A/N: Well, I have written chapter 2. It's longer than the first, which was shamefully short. Sorry. I like the way this turned out, however. I hope you enjoy it. Please R/R, it makes my day. If you haven't already, please go read my two other King Arthur fanfics and review, I would deeply appreciate it. Some of the facts in my other 2 are screwed up since I wrote them before seeing the film, and I nearly hung myself for it… But hopefully, this fic makes up for it.

I wrote this while listening to the acoustic guitar version of Greensleeves, yay!

Anyway, hope this is decent, and thank you for reading and reviewing!

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Chapter 2

When Lancelot next awoke, the light was different. The gray skylight had been replaced with a golden glow, and he realized a candle burned on the small table next to his bed. This brought him to wonder how on earth he had landed himself in a bed, when the last thing he could remember was falling to the pillow soil. Yet as disorientation subsided, giving way to an incredible headache, flashes of Galahad mounted on his horse, Guinevere's shocked expression, and Arthur's hand in his tore through his mind. He was not sure if they were memories or pieces of the dream that he could not remember. His head ached too fiercely for deep thoughts.

" You're awake." He had not known someone else lingered in the room, and a startled jolt coursed through him. Guinevere stepped out of the shadows, her eyes glinting mysteriously in the light. She had shed her revealing Woad garb, washed her face of the blue stain, let her hair down in its ripples of dark silk. She was beautiful, he thought, as she neared him. How deceiving she was. Were she meeting him for the first time, he would have never guessed the lady was a warrior. She ceased in her approach, standing still but a few strides from his bedside, and her gown of pale green pooled at her feet like water. He breathed soundlessly, his dark eyes not so haughty as they typically were. Oh, she was beautiful.

" Why did you do it?" she asked, her eyes shifting away and back. " Why did you come to my aid?" He could not answer her at once, for he did not know the reason upon first thought. Realization struck him, however, and his admiration of her beauty became discreet within him.

" For Arthur," he said, honestly. " I do not miss the way he looks at you."

" Is that all?" she said, almost incredulous. " You came to my aid, me being a complete stranger, a Woad, just for Arthur?" Coming from her lips, it sounded like a lie.

" He is my friend," Lancelot answered plainly. " My dearest friend." At these words, his eyes fell away from her, in reflection. He wondered if Arthur yet lived, unsure if his memories were true or not. " I would spare him any pain." To this, she did not answer. Her eyes bored into his, once he lifted his head to look at her again, and she nodded. The lady turned away from him, gliding into the shadows without a sound, her hand reaching out to a door he could not see. He watched her as best he could from his position in bed, not attempting to sit up, and he was about to let her go without another word.

" Guinevere," he called to her, the first time he had used her name and not 'milady'. She peered over her shoulder, her lips parted, her eyes catching the candlelight again. He pushed himself up the pillow a bit, and after a minute of waiting, he said what he knew to be true. " He loves you." And by this acknowledgment, his heart sank at the inevitable future. Arthur would wed Guinevere, and they would disappear into his captain's beloved Rome. He would recover and return to Sarmatia with his fellow knights, never to see his dearest friend again, and Arthur would surely forget him.

" I have not missed the way he looks at you either, Lancelot," she said cleverly, after a moment, in which her eyes sparked because of the knight's words. He eyed her quizzically, uncertain of what she meant. Arthur never looked at him in a certain way, or so he had thought. " Differently," she continued and paused before adding, " Not the same way he looks at the other knights." Again, a stretch of silence hovered between them, and he was left waiting for more of her words, just as she had waited for his before. " He loves you, as well." She gave him a second, before disappearing beyond the door, but his confusion had not dissipated.

Hours passed by after Guinevere's departure in which Lancelot lay in bed alone, the candle flame flickering, swaying to and fro. He thought over the lady's words, trying to make sense of them. He wondered if she spoke true. Part of him doubted her integrity, for he knew, or at least believed, that Arthur loved no one more than his God. The Roman would talk to God instead of talking to Lancelot, trust God with his life instead of entrusting it to Lancelot, and lean on God when Lancelot's shoulder pined for the captain. It had always embittered him, the way Arthur was so religiously devoted, but out of respect for his friend and liege, he rarely gave voice to his feelings. Arthur loved no one, this part of Lancelot said sullenly. Perhaps he loved Guinevere, but only because she was a woman. The Roman had no more room in his heart for any one else. He didn't care for Lancelot, nor did he care for any of the other knights, living or dead.

Don't be foolish, the other part of him chided. Of course Arthur cares. You know this. You have seen it. Lancelot's beliefs swayed again, as he remembered the look in Arthur's eyes whenever one of the knights was lost. He could not help but recall the way Arthur had looked at him, that night Lancelot had begged Arthur to drop his pursuit and follow him home. He remembered Arthur's hand around his neck, gentle and hidden in his curls. He remembered Arthur calling him 'friend.' How could Arthur not care? It was impossible.

