A/N: Wow, another long chapter—not my intention, I swear. But I just got writing one night and I literally wrote most of it at one sitting. Everything just flowed. This, I think, is my favorite chapter so far and I hope you all enjoy reading it as I did writing it! R & R pleeeease!
Her gown was white, simple but purely clean, and she kept still her dagger in its sheath at her side. A warrior first, always. She smiled at the ladies waiting on her who carefully fitted a veil atop her shining dark hair, worn beautifully loose and then bade them to be away. This day she would be wedded to a great man whom she loved. Guinevere opened the door to her chamber, and made her way through the winding halls of the fortress, biting her lip nervously as she saw Lancelot, waiting for her by the gates, looking as broodingly handsome as ever, his dark hair freshly washed and his clothing new and becoming.
"It is bad fortune to see the bride in her bridal dress, I have heard!" Guinevere chastised, happy at his dazed expression as he looked over her, his eyes lingering on her pretty face.
"We need not worry of that, you know this. Besides...," he said, granting her a mischievous grin as he held out his arm, "you know I believe not in such silly things! Even if I am a pagan!" She took his arm as they walked out to the mystical forests that lay near Hadrian's Wall.
"How is it you can be so lighthearted on this day?"
Lancelot looked away from her and Guinevere wondered what thoughts haunted his mind. Love? Betrayal? Honour...or dishonour for that matter? "We cannot change our fates, Guinevere. We must live our lives as best we can in the manner we are dealt."
"Why, Lancelot, you sound almost a Christian!" Guinevere jested, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between them. They need not speak so philosophically on this day of all days.
Again that playful smile crossed his face, though his eyes still held a sad look in them. "Never." As they approached the clearing, they could see through the swaying trees torches and chattering voices, all eagerly awaiting the beginning of what would most certainly be an occasion for celebration. Guinevere hesitated before stepping through the trees and looked up into Lancelot's eyes, uncertain of what she expected to see.
"You can do this. We can do this," Lancelot declared resolutely, his hand still laying on her arm as the wind blew his curls unto his smooth forehead.
"It feels wrong, Lancelot...No, I can not! How can we do this?" she questioned dramatically, seeking answers she knew already.
Lancelot sighed. "If the Gods had desired another path, would they not have shown us the way?"
"Oh, this is hopeless!" she cried quietly, unwillingly allowing her emotions to seep through her normally serene exterior.
"No. No." Lancelot placed his hands on her bare shoulders, feeling the heat from her skin burst into his. "You have my hope, do you remember? I keep none for myself but bestow it all to you."
Guinevere opened her mouth to say something but Lancelot brushed a finger across her sensuous lips, silencing the protests he knew she meant to speak. "Do you remember the promises we made? Remember them."
She smiled and placed her white veil over her face, again taking his arm as they moved through the trees, content faces greeting them as they emerged. Their eyes connected one last time and she knew that heart could never be so full with love as it was now, oddly, since the thought of such sentiments had repulsed her independent spirit before. But Lancelot did not take a piece of her, rather, he shared her with herself, embracing her independence as a beautiful quality. Slowly, their feet slide into an easy rhythm as they proceeded down an aisle strewn with wild flower petals, their friends and family watching glowingly. Once they approached Merlin's graceful presence, standing atop a large rock before the shoreline, Lancelot stopped and turned towards her, his eyes flecked with gold as she stared up into them. He carefully pulled back her veil and smiled sweetly, his eyes now speaking the promises they had spoken already and would speak as long as they lived.
Lancelot then looked beyond her, his face falling ever so slightly, and Guinevere spun to see what sight he gazed at.
Arthur.
Arthur stood near Merlin, his hand dashingly outstretched to her, his own appearance carefully groomed for this special occasion. Guinevere looked from Arthur to Lancelot, her eyes wild with confusion. Lancelot said nothing but backed away to the other side of Merlin, standing near the other Knights, a sadness shrouding him apart from the others.
"My wife," Arthur received her, as she hestitantly joined her hands with his. No! No! This was not right, her heart wailed, the pain in her chest excruciating. Her rational mind tried to fight for her honour, and appealed to her friendly love for Arthur but all she heard was her heart beating wildly. Lancelot, no. I love you. You! Only you. It has only ever been you. She looked past Arthur and into his eyes as Merlin began to speak the words that would join her to Arthur for eternity. All she saw was the dark pools, overflowing with desolation, as she sunk into them all...everything fading black...
Lancelot...
Guinevere awoke with a start, slamming her head against a hard surface, not knowing where she was or what had happened, her dream still too raw in her mind. "Just a dream. It means nothing...," she muttered to herself, rubbing the throbbing spot at the back of her head as she struggled to look clearly at her surroundings. Where was she?
