A/N: Kudos to those of you that figured out that my last chapter was inspired by the movie First Knight. Not a great film (wasn't impressed with Richard Gere) but I loved Julia Ormond—so pretty! Anyway, credits for many of the ideas in that chapter are direct from that movie...I'm not that creative ;) Aaaanyway, big things coming up! Enjoy!
Guinevere sat by a small window, running her fingers through her hair absently as she gazed out at the rolling green hills that defined her country. It had been months since Arthur's proposal and many battles had been fought and won since that day she had promised herself to him. They had left immediately from Kent, leaving the villagers and several Knights there, all instilled with a hopeful sense of duty and allegiance towards Arthur, and returned to Hadrian's Wall. Small battles had been fought along the coasts, slowing drawing nearer and nearer inland and the air of the Isle was ripe with blood. Guinevere sensed that the final, great battle that would seal all their fates was coming soon and though she welcomed the chance to burn the Saxons from her land once and for all, she dreaded that day as well, knowing that once it ended, she would be bound to Arthur for eternity.
Sighing, Guinevere inwardly chastised herself, her conscience reminding her of her fine fortune to have the love of a man so pure and good and that she did no duty in marrying him; she did love him...in some way. Her eyes rested upon the glowing sight of the moon as she silently begged the night skies to unveil her path to her; was she to marry Arthur when she dreamt of another?
Oh, the other. She and Lancelot had kept their distance from one another, exchanged pleasantries for Arthur's benefit but little less, both knowing that their separation was not mean-spirited nor forced but benevolent and chosen. Although, when they had crossed paths unaware to anyone else, they slipped into their old patterns of mindless bickering and impassioned sparring, as natural as it was for either of them to hold a sword. But always their encounters were filled with an undercurrent of intensity and fervor and once they had ended their silly arguments, Guinevere and Lancelot would find themselves trapped in a long-winded discussion of politics, battle techniques, personal history...anything. In just a few moments, more was said between them with words, glances, and expressions than they had ever released in discussions with people over the entirety of their young lives. There was an ease of conversation between them, nearly unsettling to Guinevere as she knew not where his mind began and hers ended.
And for that reason, they kept apart, their connection, especially since he'd saved her from Meleagrant's clutches, was too overwhelming, too dangerous. He was too dangerous. Her eyes flickered across the rolling fields, finally settling upon the sight she realized now she had been seeking for since she had come to the window. Lancelot was walking around in a large semi-circle, trying to calm a wild horse just a short distance from the stables. She saw that he spoke but he knew not what he said, her gaze watching intently as the horse lifted its front hooves threateningly close to Lancelot, its dark mane shaking erratically and nostrils heaving. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him stumble back, but not abandon the horse to its wildness; he regained his footing and even from her distance, she could tell that the horse and man were locked in a battle of wills and power, each determined to break the other. Lancelot took a small step forward, resting his hand slowly on the horse's side, stroking it lightly. The horse shuddered but did not force him away; in truth, it seemed to relish in his touch, slowly settling into a peaceful calm. Lancelot bent his head and whispered something untouchable to Guinevere's ears but she knew it did not matter; he had unfailingly brought peace and comfort to this troubled creature whom all others had abandoned and claimed too wild.
"My darling Guinevere why do you persist him so?" Merlin asked carefully, his tone gentle as he drew nearer to her from the open door of her chamber.
Guinevere gasped softly and withdrew her eyes from watching Lancelot, not knowing anyone had come within her lodging. She recovered quickly, a small smile on her lips as she feigned innocence. "I know not of whom you speak."
Merlin rested his aged hand on her arm and without words Guinevere sensed that he had seen beyond her lie. "You bring only pain unto yourself."
She looked up into his eyes, surprised to see kindness and not scorn within their depths. "It is nothing." Whirling around abruptly and moving from the window, she glanced absently at the small Roman ornaments in the room, all meaningless to her eyes and heart. "It is Arthur I love," Guinevere said firmly, placing her hands together to keep them from shaking.
"Yes, as a brother. As a king. But it is Lancelot you desire above all others. To Arthur you give your bright spirit and your fighting body. To Lancelot, you bequeath your soul and heart," Merlin replied quietly.
"No! No!" she protested passionately. "There is no truth at all to what-,"
"Why do you deny it still, Guinevere?" Merlin interrupted evenly, though his eyes were pained as he looked at her.