Perhaps the Roman cared, Lancelot reasoned, but he did not love any of them. As he had thought before, Arthur didn't have any room to love anyone besides his God and his lady. Caring and loving were two entirely different things. Arthur cared about the welfare of others, but he loved God. He cared about his knights, but he was in love with Guinevere. Lancelot could not see how anything else could be true. So often in the past few weeks had it seemed like Arthur cared little about him, like Lancelot and the knights had become completely insignificant when Guinevere had joined them. He had not forgotten his anger or his frustration, his sense of betrayal and the bitter hurt it left him with. Arthur didn't care, Lancelot concluded with a grimace. And he certainly didn't love any of them.

It was in that moment that his solitude was interrupted. The door swung open, sending a chill draft into the room that he could feel even from beneath his blankets, and another figure slipped in. For a moment, he could not see the newcomer's face, but Arthur stepped into view soon after. He strode forward but stopped, in the same place Guinevere had stood. His expression, however, was completely unstable, unlike hers had been. The captain stared at his knight with a hint of troubled concern, and Lancelot found that he was mildly relieved to see the Roman alive, though he had believed his memories to be true. The knight could tell his captain had been uneasy for a long while, unable to claim any rest. Yet the longer Arthur stood there, looking at him, the calmer he seemed to become.

" You have come," Lancelot said, not knowing what else to say.

" You sound surprised," Arthur said, unmoving from his place where the candlelight played on the rug and over his boots.

" I didn't expect you to come," Lancelot admitted, though part of him had. Arthur's brow furrowed.

" Why would you not?" the Roman questioned. Lancelot dropped his gaze into his lap.

" I would think your attentions would be consumed by Guinevere," he murmured, disappointment in his tone. Arthur's face contorted in further disbelief, and he strode forward, kneeling at Lancelot's bedside.

" Do not ever think that she would replace you or any of my knights, Lancelot," he said. " I have been waiting for the longest hours of my life to look upon your face again, and do not tell me that you believed I would not care to come at all."

" You're in love," the knight said plainly, looking narrowly into Arthur's eyes, though the Roman's words touched him. Arthur bowed his head.

" I am," he admitted softly, almost as if he were ashamed. " But that does not mean she replaces any of you." He had lifted his head to look at Lancelot again, sincerity in his gaze.

" You do not have room in your heart for anymore, Arthur," Lancelot said quickly, sounding more himself than before, speaking his mind. " You are so devoted to your God and now to her, we have no place there anymore. We never had." Arthur had backed away sharply, as if Lancelot had struck him. His eyes gleamed with disbelief and pain, and Lancelot looked away bitterly.

" How could you say that?" Arthur questioned, his voice quiet and wounded.

" How could you believe-," he said, looking down at the fur coverlet with eyes that glimmered as if tears resided in their pools.

" Because it is true, Arthur," Lancelot snapped, regretting it immediately. Arthur slowly lifted his head once more, eyes still swaying. " I'm going home," Lancelot began, his tone quieted again. " I am going home, to where I am free, and you… You are going back to your damned Rome, with Guinevere as your bride, undoubtedly. You won't think on any of us again, your dutiful knights." His tone had grown bitter again, but beyond that was a pain induced by his own words, his own thoughts. And Arthur could always tell when the pain was there.

To Lancelot's surprise, the captain slipped his gloved hand into his, bidding Lancelot to look at him again. " I will not go back to Rome," he began gently. " The Rome I have dreamt of does not exist. Nothing waits for me there." Lancelot did not let his guard down so easily, however. His scowl remained chiseled on his face. " And I suppose, if she'll have me, I will wed Guinevere." Arthur's eyes had floated to the coverlet again, like the snow of days before. " But I will not forget," he breathed. "Never." His eyes met Lancelot's, and neither spoke for a breath. " You are my knights," the Roman said. " You're my friends. Who else do I have after fifteen years away?"

" You will not follow us to Sarmatia," Lancelot said, sure that whether or not Arthur returned to Rome, his captain would not bring his bride to the land of his knights.

" I don't know where I'll go," Arthur admitted. " Everything had turned out so differently than I thought it would. Do you even consider Sarmatia home anymore?"

" I remember it," Lancelot replied. " I remember my family, and I promised them I would return. My sister is waiting." Arthur nodded in understanding, not forgetting the trinket Lancelot carried around his neck. " As for the others, I know not, save for Galahad. His heart is bound to our country."

" Gawain will follow him, I believe," Arthur said. " He is close to Galahad. I do not know if Bors cares or not. He may stay with the family he's created for himself." And they both smirked at their friend's situation. Bors would have to name the children if he stayed.

" Tristan will go wherever the winds takes him," Lancelot reflected, missing the grimace on Arthur's face.

" Lancelot," Arthur began, his hand still in his friend's. " Tristan fell." Painful grief poured into the pair of dark eyes, and Arthur allowed a long moment of silence.

" We'll have to bury him," Lancelot said at last, and Arthur only nodded.