From all appearances, she judged that she was in a cave, dark and dank, a putrid smell tainting the air. It came back to her then, that Meleagrant had tricked and kidnapped her, forcing her to walk a good portion of the ways to this location blindfolded and barefooted. That accounted for the aching in her feet, her fingers gingerly running over the reddening welts caused by the rugged forest and her lack of sight when she had been traveling. She remembered little of the trip and for that she was thankful for what she did recall was being chided and thrown around as though she was a child's toy and not a human being. No food had been given to her and because she had heard many of the lusty comments said about her during the nights when they had taken rest, she did not sleep, in fear of rape. But that part was over and Guinevere hastened to push it to the depths of her memory.
She stood up defiantly, weathering the pain in her feet, determined to challenge he who would had dared cross her. "Meleagrant!" she screamed shrilly, wanting him to encounter her face-to-face. She tripped slightly over a small stone that welded itself into one of her blisters and she moaned in pain but was even more horrified to find herself teetering on the edge of a cliff, a large, black hole with no bottom trapping her. "Oh...!" She looked around furiously, realizing she was stranded on a small cliff within the cave, and to take a few steps would mean plummeting to her death, wherever the darkness of that hell ended. Guinevere saw a bridge that would link her to the other side but it stayed smugly on that side, and she knew then that she was defeated.
Her scream had awoken one of the guards who know jumped, still sleepy, to his feet; she did not understand the point of having men stationed to guard her when it was obvious the only way for her to escape was to die. Men never thought. "Meleagrant!" she cried again, desperation tingeing her voice unwillingly.
"Ah, you have awoken," the guard said dumbly from the other side of the ravine.
"Aren't you quick?" she retorted, his stupidity irritating her. "So have you! Sleeping on the job, I see. I shall have to report that to your commander if you do not bring him to me now!"
The beefy guard looked taken aback at her defiance, his tongue hanging from his mouth. "Ah, you want--,"
"Spare me your idiotic nonsense. It is bad enough I have to deal with the putrid stink you have spread over this cavern. Your words would certainly give me reason to just throw myself down there!"
He took a moment to register her words and slowly, an insulted look came about his face. Alas, he retreated back along one of the paths of the dark cave, a torch brightening his way. Guinevere knew she had won.
Meleagrant came to address her, the mere sight of him disgusting to her eyes as he stood arrogantly dressed in lavish robes he had obviously robbed a greater man of. "Is there something you want for, my Lady," he said, with mock respect.
"My freedom would be lovely." Guinevere stood tall, refusing to cower fearfully before such a despicable excuse of a man.
He chuckled, an amused smile crossing his face. "Once Arthur gives up this quest, I will take the crown of Britain and you will be free. In one way or another...to the Heavens, I expect."
"Arthur will never relent!"
"Not even for the woman he loves?" Melegrant questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Guinevere did not pause for thought, knowing the answer within her heart. "He is not so unwise as to destroy everything he has fought for for one life!"
"And you are so willing to die, then? How admirable!"
She swallowed, understanding now that her words had been right. Arthur could not come for her without bestowing his leadership upon Meleagrant, something he had vowed never to do. So it would be that she would have to be sacrificed for the good of the cause. "Yes." She set her face resolutely, determined not to let him know that she was not yet ready to welcome death. "I would rather die than see you be King of the Isle, you nasty, filthy bastard!"
Meleagrant grew angry with her severe lashing, suddenly looking more menacing amongst the lights of the torches. "If Arthur were a smart man, he would have beaten you into submission long ago! You are a poor excuse for a woman."
"And you are an expert on women, then? How could any woman ever care for you, an ugly coward!" she insulted maliciously, knowing she was only troubling herself further but it seemed pointless since her life was forfeit regardless.
Melegrant angrily gestured towards one of his men to heave the bridge over to her. "I will break you myself!" he threatened but was cut off as young man nervously ran up to him, his face dripping with exertion. 'Well, out with it!" he spat.
"There—there is a messenger. From Arthur," the man said finally.
Guinevere dared not to hope and she stayed silent, watching the turn of events interestedly. "Well, what say him, boy?!" Meleagrant demanded, greedy for this news. He expected to hear that he had won over Arthur any moment.
"The man will not speak unless it is with you, my Lord," the messenger said slowly.
"Did you threaten him?" demanded Meleagrant anxiously, tired of dancing around the issue at hand.
The nervous look again returned to the messenger as he witnessed Meleagrant's growing impatience. "He said that if we were to kill him, then the message would never be had."
Meleagrant rolled his eyes, but acceded, pointing to Guinevere as he turned away. "We are not finished."
Guinevere was left to her own thoughts which were spinning rapidly. Who had come? Was it truly a sign from Arthur? She knew not how long she sat there, huddled close to the wall, praying to her Gods that she should survive this ordeal. After a while, she heard footsteps approaching and light brightening the darkness of the cavern. She struggled to see who came, relieved to see Meleagrant's huge figure not present, but again seeing the same guard who had taunted her and another figure, hazy still in the darkness.