"There is nothing to deny!" Her eyes blazed as she struggled to abate the meaning of his words.
"It is inevitable. You must know this."
Merlin reached his hands to enfold Guinevere's but she pulled away, her fingers fluttering to her temple. "Nothing...nothing is inevitable! There is always choice."
Merlin went to the door silently, his body tired and weak but his mind sharp though weary. "Then make the right choice." He left her alone then, the darkness of the coming night beginning to settle in the room and she suddenly felt utterly alone.
Guinevere hurried along the corridors, throwing powerfully open the door behind which the Round Table convened. "Why was I not called?" she demanded instantly, caring little for the shocked looks upon the faces of the younger Knights, so unaccustomed to such a careless and strong manner in a woman.
Tristan shrugged lazily. "Someone was sent to inform you but alas, it looks like they failed."
Guinevere nodded violently and moved closer to Arthur. "That--," she snapped viciously, pointing furiously at Tristan and his blatant nonchalance, "will not do! If this alliance is to work, Arthur, I must be knowledgeable of all matters in order to better inform and prepare my fighters!"
Arthur held up his hand to stop her from continuing her rampage and to show his understanding of her trouble. "You are right. You should have been properly informed of this meeting...particularly this meeting," he said, exchanging knowing looks with his foremost Knights.
Her eyes followed his around the table, though once they reached Lancelot, it was as though her gaze would not stray and she literally had to focus all her energy and strength on tearing herself from him. Shaking her head slightly, she asked coldly, "What is it, then?"
"The Saxons, Lady," Gawain answered smartly, a smirk gracing his bearded face.
"Well, yes! What of them?" asked Guinevere impatiently, her eyes flickering to Arthur, who smiled faintly at Gawain's cheek. He did nothing to show that she was to be taken seriously and was as critical to success against the Saxons as any sword.
Bors grunted and then laughed loudly, slapping his protruding belly. "Oh nothing. They just wanted to say hello." The other Knights of the table joined heartily in the laughter and even Arthur could not keep a small chuckle from his lips. Guinevere blushed, feeling out of place, as she never had in any situation before this moment.
Lancelot sprang to straighten his chair, his relaxed manner replaced with a firm, unsmiling expression. "Stop. There is little to laugh at."
Guinevere bit her lip, her heart warming to the kindness he, and notably not Arthur, had shown. Arthur took heed of his friend's seriousness and apologized to Guinevere softly, before he continued the meeting, his voice as unwavering and full of bravery as ever. "The Saxons approach Hadrian's wall with an army number thousands. Our small battles are done. The day we have all awaited is before us; we shall be either victorious or dead. We must be prepared both in our tactics and weapons but also in our hearts. We must harden ourselves to pain and suffering and bear it all, if only we can end the lives of all of those Saxons! I trust we have preparations planned...," Arthur looked at Gawain who grinned back.
"It is all set. Even if we don't come out victorious, the Saxons will be so bloody blindsided and that alone is worth this!" Gawain announced, winning the excited cheers of his fellow comrades.
"Let us show them who this land belongs to!" Arthur yelled, his voice echoing along the stone walls of the chamber. The Knights jumped from their seats, all brandishing their swords to the ceiling, cries escaping their mouths.
Soon after, they departed, leaving just Guinevere and Arthur, the former still irritated by his earlier ignorance of her displeasure at being mocked. Guinevere gazed around the empty chamber, the large Round Table looming ominously before her. "This is it..." she realized slowly. "Everything rests on this final battle."
"This will be the battle to end all battles, yes." Arthur took a deep breath, rubbing the lines of his forehead tersely and her eyes narrowed; he was keeping something from her.
"Arthur, speak it!" There was no time for pleasantries and courtesy; preparations needed to get underway as soon as possible and Guinevere could feel that old excitement for battle spread within her.
He reached for her hand, covering hers with his, the warmth of their bodies uniting. "This...this is no easy task. I—I want you to stay behind the walls until the battle is over." He breathed a sigh of relief, the words finally expelled from his mind.
She ripped her hand from his, her eyes flashing angrily. "You cannot deny me the right to fight!"
"Guinevere, please, you must listen--," Arthur began but was interrupted as Guinevere banged her fist violently on the table, her face reddening in fury.
