the hard rain that beat down upon the walls of the fort as her mind rolled with the booming thunder. She spun around, hearing a sudden rustling sound and found herself staring into the sleepy eyes of Lancelot.
"You have awoken," Guinevere said, smiling down at Lancelot's confused face, his handsomeness still evident despite his ill state. "Are you as thorough at everything or is it just pertaining to injury?" she teased, feeling a lightening upon her soul with his awakening.
Lancelot blinked, glaring at her uncertainly. "I don't remember...what happen--," He broke off as he reached for the cup of spring water on the beside table, cringing excruciatingly. "Ah, I remember now. It's all becoming painfully clear."
Guinevere swatted away his hand and took the cup in her own hands, bringing it to his lips. He drank thirstily, wiping his mouth once finished and looking at her inquisitively, the chamber foreign to his eyes. "We are in Kent...how long have I been asleep? Oh, my head aches."
She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, brushing his dark hair back. "It has been days. And your ache is from the herbs Merlin gave but do not fear, it will wear off in a little while."
Lancelot's eyes widened and he jumped up to a sitting position, casting the warming blanket that had lain on him to the floor. "Merlin? The Dark Wizard?" Stories of the warrior-wizard had often been passed on around campfires, tales of sorcery, spells, and curses characterizing Merlin as a frightening beacon of magic who had the power to turn battles with just a simple incantation.
"You know others, Sir? And he is no master of the dark arts, I assure you. His aid was enlisted so that you would live. You owe him your thanks!" chastised Guinevere, defending the man who had fought against his own will to do what she had begged. But she was still gentle with Lancelot, her usual coolness gone as she tended to him, caring for him as she had never for any of her own people.
"Still arguing, I see! Careful, Lady, you will force me back into slumber," he jested, his eyes twinkling with cleverness. "Who sent for him? I daresay Arthur himself would have dragged old Merlin here to heal me!" Lancelot surmised, his mouth half-lifted in a grin.
"I did. Does that surprise you?" Guinevere questioned boldly, forcing herself not to gaze at his bronzed, muscular chest in fear that he would notice.
Lancelot cocked his head, greatly enjoying this playful encounter. "Not in the slightest. With whom would you spar were I not around? Arthur would not have you!"
Guinevere balked, her mouth opening at his retort. "And yet you would!" she responded carelessly, her lips moving faster than her mind. One look at Lancelot's pretty head, bowed, and Guinevere knew she had spoken too quickly, opening wounds that both had hoped had been sealed forever. Yet, her conscience whispered, did you not desire to say something to him if he awoke? To tell him the truth and to hear it from him as well? "Lancelot, I--,"
"No," he interrupted brusquely, leaning back and closing his eyes, secretly hoping that she would have disappeared by the time he reopened them. Her presence only weakened his determination to remain loyal to Arthur."What is done is done. We have made our peace, Guinevere."
Guinevere bit her lip nervously, waiting for that ideal moment, one she was not certain even existed. But it was not to come. Sighing, she stood to leave him, assured now of his good health and realizing there was no other reason for her to stay. Unexpectedly his fingers caught her wrist, his dark eyes gripping her soul, nearly tearing everything previously left unsaid from her. She felt nothing but the heat from his hand course through her body and became aware that he was very nearly naked, his toned body gleaming to her. Once again, she felt a raw urge surge through her, awakening all her senses to her needs, wants...sexuality. Guinevere was frightened, knowing that she had very little control over her own self now and was more than willing to give herself over to his warm hands. No.
"Why are you here?" Lancelot prodded, his voice nearly a whisper as he felt his resolve to send her away crumble.
There it was. The moment she had awaited. It was time, now, for honesty. Her lips quivered as she struggled to find the right words, losing her concentration as she glanced at his face, so full of care and longing that it was hard to bear. "There is something you--,"
"May Arthur be protected and blessed," voices cried from the courtyard, causing both Guinevere and Lancelot to cease all movement. They were trapped in time, layers of guilt and betrayal covering them. Guinevere looked out the window, a small smile drifting across her face as she watched Arthur patiently show a child how to wield a sword in the proper fashion. Arthur.
"Will you send Arthur and the others up, I would greatly like to be reunited," Lancelot said gruffly, knowing as she did that their private thoughts would remain their own respectively. There was no room for truth between them.
"Yes, of course." Guinevere had a sudden desire to leave his daunting presence, as he made her nervous and unnervingly exposed.
"Guinevere, I thank you," added Lancelot as she opened the door to leave, his tone heavy with solemnity. She knew instinctively that behind those uncomplicated words of thanks lay a thousand others that could not be said.
She forced a comforting smile on her lips and simply bade him to be well. It was all she could offer him.
----
Lancelot listened to the door bang open, expecting to see his friends barging in, half-drunk and smelling like the lot of pigs they were. "Finally! I nearly died just from waiting for you—," his amused voice faltered as he found himself surprisingly not looking unto the red faces of his fellow Knights but rather, the bent, bearded figure of Merlin.
"Guinevere has told me of your recovery," Merlin said evenly, his eyes hidden behind their dark pools of colour.
Lancelot coughed, feeling an unnatural intimidation by his presence. "Yes."
"You will serve Arthur well. There is glory in your future," Merlin replied prophetically, his voice still emotionless as he stood firm, despite his weathered body.
"I do not--," Lancelot began, uncertain of how to respond. He had a sense that Merlin knew of what had passed between Guinevere and himself without ever being present or even informed by the Lady.
"But there can be no Guinevere in your fate," Merlin interjected, a passion now flashing in his eyes as he spoke of the girl, and now woman, whom he had cherished all her life. "She is for another."
"Yes." Lancelot could not bring his eyes to Merlin, his strength seeping from him as he felt as insecure and small as he had during boyhood.
"I have saved your life and now I ask something of you in return."
Lancelot tilted his head, still not meeting Merlin's overwhelming gaze directly. "Then so be it, I suppose. I owe you that at least."
Merlin did not hesitate to make his request. Now was not the time for niceties. "You must promise to stay yourself from Guinevere. Be a friend, yes, but no more than that can you bid of her."
The Knight clasped his hands tightly together, finally looking into Merlin's eyes. There he saw pain, suffering...and bloodshed, all consequences of the path on which Lancelot had been steadily walking. Lancelot knew then that he must sacrifice his own selfish desires for the sack of the others involved. For Guinevere. For Arthur. For the Quest. "I will do as you wish." He would willingly cause no pain for anyone else and decided then that he would bear his angst in silence, knowing he had been mistaken in allowing his frustration to overtake his sensibility when he had confessed to Guinevere of her true importance to him.
Merlin left to him to his thoughts, saying no more and moving so quietly it was as though he floated on air. Lancelot's desired visitors came finally but he found himself no longer able to be jovial, his mind resigned to what he had just lost.
Or never had to begin with.