She gasped quickly, realizing it was Lancelot! Guinevere resisted the urge to cry out, both content and shameful at his unexpected appearance. He would help remove her from this forsaken place but she detested having to rely on him for anything. Should she not be able to fight her own battles?! And why had Arthur sent him and not another, she wondered bitterly, remembering her last encounter with the unpredictable Lancelot. Quickly she cast the thoughts from her mind, noticing for the first time that Lancelot was unarmed. Perhaps this was no rescue. Was he simply to join her fate?
"There. You have seen her. She lives. Now we report back to Meleagrant and you can give him the message," the guard said harshly, shoving Lancelot slightly. He did nothing for a moment, his eyes even looking blankly at her. Suddenly he slammed his elbow back into the gut of the guard and disarmed him quickly, thrusting the man's own sword into his heart.
Lancelot threw his eyes up towards Guinevere, who was stunned with the haste at which the event had just passed, as he tucked the guard's sword into an empty sheath at his waist. "Your savior, my Lady," he said with an arrogant smile.
"I did not need you to come save me!" Guinevere exclaimed haughtily while gathering her skirts around her, still holding tightly onto some of her pride. Why was it she always depended on him?
On the other side of the unknown, Lancelot pushed the bridge towards her. He darted his head to look behind him, his forehead kneading together in a worried set of furrows. "Oh? Because you were doing so well without me!" He gestured to their surroundings before pushing the bridge again, tiny beads of sweat running down his ruddy face as his muscles strained to push it with enough vigor so she could reach for it.
"I had a plan!" she protested, reaching her arm desperately trying to grab hold of the rickety wooden bridge. "In fact, I was to—,"
He ceased to try and push, lifting his leg on the bridge comfortably and placing his hand under his chin dramatically. "Oh, please, tell me now. We can further discuss it when Meleagrant's little soldiers are deciding whether to impale us or just toss down there," he said sarcastically, nodding to the endless, dark hole between them.
Guinevere smirked but set her stance, determined this time to reach the bridge, knowing that it would be but moments before Meleagrant's men arrived. "One more try."
Lancelot swung it towards her with all his might, not realizing his breath had actually hindered, as time seemed to halt while he watched it come nearer and nearer to Guinevere. Grab it, he yelled to her without words, sending only the power and will of his mind. Her eyes shot up instantly, meeting his as though she had heard his unspoken words of encouragement, and she ceased to watch for the precise moment to reach for the bridge, her gaze fixated on the dark depths of his eyes. Still, she held her hand out and Lancelot felt a sudden chill flow through his body as her stare intensified, seeming to spell words before his own eyes. Never doubt me. He could almost feel the touch of the wooden platform upon his own fingertips, as though he was linked with Guinevere in such a magical way that they shared thoughts and senses.
She had caught it and swirled toward him, her eyes not daring to look at the nothingness below her. Jumping off, she landed squarely on her feet before him, her dark eyes smug and her lips wound in a proud smile. "Now, should we try something difficult?"
Lancelot, still rattled by the soulful connection that had allowed them to speak without words, smiled lightly, but was moved swiftly to action when his eyes looked upon a distant glowing light on the walls of the cave. "They are coming. We must go."
"I know the way," Guinevere commanded, moving ahead of him to one side of the dank cave, her eyes alert.
"I know the way," Lancelot countered, turning to the other wall confidently.
She rolled her eyes, forcing herself not to flinch at the blinding pain in her feet, as tiny rocks began to embed themselves in blistering bottoms of her feet, torn and bleeding from when she had been forced to walk part of the way through the forest to the cave. "If this is because I am a women--,"
Lancelot cast aside her words with his hand, his eyes flickering towards the opening, the flames from the torches of Meleagrant's men growing brighter. He gripped her by the elbows strongly, bringing her no pain but a great feeling of passion instead as he stared wondrously at her. "If serious conversations are what please you, by all means, my Lady. But I'd rather have them in this life and not the next. Water seeps from that way over there. If water can get in--,"
"Surely, there must be a way out," Guinevere realized, nodding as she tried to shield her blush, thinking still of the pressure of his hands touching her bare arms. She surrendered her pride and followed after him, the jagged rocky floor scathing the raw skin of her feet as she tried to make haste, limping slightly.
Lancelot kneeled down, his fingers skimming the hard ground for traces of water, smiling broadly and holding up his damp hand happily, a child-like sweetness about him that Guinevere had never been privy too. "Ah! I think we have not much further to go!"
She silently hoped he was right, uncertain of how much more pain she could bear before crippling her poor feet. Guinevere took a moment's rest, leaning her hand against a cool, smooth wall for support and shutting her eyes, a mirage of images of the last few days blurring her vision. It had been like a nightmare from which she could never awake, her defiance fading away as the time wore on and she feared that no one would come for her. She detested relying on others for aid she knew she could well deliver herself but her situation had been so perilous, so desperate that only another could take her from that hell.
