A/N: Sorry about the looooong wait!! Lots of background stuff here. I've once again had to split my chapters as when they were combined, it was just too long. So expect another update from me in the near future! Thanks for reading!
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Guinevere breathed in the fresh air, so full of promise and anticipation as she galloped back within the walls of Kent. She loved the freedom of being unbound, away from the reality of wars and blood that awaited her, and having her own will to do as she pleased. Guinevere trotted through the open gates, surprised to see Arthur and his Knights preparing their horses for traveling. "Arthur?" she called out, jumping easily from her horse and handing the reins to a young boy she had enlisted to be her horse-master. "Where is it you go?" She did not look at him when she spoke, her eyes instinctively wandering for Lancelot, who stood not with the others. Do not look for him, she scolded herself.
"There are Saxons, a small group, I think approaching these walls and we ride out to meet them. It will be a small battle, which is why I saw no need to confer with Merlin. Your people need not fight this day," Arthur explained, his eyes only trained on her, flecked with gold.
"So be it," Guinevere replied absently, straightening her cloak. "Where is Lancelot? Does he still recover and thus cannot fight?" She was well aware that if Lancelot did not go, she might be unable to stay herself from him. Though she had kept her distance, as of late, it had not been an easy battle and often in the middle of the night, she found herself dreaming of him, even his name, and reaching out for a figure that lay not beside her.
Arthur shook his head, grinning. "I do not know. Last I saw, he was being escorted by his admirers to the dining hall!"
"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowing together in confusion. But there was no need for an answer as Lancelot emerged into the courtyard, carrying his swords. But he was not alone. Women clothed in brightly dyed, low-cut gowns floated after him, encircling him with their womanly spells, blushing and giggling like idiotic fools. Guinevere watched disdainfully as one young girl, not more than sixteen, deliberately let her handkerchief fall to the ground, her bright eyes looking up at Lancelot from under long, dark eyelashes. Lancelot bent easily and returned it to the girl with a smile, his charm overwhelming her so that she turned more red than the darkest blood. Guinevere could see that Lancelot was well aware of his effect on them and even encouraged it by tilting his head flirtatiously and flashing them the brilliant grins they sought. "Despicable!" Guinevere hissed under her breath, so that Arthur would not wonder at her words.
"Hey, Lancelot. Spare them their hearts!" Galahad yelled, laughter flooding his voice.
Bors snickered, climbing atop his horse, content that the camaraderie of the Knights was as humourous as ever. "I'm in agreement with Galahad here! I'm sure you've got enough bastards running around this land!"
Lancelot rolled his eyes and moistened his lips with his tongue. "Some of which you think you've fathered," he retorted, his dark eyes lightening in the sunlight. Colour rose in Bors' already ruddy skin and Lancelot quickly calmed his annoyance. "Rest assured, Bors, I have no child!" He glanced around the chuckling crowd, his gaze finally noticing Guinevere's unsmiling face, standing closely by Arthur. His smile faltered and his eyes greyed so slightly that only she knew the sight of her saddened him, stealing the few precious moments of cheerfulness in this battlefield that was his life.
Gawain clapped Lancelot hard on the back, tossing a rolled-up blanket into his arms. "Good to have you back!" Gawaine jumped upon his horse and rounded up the other Knights around him, who all looked to Arthur for instruction.
"Knights, we leave now," Arthur announced, his strong voice booming across the courtyard, instilling a sense of reassurance in the people listening with just the confidence he exuded.
Guinevere neither saw nor heard anything apart from the fawning sighs and whispers of Lancelot's admirers, her own skin growing heated as they daintly laid their fingers on his arm and brushed away the beautiful dark curls falling onto his forehead.
"Guinevere?" Arthur's kind voice rang in her ears, as she suddenly felt the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, slowly turning her from Lancelot.
"Yes?" she answered quietly, her eyes searching Arthur for...for something she did not know she was looking for.
Arthur raised his hand to her cheek, stroking the smooth, pink skin that lay there and leaned forward, as though he meant to bestow a kiss upon her. Looking beyond his broad shoulders, she caught a pair of intensely dark eyes focusing on her. Lancelot. Guinevere bowed her head and he pulled away, trying to shield the hurt in his eyes and confused at her behaviour. She smiled up at Arthur and her sweet mouth banished any doubts he had in his mind, as he believed she was not yet ready to determine the course of their feelings and nothing more.
Again, her gaze drifted from Arthur to Lancelot, unable to take her sight from him as he stalked from the courtyard, calling to the other Knights that he had left something behind. "We will be reunited soon," Guinevere said quickly, her mind already following Lancelot.