"No! No, Arthur, you must listen to me! I have let you keep behind before but I will not do it again! This battle is as much mine as yours!" She declared forcefully, her voice raised and echoing along the stone walls.
Arthur's expression hardened slightly at her defiance though love was still ever so clear in his dark eyes. "I know that!"
"Oh?" She glared at him darkly, her hands resting defiantly on her waist as she took a step dauntingly closer to him. "Arthur, war is not something that occurs for me...it is in my very blood. I will fight!"
"And it is in mine also—we are not so different," he answered softly, his face pale and drawn in the dark light of the chamber. Guinevere could see the pain and stress of the task before him stretched across his suffering face and part of her longed to caress away his worry and bring some measure of peace to this good man. "But..."
She stiffened, her kind thoughts tossed with ease from her mind at his hesitance. "Someone must stay behind to ensure that those who cannot fight are guaranteed their safety," he finished in a quiet voice.
"And you would have that somebody be me," Guinevere followed his train of thought sullenly, rubbing her hands together tensely. This was not right. "You do not need me to protect these people, you simply want to keep me from harm's way!"
"Is that so wrong? I love you and I will not see your life sacrificed for my quest!" Arthur cried in his defense, collapsing wearily into a chair.
"We must all make sacrifices, Arthur! What of your friends? You care for them yet you are willing to let them do their duty and possibly die in that conquest! Bors, Gawain, Galahad, Dagonet, Tristan...," she stopped, her voice stumbling to utter the final name. "..Lancelot," she finished, her voice whispery. She did not notice the shadowy silohouette of a figure standing in the doorway, privy to the heated argument between Arthur and Guinevere.
"That is a different matter!" Arthur protested weakly.
"It is no different! You swore we would be equals, Arthur?" Guinevere said nastily, her nostrils flaring in anger. "And now, you ask me to stay behind while you fight the greatest battle again our common foe, the Saxons? And this, my Lord, is not the first time you have expected me to stay and keep house, while you play the warrior!"
Arthur looked sadly at her, her violent rage ebbing at his strong will. "Guinevere...there has been so much loss, so much pain. This table--," he said, gesturing to the ornate but empty Round Table, "was once full of eager young men...now there are but seven of us left. Yes, there are the younger ones but their youth makes them careless. Most likely, some of them will not survive this battle. Is it not enough that my family and friends must give their lives for my quest? Why the woman I love too?"
There was so much emotion and despair in his voice that she felt her icy resolve slowly crack and she knelt as his feet, looking into the sad eyes of her future husband and King. "I will stay this last time," she said finally, forcing a small smile on her lips for his comfort as he brought his hand to the top of her head and along the contours of her face.
The shadowy figure moved away from the doorway before anyone could spot his presence.
"It will all come to a head soon enough," Arthur predicted, rising from his chair and walking to the door, his eyes connected to hers unfailingly. "And then there will be a glorious end, I promise you."
His prediction stayed with her though he had left her side. It will all come to a head soon enough. She had a peculiar feeling that though Arthur knew it not, it was not battle he spoke of. Something else was coming; she could feel it heavy in the air, waiting to descend upon them all. She exhaled, tired of attempting to read the signs of the fates and was left instead to her own tormented thoughts and simmering anger; yes, she had acquiesced to Arthur's request but there was no peace for her mind. Guinevere felt as though she had betrayed her people, her beliefs...herself.
"No guilt lays upon your shoulders," a quiet voice spoke from the darkness. Looking up, Guinevere saw Lancelot leaning against the doorway, his tall frame blocking the fiery lights. She shivered, not only because he had known what she had not spoken but because she was aware of his gaze even though she could not see the dark pools of his eyes.
Recovering quickly, she masked her surprise and anxiety with a stubborn aura of detachment. "You heard then. And what of you? Do you think Arthur is right to ask this of me?"
He emerged from the dark and ran his fingers along the rim of the Round Table as he drew closer to her. She could see the fine features of his face now, youthful and free as Arthur's was not and she trembled slightly, a longing familiar yet never realized spreading within her. "Arthur is neither right nor wrong, he is just a man," Lancelot decreed softly, standing infront of her. "He simply wants to ensure that the woman he is to marry, the woman he loves lives long enough to see their wedding day."
Guinevere, without even considering her actions, lifted her hand to his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "And if it were you? Would you ask the same of such a woman?"