Lancelot had come for her. Just as he had promised what seemed like ages ago.
And I will save you...every time henceforth from this moment.She did not deserve his help, having been as unpredictable in her manner to him as he had been to her. At first she could stand him not even a little but now it was as though he saw her as no one else. The Guinevere she was, not the woman everyone else wanted to see. She had cared little what his fate would be at one time, but once he had nearly been taken from this life, she had gone to great lengths to ensure that he lived. And even though she had acted as though she could only offer him friendship, had she not been jealous when the ladies of the village had flounced their way about him, trying to work their way into his heart? And most recently, she had fought with him and claimed she needed his help not at all, when in fact her fate had been darkening and she truly was thankful he had come to save her. She had been cruel to him for treating her so inconsistently, when she too had been guilty of that crime.
Guinevere was shaken from her thoughts by the sounds of boots banging down on the cavern floor, growing dangerously close. She glanced at Lancelot, her face growing steely as she saw the path they must now take; they would have to fight. Again, it was as though their thoughts connected, and he withdrew his sword, which glistened despite the lack of light. Guinevere walked to his side, looking up at him expectantly, her hand extended. "Your dagger?"
Lancelot looked away, pretending not to know the meaning behind her demand. "They disarmed me," he lied.
"You keep a small dagger in a sheath beneath your breeches by your ankle. Deny it," she said defiantly, brushing her long hair from her face.
"You have been through enough already. I will fight," he said with finality, though his voice trembled. How could he deny the right of another to fight against those that had caused them great injustice, especially as a Knight? Woman or no woman, was not this revenge rightfully Guinevere's?
"' If serious conversations are what please you, by all means...but I'd rather have them in this life and not the next'...," she repeated his words back to him firmly, smiling at her own witty brilliance.
Lancelot sighed, but relented and pulled the dagger from its hiding spot, handing reluctantly in her small hands. "You had better survive this or else the entire thing will have been for bloody nothing," he warned, inwardly impressed by her unfailing bravery.
"Are you always this worrisome before battle?" Guinevere asked, feigning sweetness. They took their stances beside one another, greeting Meleagrant and his men with undaunted, hard stares.
"You came all this way for that?" sneered Meleagrant to Lancelot, though there was a lusty edge to his voice as he glanced along her body so thinly veiled by her gown.
"I am going to kill you today," Lancelot replied seriously, his blade shining as he held it before his enemies.
Melegrant laughed loudly, his three men following his lead, chuckling. "You are certainly very ambitious for a messenger. Have you ever even held a sword before, lad? I do not think I have yet fought sought an unworthy opponent." He added, shrugging, "Oh well. It will certainly be over quick enough for you!"
Lancelot smiled but said nothing. Guinevere stepped forward, unabashed, determined to give him the credit he was due and met Meleagrant's eyes fiercely. "You fool! Do you know not whom you challenge? Sir Lancelot? Of Artorius Castus's great Sarmatian Knights?"
Meleagrant's men were visibly shaken as a slow fear appeared in their eyes as they saw Lancelot in a new light, having heard his name and his near-magical abilities spoken of time and again. Even in Meleagrant, the confidence so prevalent in his expression wilted ever so slightly and Lancelot and Guinevere saw they had a chance for victory if they stuck now, while their enemies were distracted. She lunged forward first, heading past Meleagrant speedily and barring her dagger to his three pale-faced men, her facial expression brutally cold.
Meleagrant drew nearer to Lancelot, eager to kill one of the most-spoken of warriors in the land. Lancelot cocked his head, silently accepting his challenge, his sword drawn firmly. They circled eachother for a few rounds, each sizing up the other's ability and stamina, knowing it would be futile to take shots at this point.
Meanwhile, Guinevere tackled the three remaining men fearlessly, her battle tactics nearly pointless, as they were hesitant at fighting a woman, even though she directly threatened their lives with her dagger. Even when she jumped towards them, they did not wield their own weapons but simply stepped back, their drawn faces full of reluctance. She sighed, waving their dagger dangerously close to their flesh and yelling, "I realize that I am a woman. But I'm sure you also realize that this is a sharp blade...no?" When still the men did nothing but exchange nervous glances, Guinevere felt her patience begin to ebb away, her body eager and ready to fight, only being more encouraged by the grunting stemming from the ongoing battle between Melegrant and Lancelot. Reaching her breaking point, Guinevere dashed forwards and slashed across one of the men's faces, the skin across his cheek splitting as blood surged from the cut. The others looked in horror and finally faced her as an equal, their swords drawn and faces bloodthirsty. The one whose face she had slashed vengefully aimed for her heart but she ducked the blow, coming up behind him rapidly and throwing her dagger in his spine and out again. Turning around quickly, she faced the other two unflinchingly, intending on sending them to the same fate as their comrade. "Well?" she called out calmly, guiding the men to her with her fingers.
