Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everyone you recognise belongs to the legend, and these particular
characterisations to Touchstone Pictures. No infringement is intended and I'm certainly not
making any money from this story.
Summary: One-shot. Guinevere knows Lancelot is watching her.
Author's note: A strange little idea that popped up in my head, quite unexpectedly, and would
not leave me be...
Battleground
by Hereswith
a subtle thing, a thing achieved by looking through lashes and from the corner of an eye. But
she knew. There had not been a single moment when she could have failed to notice.
This was the game they played, this constant circling and gauging; both of them waiting for an
opportunity to strike. She wondered what would happen should they ever spar in earnest, with
hands and tongues and swords. Victory, she was certain, would not be easily won, but it would
be sweet beyond measure.
She did not dream of him, only of Arthur and of the land, her land, which stretched from sea to
sea. He was no part of that dream, that tenuous hope. His roots did not go deep into the ancient
soil, the woods did not call to him and the crags would not stoop to hear him speak. Odd, then,
that she should listen for his voice.
He was too pretty for her liking. Too cocky, by far, to gain her trust, and much too proud. She
wanted to strip him bare and break him open. Make a beggar out of him. And her skin burned
from imagining it, the way it burned in the heat of battle.
Sometimes, she thought he would come for her. Come to her, angry, awkward and angular, all
that carefully guarded hunger unleashed. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when the wind wailed
as if thoroughly lost among the trees, she intended to go to him. To walk across the camp like
a wayward spirit of the wild and, upon finding him, put an end to it. By the edge of her blade or
by some other means.
But Arthur always stood between them, like a shield.