Lancelot knew that her breath held for his response and that her thought of him could be either enhanced or damned by his answer. "We all want safety for those we love," he spoke finally, feeling now only the remorse a liar could feel.
She pulled back from him as though he was ridden with disease, disgust crossing her fair skin. "I never thought...you of all...you would suppress me too, mold me into whom you desire!"
"Guinevere," he called painfully, his dishonesty and her repulsion resulting from it nearly causing him an actual physical suffering.
"No." She strode away from him but glanced back callously from the doorway, the lights of the hall showing a ring of brightness around her body. "You are as all men are. No different at all." She paused thoughfully, her hand reaching to her temples, sore with the difficulties of the night. "For a time, I believed that you saw me truly and would not deny me the pleasure of myself. But now I know there is nothing special between us. You are nothing to me but another man seeking to dominate!" Guinevere did not wait for his response as she hurried quickly from his presence, tears threateningly to reveal her weakness.
Lancelot sat deflated in his old seat, surmising that he should be pleased that he had now driven her from him entirely. All with a simple lie. No, he would not have asked Guinevere to abstain from fighting in the great battle that would determine the fate of her country. He knew bitterly that freedom was precious and not to be denied under any circumstance, man or woman, lover or no lover. But he had lied in order to assure her hatred of him, so that she would not unknowingly continue to tempt him. He had succeeded but at what cost?
The next morning Guinevere was rudely awoken from a restful sleep buy the roaring sounds of the alarm bells from the watchtowers. All who heard them knew at the same moment—They were here. It was time to fight the Saxons. Dressing quickly and carelessly, Guinevere tied part of her long hair back, eager to see Arthur. With haste, she hurried along the long halls of the fort and emerged onto the balcony, her eyes widening. She looked unto the horizon, seeing the early-morning fires of the Saxon camp sprung across the whole landscape horrifically. There were so many. Anger burned within her as she recalled her coercion into staying behind; I should be there, she thought furiously, her mouth set in a grim line.
"Be thankful you are not," a voice behind her interrupted gently. "It will be no easy feat."
Guinevere closed her eyes, uncertain if she could face Lancelot now, of all times. She had not forgotten his betrayal of the last night and had fully intended on ensuring he did not either. But now, as he came beside her and she saw the handsomeness of his face, only made more so with the anticipation of battle, it was more difficult to harden herself against him then she had imagined. Thankfully, her words could do what her heart strayed from. "The same blood flows through our veins, Lancelot! We both carry the blood of a warrior—it is what we do. But I have been forbidden from it! Oh, I am so very thankful on this day!" she exclaimed with sarcasm, refusing to note the sadness in his deeply brown, bewitching eyes.
Lancelot said nothing for a time, but she needed not his words to feel the sheer imbalance of herself he caused; her thoughts were incoherent and her body so very alert to his near presence. She thought for a moment that perhaps her stubbornness was getting the better of a moment of which there were too few. He was going into battle; there was a chance his life would be turned to the ground and did she truly want to remember their last moment as one full of spite and ignorance, particularly since there was already much left unspoken between them. Guinevere opened her mouth, wondering if she really had the nerve to surrender her defiance but of that she would never know, as Lancelot coughed awkwardly at the exact same moment.
"If I should ever fall, I bequeath to you now my horse," he announced abruptly, standing taller. "May she protect you as I would have. And that way, I will ever be at your side. He said nothing more, but gave a final look unto the busy horizon, the sun peeking delicately from waves of purple, orange, and pink and was gone quickly, leaving Guinevere alone to her own puzzled mind. Horses were to Knights what children were to mothers; there was no greater honour, she knew, than to be given the horse of a Knight, especially that of a Knight who had fallen. A small glimmer of worry flickered in her stomach but she bade it be gone, her old anger settling once again as she saw the villagers of the Wall setting war traps and painting themselves in traditional battle paints. Her place should be with them.
The next few hours passed speedily, excitement glowing on the faces of all, from elder war heros of times past to little children, too young to wield a sword. When the sun had finally broke, Arthur had given the order to initiate the battle to end the oppression of the Saxons with a rousing, sincere speech aimed at strengthening the hearts of all the men. She had bade him goodbye with all the tenderness she could muster, struggling with her own embittered soul. She did not wish an unfortunate fate for Arthur, never could she think such a thing, but that did not keep her from resenting him. And her resentment was no quiet matter, for it drove her to her own will. Enough was enough.