Lancelot saw that Guinevere had easily conquered one of Meleagrant's henchman and he felt confident that he need not watch over her shoulder; she had proven her abilities time and again to him. He resisted from crying out in pain as his enemy struck his leg violently, not slashing it, but leaving a large, pounding welt as it was the side of the sword, not the blade that hit him. Lancelot refocused, his eyes searching Meleagrant's positioning for his weakness, finally seeing that he held his weapon in such a manner that left his right shoulder vulnerable. He diverted Meleagrant's attention by pretending to launch to the left, while actually jumping high off the ground and slicing a deep cut into his other shoulder. Collapsing halfway unto the ground, Melegrant's eyes took on the look Lancelot had seen many a man take whence they had known their own defeat.
With heavy breathing, Lancelot paused from killing his enemy though his sword was still aimed at the man's neck. He grinned tiredly as Guinevere strolled near him, three dead bodies laying strewn and disembodied behind her. She saw the flecks of admiration in his eyes as he glanced over her handiwork. "Impressive. Perhaps I should let you do the honours?"
Guinevere flushed with pleasure; it was a sacred thing to be offered to kill such a worthy and damning enemy and for Lancelot to give it up, he must truly see her now as an equal.
Meleagrant took this opportunity and grabbed Guinevere swiftly with a firm grasp as she tried to wrestle from his arms, holding his sword to her throat threateningly, the pain of the wound bestowed on him by Lancelot seemingly no longer a bother. Lancelot did not move, knowing that now was no time for tricks and michievious plans. "Drop your weapon. Or I swear to you I'll cut her throat."
"Let her go," Lancelot said in a low voice, his dark eyes speaking to her own and she ceased struggling in Meleagrant's disgusting arm.
"Drop it!" shrieked Meleagrant hysterically, noticing the dead bodies of his men strewn around the cave floor and coming to the realization that he alone now faced two of the fiercest fighters he had ever battled. He tightened his hold on Guinevere, his sword causing a small trickly of blood to course down her neck.
"Alright! Alright!" Lancelot slowly lowered the dagger he had given Guinevere, her eyes widening in surprise. He was yielding to Meleagrant and giving him their victory so now they would stand at his mercy!
Meleagrant, content now, looked down at Guinevere, one of his hands winding around her chin, the other still firmly gripping her elbow. "Now I can do what I had planned...," he said to her lustily. But the thought and all other thoughts were taken from his mind suddenly as a slow trail of blood seeped down his face. Surprised, his eyes dazed, Meleagrant reached his hand up to find the source, gasping when he felt the firm handle of a knife impaled in his forehead. He fell back onto the ground, the loud sound emanating through the cave, his eyes still widened in shock.
There was shock to on Guinevere's face, as she realized that Lancelot had not tossed aside his weapon but had created the illusion of doing so by lowering it and Meleagrant had been so wrapped in his plans for her that he had been too stupid to notice. They smiled gratefully at one another for a moment, feeling remorseful for the death of this horrible man but feeling pleased with Lancelot's cunning.
They dared not linger. Giving Meleagrant's dead corpse one final look, Lancelot reached for Guinevere's hand and together they followed the water trail and escaped down a massive waterfall, Tristan's prophecy ringing loud and clear in his ears. But one look at Guinevere and Lancelot knew that what he had done had not been for spite but for something greater than that. Something with a name he feared.
"Lancelot, I cannot walk," Guinevere said quietly, admitting her weakness as she rested on a flat rock, spreading her legs out so the bottoms of her feet did not touch the ground. Her pain this time could not be swallowed and cast aside but for the first time, she felt at ease with confessing her own limitations to someone. Lancelot had no expectations of her and he never pushed her to play a different role or deny who she truly was. It was a refreshing feeling she had not known she desired.
His gaze darted to her quickly, a sympathetic softness in his eyes as he saw the red, oozing blisters on her feet. "I would take your pain for myself if I could," he said quietly, dampening a cloth in the stream by his feet and coming to sit close to her, his hands reaching for her injured feet. Gently he pressed the wet cloth to her feet, wiping away the dirt and tiny stones so her sores could heal without infection.
Guinevere suddenly her eyes stinging with tears and fought back the urge to fall back into his strong arms and release everything she had caged...the kidnapping, the pain of her wounds, and even her confusion about her destiny with Arthur. But it was not simply the searing pain as the cool water touched her bleeding blisters that caused to her to sway but also his tender kindness, so unseemly in these times. Lancelot literally winced with her every gasp and flinch as though he honestly did feel her pain. "What are we to do? We have a ways yet you said until your horse awaits us and Meleagrant's men will waste no time in avenging his death," she asked softly, her voice so forlorn, so dismal that Lancelot looked up into her eyes with surprise, shaken that the Guinevere he had believed to be fearless and utterly defiant to anyone's orders had now retreated into this broken girl, whose hope and spirit had been greatly withered.