"Yes, Lady." He kissed her forehead and rather than feeling content as she knew she ought to, Guinevere felt slightly bitter. Why must they dance the goodbye song? Why was it that he was to leave to fight for a cause she herself had fought for years, before she even heard his name? It was not simply his battle. She was a fighter as well as he. Why must she play the virtuous maiden, eagerly awaiting the return of her courageous love. Her love. No, she realized as she watched Arthur's eyes look at her with such glorious affection, she did not love him. Perhaps, she would love him in time, but if his way to win her heart was to push her to the sidelines of battle, he would have a greater fight on his hands. Alas, she would stay back this time but not again would he expect her to be idle during these hellish times. She brought her hand to his cheek, her eyes speaking the goodbye her lips did not and hurried quickly into the fortress, her mind having left Arthur already.
----
Lancelot lifted the skirts of his bed, his eyes scanning the floor in a flurry. Hitting the top of the bedsheets frustratedly, he sat for a moment, trying to figure where he had last seen it.
"Lance, perhaps if you tell us what it is you seek, we may help you find it!" one of the ladies that had followed him said suggestively, leaning down to him, the bodice of her gown unnaturally tight and exposing. He looked away from the woman's pretty flesh, blushing, not for his own embarrassment but for her and the obviousness of her overtures. Despite his arrogant speeches and dazzling effect on women, Lancelot felt neither comfortable nor confident around the fairer sex since...her. Guinevere was unlike any other woman Lancelot had met, so fiery, so willing to do what was generally accepted as a man's honour. She was interesting and biting, neither silly nor boring as the ladies such as those now upon him, who entreated his affections. He shook his head, warding off his treasonous thoughts, as he stood up quickly and gallantly offered a hand to the lady.
"You seem better," a voice called. Guinevere leaned against the doorway, sternly eyeing the fair ladies waiting upon him, their own eyes glazed with lust and adoration as they fluttered around him silently, trying to not obstruct his way. Guinevere did not hesitate from boldly entering into his chamber unannounced. "Is it this you look for?" She held in her hands a small item, a tiny creature's furry foot it appeared to be. Lancelot gazed grimly at her and reached for it, but Guinevere lifted it from his reach, raising her eyebrows.
Lancelot, in turn, lifted his eyebrows, the corners of lips turning up into a smile. "Leave me." The ladies hurried from the room, content to have been addressed by the noble, handsome Knight, no matter his words. "I am well, thank you," he said to Guinevere, their eyes linking playfully.
"Obviously." She handed him his trinket slowly, the slightest touch of his fingertips on her hand sending shivers along every surface of her body. "Do you think it wise to return to battle so soon?"
"Fear I will not return?"
"No," Guinevere replied, but a smile danced across her lips. "Men like you always return to their women, who wait for them idlely, washing shirts and breeches, while their men are bloodied and beaten." Unintentionally, bitterness had edged her words.
Lancelot laughed heartily, placing his lucky charm safely in his pocket. "Had I a wife, I would be just as pleased if she could wield a sword as well as she would wield a bar of soap. Defense is as much a tactic as offense." Guinevere looked at him then, wondering if some sorcery had allowed him to read her thoughts. Or could it be no work of magic, but simply the had a more true understanding of her than even Arthur? "Ah, but all this talk is meaningless, as I have no wife, nor any women at all."
Guinevere looked towards the door, her ears still taut to the chattering sounds of young women. "No. You are right. Those were no women. They have not the mind to be women."
"You insult them? Why?"
"You deserve at least someone who can understand the demand, "Where is my sword?" Guinevere retorted lightly.
Lancelot teeth glowed white as he grinned, laugh lines forming beautifully around his mouth. "You forget. I have more than one. She will have to be able count."
"Ah, a worthy skill," Guinevere said, laughing. She could not remember the last time she had felt so free in speech and so uninhibited by protocol since she'd met Arthur.
Lancelot lifted his eyes, surprised to see Merlin drifting past the open door, looking at them for the quickest of instants.
You must promise to stay yourself from her.
His promise to Merlin came crashing down on him, as he watched his close, light-hearted moment with Guinevere shatter. "I must go."
Guinevere was startled by his sudden rush to be away from her and looked on confusedly as he quickly passed by her. "Lancelot?" she asked faintly, feeling again that sense of weakness that passed over her when she was in his presence.
"I must go," he repeated, his voice low and his troubled eyes averting her bewildered stare.
She shook her shoulders, her face set angrily. "Oh! At one time, you were harsh to me. Now, you try to evade yourself from my presence. Which is it?" It was her firm belief that she had tolerated more than her fair share of his indecisive, cruel behaviour and despite her sensitivity to him, she was nearing her wit's end.