After giving her best wishes to Arthur and his Knights, Guinevere strode into her chamber, stripping off her long gown and pulling her dark hair tightly back. She tore her traditional Woad war gear from its hiding spot beneath the bed and, with a determined expression on her face, began to prepare, pulling her various daggers from sheaths hidden around her room.
One of the women Arthur had sent to aid her, as a Queen should be waited on and not a solitary figure in the court, stared at Guinevere hurrying around, her blue eyes large and full of astonishment. "My Lady?"
"I am going to fight today." Guinevere tossed a glance to the young woman and grinned. No man would define her fate—at least, not without a fight.
She emerged from the fortress feeling a strange invincibility but her spirit was broken slightly as she set her eyes upon the battlefield. Blood seemed to cloak her eyesight and her ears oblivious to all sounds but the tortured screams of souls left in that empty space between life and death. Inhaling deeply, she suppressed her own cries of anguish for these lost souls, both of her side and the Saxons...they were all humans regardless of country. She ripped her sword from its sheath, feeling that old comfortable enthusiasm for battle wash over her and ran, screaming the Woad war cry, into the battlefield. Her eyes were alert, attentive to her enemies, but also looking for the people she cared for. Merlin. Arthur. The Knights...Lancelot. She felt as shiver run through her as she thought of Lancelot, somewhere on this battlefield...was he dead or alive? Surely, she would know if he were dead, her heart would know, would it not? But there was a small feeling of panic sitting in the bottom of her stomach as she realized something was not right. It was in the wind.
"Aarrrghh!" A Saxon screamed, drawing his axe above her head. Guinevere ducked tactically and rolled twice onto the ground, springing back up easily. She pulled the man's screaming face towards her as she slashed her knife through his gut, feeling his warm blood spread across her hands and arms.
She ripped through members of the Saxon army, her only focus was to find Lancelot, to be assured that he breathed still. As she plowed through, her dagger stabbing this way and that, she did not know how many Saxon fighters she killed or even how. It seemed to her that Lancelot's face danced before her eyes. A last glimpse? "Noooo!" She screamed out loud, slicing a man's throat in two, her hands now entirely covered in sticky blood.
Finally, as the battle began to wind down and it was evident that the Saxons had been defeated, however marginally, Guinevere scanned the field, looking for some sign of Lancelot, Arthur...anyone. A dying Saxon, a knife embedded in his stomach, pulled at her foot causing her to recoil and push the knife in deeper, her eyes glinting as she was him take his last breath. Looking up, she caught sight of Gawain and Galahad, both blood-stained but alive, theirs faces unnaturally somber. She went to them, growing desperate for news of the others, and they nodded at her, a sort of silent congratulation.
"Arthur is alive. He has ridden into the forest though. He needs time," Galahad said, not meeting Guinevere's inquiring stare.
Guinevere did not understand, her mind brutally thinking only of Lancelot's welfare and surprised to hear of Arthur. "Time for what?"
Neither man replied; it was as though she had not spoken. Gradually, Guinevere came to a horrific realization, one she could not bear to face."Lancelot," her said slowly, her dark eyes maddening as she looked questioningly at Gawain and Galahad. She sensed all ready their grim replies but needed to hear it from their own lips. "Where is he?"
Galahad looked away from her and across the horizon, tears stinging his eyes. Gawain coughed and then swallowed, his face overwhelmed with emotion. "He fell," was all he could say before he kneeled onto the blood-stained grass, his head in his hands.
Galahad swallowed and patted the side of a horse near him. "We saw him fighting a load of Saxons over here, but now all there is left is his horse—there was some sort of explosion that turned fire unto this whole area," he explained emotionally, gesturing with his hands.
Guinevere looked around, her eyes stunned, as she finally noticed the charred land and remains of those who had once stood where they stood now. No. "You do not know that he was kil—that he was here!"
"He was last seen here! We have searched across this entire battlefield for him—or at least his remains so we could bury him with the others. There is nothing! Nothing!" Anger creeped into Galahad's expression as he was forced to come to terms with the loss of his friend.
Guinevere shook her head adamantly. "Well we must look again! You may have missed--," She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening in both surprise and utter horror as Galahad took in his hands two swords that had lain on the ground, covered in ashes. The swords of Lancelot. Never was he without them...unless he had gone to a place that needed them not.
No. No!