He placed his finger under her chin and raised her face to look at him, his eyes soft and comforting. "Do not lose hope, not now. You must keep it for both of us."
Guinevere laughed bitterly, though she noticed that he was more handsome at this moment than he had ever been, the sunlight shining on his dark hair and his eyes sparkling, a collage of colours. "See, you know this is hopeless too!" But her voice shook as she recalled that in her dream, his solemn face had reminded her of those exact words he had spoken at an earlier time. Was that earlier time now? Was everything she had dreamt to come to pass?
"Nay, Guinevere," he answered, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face tenderly and bending his head even closer to hers. "I have just given all my hope to you. I keep none for myself. So must believe for both us."
She held onto his sweet words, knowing instantly they would exist forever in her mind. And in her dreams. Determined, she decided that she would not let Meleagrant's filthy henchmen be the end of her. Yes, she was injured, but she was not yet dead and if was her time to die in this way, then she would not fall until everyone one of those bastards was dead. She stood up eagerly, her strong-minded spirit not considering the depth of her injury, and she stumbled slightly, nearly falling if it were not for Lancelot's quick move to her side. He steadied her and despite her willful attempts to defy the odds, she felt a little of her despair once again at her inability to walk on her own two feet. "Perhaps...you should go on...I will only bring you death," Guinevere offered, knowing that if she was left alone to defend herself she would do so until her last breath was ripped from her.
"I am the man here! It is I who should offer my life--," Lancelot began, grinning slightly at her brave offer.
Guinevere waved her hand absently. "I have no use for those romantic sentiments. In any battle you would leave behind the ones who lag behind, no? You must leave me!"
"There are so many things wrong with that, Guinevere, I know not even where to start!" He took a deep breath, once again sitting with her on the flat rock. "First, no, we keep our men whether they are dead or alive. We abandon no one, Knight's honour! Secondly, my Lady, if I were to leave you here for dead, would not all of this have been in vain? My horse and myself would have tired ourselves for nothing!"
She swatted him on the shoulder, smiling at his humourous tone. "Ahh...then what shall we do?"
A seriousness fell unto Lancelot's dark eyes as he looked intently at her. "If you cannot walk, I will carry you."
"You are certainly not as light as you appear, do you know that?" Lancelot teased later thate evening, his face glowing pleasantly in the flames of their tiny campfire, as he rubbed his back for emphasis. The had settled to rest for the evening, believing their greatest dangers were well behind them and had enjoyed a brief supper, filled with tales of how Lancelot had managed to track Meleagrant and their respective adventures.
"You are incorrigible, do you know that?" quipped Guinevere quickly, smiling at him across the fire, her cloak wrapped up to her chin for warmth.
"I'm just hoping my horse will be able to carry us both tomorrow!"
Guinevere smirked. "Well she has managed to carry both you and your ego many a time through battle, so I think we need not fear!"
He laughed, his eyes seeming to dance with the bewitchment of the flames. "Brione will always be my greatest friend. The bond between a horse and a man is unlike any other." His arm reached for a long, pointy branch and he then prodded at the burning leaves and sticks with it, fascinated by the rising embers. "In Sarmatia, there's an old legend that says that warriors never truly leave this earth but return as wild horses, living the freedom they never possessed as men."
Guinevere snorted disbelievingly. "That accounts, then, for the overrunning of this land by the many wild horses that run across this ground!" She felt guilty suddenly, watching as his face fell sadly in a small smile and instantly, she was sorry for having made a jest of his story. It was obvious he rarely spoke of home and when he did there was an emotion to it she had not reckoned he'd possessed. "When you return home, what will you do?"
"I think not to return home." There was a sense of finality to his voice.
"Alright. Then, once all this is over and there is peace on this Isle what shall happen for you? Arthur will be King...I will be..." she left her unfinished thoughts blowing in the wind. They need not speculate of that now.
His eyes met hers briefly. "I have thought little of it, to be honest. My life has been a constant battlefield and I know nothing else."
"Will you take a wife? Begin a family?" she asked quietly, only one answer she knew would be pleasing to her ears. Flashes of her dream came crashing down to her and for a second, all she saw was the way he had looked at her so lovingly in it. No, that was but a dream.
The real Lancelot before her ran hands resignedly along his face and smiled grimly. "I have not the stomach for marriage, I think."
She knew there was more he desired to say but did not push him, thinking perhaps, that he was too tired, tired not just have their small battle today but of the existence of his own being. "We should rest. There is a long journey ahead of us tomorrow." Guinevere tossed some water to undo the fire they had painstakingly created, feeling a sudden chill descend over the air with its absence. "I would that I had not done that!" she muttered regretfully.