"What else would you have me do, Lady?" There was no anger in his tone, only an embittered sorrow as he stood at the door, his back to her.
Guinevere wrung hands in anguish, uncertain of how to respond and greatly exasperated by his coincidentally constantly inconsistent behaviour. In all her life, she had always held a distanced position from men and women alike and in doing so, had maintained a certain degree of power and earned the respect of her elders. Now, she could not manage to detach herself from him and felt everything he felt, from his pain to his anger. Yet, though she was greatly irritated by his deplorable behaviour, she found herself wanting to do nothing more than press herself against his hardened back and comfort him. Guinevere exhaled, frightened at the bipolar nature of her own mind, and threw her hands in the air, stalking past him and from the chamber. "You drive me mad!"
Lancelot smiled bitterly, her thoughts echoing her spoken sentiments. She drove him mad as well, but it was a madness he welcomed, a reprieve from the battlefield that composed his existence. As he walked back to the courtyard, he recalled the day he'd first fatally set his eyes upon her, his heart lost at that exact moment. It was neither something he welcomed nor expected and he wished to the Gods that he had never looked upon her face that day when they had got to collect Marius and his son. Lancelot had never spoken of this to Arthur, but it was he who had seen her paled face and enlarged eyes but inches from death first. Though, it was his instinct to free her, he'd felt frozen and left it to Arthur's doing, the bars between them symbolic of a greater obstacle between them. And so it was Arthur and his pure goodness that had one Guinevere's heart while he had been forced to suffer the violent pangs of attraction. He'd never desired to become close with any woman, he remembered as he climbed atop his horse, patting his mane encouragingly, it was something for the feeble-minded, he'd always believed. And thus when it came, he was set off-balance by a passion not just for a body, but for another's mind, heart, and soul. Lancelot knew not exactly why he cared for Guinevere. She was stubborn and strong-willed, traits known to be unseemly for a woman, and she had more skill with a bow than he could ever hope. Actually, he thought, smiling wryly, those are exactly the reasons.
----
"Melegrant and his henchman have been here. They leave us this token of scorched earth," Gawain announced crossly, angered that they had again missed their chance to come to battle with the man and his followers.
"I would that we would meet him finally and I could set my sword upon him," Arthur said, his horse coming alongside Gawain's.
Tristan, who had ridden a little ahead of the others, looked back at Arthur pensively, a lock of dark hair shielding part of his face. "No... Lancelot who will be the one to kill Meleagrant."
Bors laughed, slapping his knee. "See we have no need of Merlin. We have our own sorcerer right here!"
Only Tristan and Lancelot did not laugh, their eyes connecting in a knowing bond. Lancelot, for no reason at all, knew Tristan spoke the truth and did not make light of it. "If I should be so lucky," he said softly, wondering when this destiny would settle upon him.
Meleagrant was a man of the Old blood, who claimed a right to lead the Britons in place of Arthur, a Roman. But his way was neither benevolent nor kindly persuasive as those that refused to stand with him were killed, their wives and daughters raped, and their villages burned to nothing. Meleagrant, it was said, desired to end the torments of the Saxons, as Arthur did, but the difference between them was that Meleagrant would rule with an iron fist over the people of the Isle while Arthur wanted to foster a culture based on freedom and equality. Reports been spread across the country that Meleagrant desired to battle Arthur for the great throne of leadership but that he waited until he had an army that could crush any support Arthur could possibly have. Arthur had confided in his Knights that he did not expect to ever battle Meleagrant, a true coward, and he had been right so far as Meleagrant persisted with 'diplomatic' efforts to force Arthur's hand in ceding his power, to no avail.
Nonetheless, Lancelot thought as he looked at the dead soils and charred trees, Meleagrant was a force that needed to be reckoned with sooner or later. Lancelot was no leader, he had not the mindset or the charisma to ever be one nor did he truly desire it, but he was intuitive enough to know that all of Briton should be united against the Saxons and not fighting against one another.
"We will camp here tonight. I expect the Saxons are not much further off," Arthur commanded, resting close to the ground, his fingers running through the hardened dirt that had once been soil. "We should be a united land," he murmured, his words echoing the thoughts Lancelot had not dared to express.
Snowflakes slowly swirled around the Knights has they prepared a small fire and took some rest, the land increasingly becoming dotted with an icy whiteness. Lancelot ate little, his mind preoccupied as it usually was these days and sat a short way's off from the others, eager to have some semblance of peace. Though he loved his dear friends, he could not share all with them as he once would have. He kept a secret now, one that burdened on him like the cross the Roman priests said Christ had born to his death. But Lancelot knew also that he kept a secret not only from his fellow Knights and brothers, but from himself. He denied the truth, hoping it would allow him a path away from this madness. Though, truly, there was no refuge for him. Guinevere went with him always, her defiant chin encouraging his sword in battle and her enrapturing eyes keeping him sleepless.