" And I will not have to burn you," the captain murmured. Lancelot looked up at him and grinned, but Arthur wasn't smiling. His eyes glinted painfully again. " I came here," he started. " Because I was worried, Lancelot. I came because I've been desperate for hours after a night of restless sleep. I thought you had died." Lancelot was appalled at the glitter of tears in the Roman's eyes and the agony with which he spoke.

" I had already mourned your loss on the battlefield, and it was by God's grace that you returned. I had thought you were lost. I had believed it for so long a moment, and the pain was too much to bear, Lancelot. It was too much." His words flowed forth uncontrollably, unlike Arthur had ever spoken to him before, and Lancelot was aching with every word of his friend's confession.

" Galahad took you away, and they would not let me see you until now. I could find no rest or peace. I needed to see you." He lifted his head, his breathing coming in heavy pants, his eyes near to bursting.

" I had never told you how sorry I am for making you feel neglected or mistrusted, just because I talk to God. I had never told you how sorry I am for any pain or fear I may have caused you by my commitment to my cause. I never told you how much you've meant to me all of these years." Lancelot's eyes were trapped by the Roman's, glimmering, as he felt himself unravel. He was afraid of his own emotions, of the vulnerability that made him feel as if he were drowning.

" And when I arrive at last, I learn that you have, for so long, believed that I did not care for you or any of my knights at all. It is the last thing I wanted, the very last." And Lancelot was suddenly filled with guilt and shame, longing to apologize with as much persuasive regret at possible.

" I don't know what to do," Arthur continued, sounding so helpless and defeated, so unlike himself, that Lancelot was broken-hearted. " I have failed you. I have failed all of you so completely, and I see no way of redemption." Arthur's voice was laced with utter despair, and his face was fallen almost beyond reversal. " The one thing I have always feared is hurting you, any of you." His voice was shaking, and the tears in his eyes threatened to plummet over his lashes at any moment. Lancelot only lay there, cursing himself for speaking his mind, searching for the right words to answer with.

" I'm sorry," Lancelot said, not even thinking. " I have been foolish. I never should have doubted your feelings. I'm the only one you've hurt, and only because of my own foolishness. You have failed no one, Arthur." He sat up a bit, trying to lean toward his captain. " You have failed no one." The captain's eyes were shining, and his lip quivered. " It is I who has caused you pain," Lancelot said, wincing at the ache in his heart that his admittance brought. " It is I who has caused you pain when I never meant to, and I'm sorry. I am so utterly sorry." Lancelot looked away from Arthur, tears springing forth in his own intense gaze and burning.

" It's all right," Arthur said quietly. " Everything's all right. You're alive. That is all I wanted." His other hand slid across the fur coverlet and closed over Lancelot's, so that the knight's hand was enveloped in both of Arthur's. " Do not ever think I don't care," he said again, his tone nearly devoid of the passionate sorrow it had held only a moment before. " I love you all," the Roman said quietly. " And you, Lancelot. You, who I know best." His hand slid away from the top of Lancelot's, and his other, clasped in his knight's, lifted. He bowed his head, shut his eyes, and his lips met Lancelot's hand in the most tender display of affection Lancelot had ever seen the Roman express. The knight's eyes glinted when the candlelight caught his tears, and he saw Arthur's spill over onto his cheeks from beneath his lashes, his lips unmoving from Lancelot's hand. The knight lay still for a moment, before pushing himself up, ignoring the pain that burned its way through his chest, and made to embrace Arthur.

" Don't," the captain said, his voice broken. He didn't want Lancelot to strain himself, but his friend paid no heed to him. Lancelot's arms were wrapped around Arthur in the next moment, his face buried in Arthur's neck, and the captain lost it. He whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut, and his arms reached up and encircled Lancelot, holding the knight to him gently. They remained this way for a long while, weeping in silence, until Arthur finally began to pull away. He eased Lancelot back down on the pillow, their eyes never breaking from each other's, and Arthur smiled faintly.

"Sleep," he said quietly, caressing Lancelot's black curls in the same way he had when the knight had lain dead on the battlefield. " You are weak." And his eyes stirred with concern, as his hand turned and slowly ran down the side Lancelot's face. "You have lost too much blood." He stroked Lancelot's cheek with the back of his curled fingers, looking at his friend's face with a troubled and yet fond expression.

" I would spill it all for you," Lancelot said, and Arthur smiled.

" No need calls for that," the captain answered. The candlelight flickered again, against Lancelot's curls. " Sleep."

" I would," Lancelot began. " If you would stay." Arthur smiled again and nodded. The knight obediently shut his eyes, slowly drifting into sleep, nudging into Arthur's fingers that continued to stroke his face gently. The captain remained knelt at his knight's side, smiling, watching the wounded warrior breathe. When Lancelot finally sunk into sleep, Arthur knew, and he ran his fingers up and down the knight's cheek for a moment more, before rising to his feet. He leaned down, softly kissed the knight's brow, and blew out the candle flame. Guinevere was waiting for him.