"It grows cold," Lancelot said gruffly, noticing for the first time the thin fabric of her gown and, despite, the wooly cloak that donned her shoulders, the bumps of the cold freckling her skin. He came behind her quietly, spreading a large, warm blanket over her, so long that it ran to the ground and could certainly cover any number of people! Saying nothing, he settled against a log, wrapping his arms around him for comfort, surprised at his selflessness in giving her his own blanket. He was not exactly renowned for his good deeds.
She laid across from him, turning her back from him as she felt she could not bear the unintentionally intense and alert gaze of his eyes; he was a Knight after all, trained to keep focused even in the dead of night. Her body felt worn and tired, desiring sleep, but it was not to be had as she heard the ground rustle beneath Lancelot as he tossed and turned, trying to find a spot of comfort as well as keep warm. Sleepily and silently, she pulled her body over to him and spread the blanket he had given to her around both their bodies, intending to prove to him her own chivalrous nature, after all he had done for her as of late.
Guinevere nestled into the crook of his arm, their bodies fitting like a perfect lock and key and they fell exhaustedly to sleep quickly, both comforted and unsettled by the warm body laying beside them. They were silently thankful for the presence of the other, loneliness an ever present factor in each of their lives and particularly needing companionship after all that had happened of late. But as their bodies heaved rhythmically, a delicate eroticism existed in their breathing, reminiscent of something more then simple companionship and that was discomforting for both. Guinevere intertwined her hands sleepily with his, and both knew that was the greatest touch that could ever exist between them.
Arthur hurried into the courtyard upon hearing the report that two figures on a horse had been spotted heading towards the gates of Kent and he prayed that it was Lancelot and Guinevere. "Please, merciful God," he prayed, his eyes lifting to the sky. He pushed his way through the numbering crowd, all eager to see whether the legendary Knight Lancelot would return with the Lady Guinevere. Whispers amongst the townspeople had fostered a heroic reputation for Lancelot, the tales of his fighting and battles told to young children who now favored the handsome young Knight as their idol. A small child, smudges of dirt running along his cheeks, jumped before Arthur and declared confidently, "I know it's him!! I know Lancelot saved your sweetheart, Ar-Art..Ar," he trailed off embarrassedly, struggling to pronounce Arthur's name.
Arthur bent down, and mussed the child's hair, an amused expression on his face. "Arthur. Worry not, child. Names mean little. But you know Lancelot's name and not my own, should I be jealous?"
The blood rose in the boy's face as he brightened at talk of his favorite Knight. "No! I like you too! You're my second favorite...Lancelot is the greatest Knight and when I get bigger, I want him to show me how to fight!"
"Well, we will have to ask him, won't we?" Arthur responded, grinning. "But you are right—he is the greatest Knight. And I too, know he brings Guinevere with him."
"Are you going to marry her?" the boy demanded brazenly, unaware of the blatant informality of his manners. .
"I, uh--," Arthur struggled with his words, suddenly feeling as small as the boy standing infront of him. Fortunately, there was no time to prepare a response as he heard the gates being opened. Everything but who entered seemed to cease to exist in Arthur's eyes and his words caught in his throat as he searched Lancelot's eyes, who simply nodded towards his friend. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, growing more comforted as he saw Lancelot gallantly help Guinevere down from his steed.
Arthur reached for Guinevere and pulled her into his arms, whispering his apologies for not saving her himself into her hair. The villagers seemed more interested in Lancelot as they huddled around him, their faces enthusiastic to hear how he managed to handle Meleagrant and his men single-handedly. Lancelot looked unwilling to be at the center of such attention and Bors pulled an arm around his shoulder, barking at the people of all ages, "Let him alone a moment!"
The crowd mulled around the courtyard though their gaze still shifted curiously to Lancelot. He smiled thankfully, pulling his gear off his weary horse before handing the reins over to a young squire. Galahad nodded at Lancelot casually. "How'd you do it?"
"You're good but you're not that good!" Gawain chided.
Lancelot grinned absently, no one noticing how his eyes drifted time and again to Guinevere and Arthur's romantic reunion. Tristan strolled over to the group, carving a mysterious figure as he did so with his knife. "He killed Meleagrant."
"I think you actually may know everything, honestly, Tristan. Whatever herbs you drink, I want some!" Bors said boisterously.
Lancelot and Tristan shared a knowing look before Lancelot accorded to what he'd said. "I did indeed...ut it was easy from the start—their trail was practically drawn like a map for me!"
Dagonet perked up, having anticipated the end to that horribly annoying man. "Was it worth it? He dared to come against Arthur!"
"Every bloody stroke." Lancelot paused thoughtfully, knowing that he had enjoyed killing Meleagrant for reasons the other Knights, except Tristan possibly with his special sight and knowledge, did not realize. Meleagrant had been a great foe before, but once he had dared to harm Guinevere, his fate was sealed in Lancelot's eyes.