The wind howled ominously as the snow continued to bind itself to the bare tree branches, the sky gray and stormy. "Tristan," Lancelot welcomed softly, sensing the other Knight's presence without looking.
"You were gifted with that sense, do you know that?" Tristan asked wryly, pulling his cloak around him for warmth.
Lancelot smiled, looking down at the snow-covered ground. "No. We all have our gifts."
Tristan looked pensively at the evergreen trees blossoming with snowflakes. "I suppose I would have to say mine is foresight. I can see far beyond what others do."
"And that, my friend, is why you are navigator!" Lancelot laughed, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Nay, the rest of you are just too stupid to know north from south!" jested Tristan, a smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I can see often what others are blind to. I think all men sometimes cannot help but shield their eyes from what they do not want to see. Hide behind a lie."
Lancelot bit his lip, his mind processing Tristan's philosophical speech, knowing what insinuations were being made. "Sometimes it is the lie that allows the life to continue."
"But then it is not really a life at all, now is it." Tristan rubbed his beard and glanced sidelong at his friend, his eyes sympathetic but stern. "You deny the truth to both yourself and to her but it cannot go on regardless and you do right to take leave of her, if you will not speak of it to Arthur," he acceded calmly, being neither entirely specific nor entirely vague, as was his custom. He rose, tussling Lancelot's hair as he turned back to the rest of the camp, leaving Lancelot alone to deal with his own demons.
There was worry running through his veins as he ran his hands along his cold face, the warmth jolting him from restlessness. If Tristan knew, then did the others know as well? Did Arthur know? No, he reasoned inwardly, you have given them no motive to suspect that you care for Guinevere as Arthur does and you know that is Tristan's way. Still the thought of betraying the open, honest relationship he held with Arthur plagued him, though he was aware that never could he find the words to tell his friend and commander. That is why a tiny hope burned still within him, that his feelings for Guinevere would pass with the seasons and he would come to see her only as a leader of the Old People and Arthur's chosen love. Part of him faithfully believed that such a thing was possibly yet, as long as he said not the words that would tie them together with no hope of ever being severed.
Then there was the rational part of him that could understand why could not extricate himself from caring for her. He was not, nor had he ever been, a particularly sentimental man when it came to women. A fighter first, romantic relationships, aside from gratification, had always mean little to him and never had he desired to be particularly close with anyone, aside from his fellow Knights. Lancelot supposed that was why he had been so taken off guard by the sheer velocity of his feelings, something as simple as her sweet scent having the ability to cause him to lose focus.
Lancelot tore his stale bread into pieces, scattering them absently onto the snow-covered ground, the cold beginning to tear at the tender skin of his cheeks. Sighing, he struggled to remember, as he did time and again, why her. Why Guinevere? It was true that she was beautiful but Lancelot's eyes were accustomed to pretty ladies and it was not as though she had been overtly kind to him. In fact, from the moment they'd met, they had battled for Arthur's affection and respect, carrying opposing goals and barely acknowledging the other. Lancelot had wanted to leave this land as soon as his papers were due and he'd struggled with Arthur to realize that to stay would only bring about the self-destruction of all of them. Guinevere, meanwhile, had plotted to keep Arthur in Britain, knowing that he alone could unite the Isle to greatness against the Saxons. She had won but Lancelot, by then, had fallen too under her spell and wanted no longer to leave, though Britain would never be his true home. Secretly, he admired her strength and determination, those qualities being so uncommon in women, most of whom sought simply for a husband and family for their fulfillment. Guinevere, however, held her own ambitions—to see her land free from the evil foreigners—and was tied to no man. It was Arthur who was tied to her.
And himself.
Lancelot stood up abruptly and returned to his fellow Knights, chasing away the workings of his confused mind, now finally understanding why he had not allowed himself the complications of concerning himself with matters other than battle. His only focus could be, had to be how best to serve his purpose as a warrior.