"I'll drink to that!" Gawain exclaimed, preparing to head back into the fortress to begin the celebrations. The other Knights followed but Arthur abruptly noticed their departure and called Lancelot to stay back, his face still full of emotion.
He placed his hand on Lancelot's shoulder and Lancelot repeated the gesture, their familiar stance easy to their hearts. "You have done for me what no other could. I am indebted you."
Lancelot forced himself not to glance at Guinevere whom he knew was looking at him. "I did what any man would have."
"No, that was beyond the call of a soldier. You are a true brother, Lancelot," Arthur insisted, his gratefulness causing a slow, burning feeling of betrayal to exist within Lancelot.
"I, too, am indebted to you," Guinevere spoke up strongly, silently wishing she could extricate her hand from Arthur's. She was no delicate flower constantly in need of care.
"Your happiness together is enough of a gift to me." Lancelot's words were pleasant to Arthur's ears, Guinevere could see that from the smile on his face. But to her, it was as though he had slapped her, casting aside all that they had shared. A small voice within her spoke, what else would you have him say?
Arthur beamed and pressed his hands together. "In that case, Lancelot, wait just a moment." He swept his arms and the villagers attended to his gesture, drawing closer to him. "It was my intention to do this differently but I know now that such things do not matter. I nearly lost you, Guinevere, and by a blessed miracle you survived the wrath of a man who would not hesitate set his sword on his own blood," Arthur paused, a boyish blush touching his cheeks. "And so, though I am not so eloquent in words, my Lady, I should hope to be so in marriage. I ask you now, before the union our two peoples have made, to be my wife. Together, we can truly bring together the people of this land!" Again, he stopped, his gaze now settling only on her and a hopeful smile lingering on his lips. "And I love you."
Guinevere's fingers fluttered to her lips, her eyes widened in deep unexpectance. The dream she had had in Meleagrant's cave rushed back to her but she threw it aside quickly, uneager to feel the crippling pain it had wrought her once again. Besides, dreams meant nothing and were but fanciful flits of the imagination. Were they not? Her lips moved but no words emerged, her inner hesitation stopping her as Arthur's proposal danced again in her mind. He had asked to wed him as a union of their peoples and only secondly had he pledged his love for her and though she too had a political, rational mind, it seemed wrong to marry on behalf of others and cast love aside as an added pleasure. She lifted her eyes just behind Arthur to Lancelot, who bowed his head and ran his hands over his curly hair, unaware of her gaze. If anything, it was he who had been more like a lover to her than Arthur, saving her more times than she wished and gazing at her with such a mixture of emotions written in his eyes. Or was that her wishful fantasy? No, she realized, as he lifted his head and his eyes portrayed nothing of his soul and his torment, but indifference to her decision, he does not love me. He did not love her with the love that had been so desperately prophesized to her, the love she had not known she desired. If he did, certainly now would he not speak of it, finally tell her what had been dwelling with in him since they'd met, or at the very least, look upon her with such a beautiful look so that she would know that she imagined not his feelings? But no, Lancelot's expression remained unchanging and she returned his eyes to Arthur, swallowing hard, who noticed nothing of her hesitance, thinking she only sough to win the approval of her people. Arthur was a good man who, she could see, was not afraid to emit his love her, even if it was an afterthought to his conscience. She could see their future in his eyes and there was nothing but contentment and a deep, mutual affection between them to be seen. Passion was not written in their stars but perhaps, Guinevere had had enough of great, all-encompassing romance; it unsettled the heart and mind and made her a person she had promised never to become. She smiled up at her Arthur, her destiny having settled itself at his kind grin. "Yes, Arthur, I will wed you!" she announced, finally, ages to her seeming to have passed when it had really been but an instant.
Arthur wrapped his arms around her, lifting her gently off the ground, and kissing her for all to see. This man was not afraid to set his love for her before the world. "We will be wed, Guinevere, once we have settled this land into one of freedom and equality. And on that day, I will become ruler of this great land, if these dear people would have me--,"
The crowd roared loudly, blissfully accepting Arthur's destined kingship. "And I will also become husband to you and I swear to you now, that you will be my equal, my love, and the Queen of Britain!" Arthur proclaimed, grinning more broadly as the villagers again erupted into loud cheers, yelling good wishes to their future King and Queen.
Guinevere glanced at the smiling faces of the crowd and knew that her decision had been the right one; she did love Arthur, though it was not quite the love she had imagined it to be. Her eyes pointedly sought out a certain man, eager to match her indifference to his, so that he need not think she pined for him but all she saw was his retreating figure, still standing tall and proud. A small sigh escaped her lips as she felt slightly deflated at his calmness, wanting Lancelot to show some sort of emotion or give her a sign that he was hurting. That he cared. But why should she expect anything from him when she could offer him nothing?