----
The Knights descended their horses once they had galloped past the inner gates of the city of Kent, the small group of rebellious Saxons having been defeated easily enough within two days, some even surrendering to Arthur's leadership. All of them yearned for someone to heartily embrace them and be glad of their return. It was true that each Knight had admirers and well-wishers but none save Arthur had a love or family to welcome them. Lancelot hurried away within the walls of the fortress, his dark eyes focused ahead, though it was a challenge as his gaze naturally sought for a slender body, made more beautiful by long, shining hair and dark, blazing eyes. Guinevere. He knew it would be no more than punishment to himself if he was forced to endure the warm embrace Guinevere was sure to welcome Arthur with. Bors grasped his hands together, feeling a sudden longing for Vanora and his children; to feel their warm bodies pressed against him happily and screaming amongst eachother would be a gift like no other. Dagonet clasped Bors shoulder in silent understanding as young Lucan huddled around the usually aloof Knight's leg. Gawain and Galahad busied themselves from their loneliness by charming a few beautiful young village women to bring them refreshment and sat at a long, wooden table off the courtyard, watching the growing crowd with slightly sad looks in their eyes. Tristan was neither sad nor content, knowing that love was a danger that could harm him more fatally than any sword, yet he patiently awaited the woman who would turn his heart, having dreamt of a maiden named Iseult too many times for her image to be nothing to him.
Arthur, too, awaited his love, his anxiously searching for Guinevere amongst the faces of the villagers. He had expected her to be there and a flicker of concern flushed through him as he was ushered into the dining hall, no word of her being spoken at all. Goblets were raised to his safe return by the officials of Kent and rich foods were set about him for his pleasure and that of his faithful Knights. But Arthur had no interest in feasting, his anger growing as all present abstained from mentioning Guinevere, who he had left, without her knowledge, in the charge of several of his younger Knights, too inexperienced to go on missions with the other Companions, but old enough to ensure the safety of a simple woman. Why had no one dared mention her?
"Guinevere, where is she?" Arthur barked, his worry manifesting itself through anger.
The young Knights, fearful of Arthur's wrath, looked at one another before gazing down at the floor as they spoke. "Sir...Meleagrant, well..."
"Out with it!" Arthur demanded, pounding his fist on the table.
The men jumped back at his lashing. "My lord, they have taken her."
Arthur felt as though he had been clobbered, his heart wailing in his chest. "What?"
Milhad stepped forward. "Sir, men came to the gates, telling of a man of the Lady's people...a Merlin, I think it was, who had taken ill and needed of her aide privately. Your Lady went, where she was deceived, as it was Meleagrant's men in disguise."
"You let her...alone, I-I do not..." Arthur broke off, crumbling dejectedly in a chair at the table, his head in his hands. Not her. Never her. It seemed that with his new quest, he was endangering the lives of the very people he sought to protect. If she was lost, it was on his shoulders alone, and no fault of the youthful Knights he had stupidly entreated to protect her. Arthur grew more lost in his pitiful thought, not noticing a new face entering the chamber. Lancelot burst through the door, his dark eyes full of wildness and his skin pink with heat. He went to Arthur's side, his face pointedly questioning. "She has been taken?"
"So it seems," Arthur said, his tone barely audible. "I expect she is being held as ransom. If I refuse to cede the leadership, he will kill her. And if I do, this land will be ruined by Meleagrant's greediness and the Saxons will overrun it! Besides, he would with certainty kill her anyway, for spite." He folded his hands together and looked up at Lancelot, his eyes showing the desperation of a man broken into making a decision with an undeniable impact. "I cannot give way to Meleagrant," Arthur declared unwaveringly. But his hand gripped Lancelot's arm imploringly, as he spoke through clenched teeth, "But I cannot lead she whom I care for to death! What am I to do? Tell me, you who knows me best, who has fought alongside me for 15 years!"
Lancelot had not a pause for thought in his mind. There was no choice for him, only a will, unlike Arthur. "I will go for her. It is true, Arthur, that you cannot save her without jeopardizing all we have fought for."
Arthur nodded in agreement, his thoughts dazed as fear for Guinevere gripped him, the consoling whispers of Milhad and his other Knights falling on deaf ears. "Will you take reinforcements with you, Lancelot? After all, you have only just recently healed?"
Lancelot smiled, admirable of Arthur's kingly ability to cast aside his own worries for the sake of the good safety of his friends. "Arthur, I am fully healed now. And I shall go alone. Malagant will notice an entourage of men, surely. You must trust me to do this alone," he answered seriously, his steely determination revealing itself. "I will bring her back...back to you, brother," he added, feeling the blush of a liar spread across his cheek. He could say it time and again to try and make the words honest, but he knew he would bring Guinevere back, only to appease his own selfish desire to keep his heart whole.
And so Lancelot galloped alone from the safe walls of Kent, images of Guinevere and the last harsh words they had spoken flooding his mind. He vowed then that if he could save her this time, then he would return her to Arthur honourably and never again think upon her as anything other than the beloved of his greatest friend.