A/N: Yay, chapter 3! I don't think this is as good as 2, but whatever. Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers! Again, this isn't slash. Be at ease, those who don't want it to be. It's not. None of my crap is intended to be slash. But you can, of course, interpret it any way you want. Please R/R! Thank you!

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Chapter 3

When Arthur stirred from sleep, darkness had not yet lifted from the earth. He was restless, and he could not understand why. No dreams but troubled ones would come to him, and his heart could not find peace either. His eyes wandered the darkness of his room, as he lay awake in the most comfortable of beds he had been given in ages. Lancelot lived, victory and freedom were his, Guinevere loved him, and yet he could not sleep. Something seemed to reside in his fingers, in his limbs, that would not allow him to rest. He could see no visions in the dark, and thus, he shifted carefully out of Guinevere's arms. Taking his fur-skin and tucking the other blankets around his lady's form, Arthur left his lover asleep and slipped out undetected.

Though it was nearly as cold as the days before, when he had traveled in a snow coated world, he did not move from his place at the top of the wall. Few guards roamed the path on watch, and none bothered the Roman who leaned against the side facing the battlefield. The bodies still lay untouched now, two days after the fight. The cold preserved them, though they would have to be moved sooner or later. The only one taken in had been Tristan, who now lay somewhere below, unmoving beneath his shroud. Arthur wondered where his hawk flew now. He supposed it did not matter, for wherever it was, the bird was free. Tristan was too, he concluded. Hadn't he always been? Arthur thought so.

His breath came like puffs of smoke, palpable in the cold. His eyes strayed throughout his surroundings, ignoring the stars woven into the sky that blanketed the world. He could find no moon on this night. Yet as he stood alone, wrapped in his heavy fur, thoughts approached him that could not find their way in the black of his room before. He could only remember. The visions were tinted and lovely, even those which were of sorrow. They flowed in and out of his mind's eye, not like flashes, but stretched over his white breaths. He watched them with eyes set on the field and the smoke that hovered like mist over the dry blood. It seemed to reach his bones, though he was not cold the way he had been before. The fur kept visions that sunk into his limbs, and he seemed older than his years. He supposed war did that to all soldiers.

He remembered the way Guinevere had kissed him but a few hours ago. Her fingertips were still clinging to his covered flesh, and her hands were still sending shudders up his spine. The ghosts of her kisses yet lingered all over him, memories of warmth on his now frozen lips. Her arms were still slung around his shoulders; her legs were yet entangled in his own. He could see her eyes fluttered closed, her wild hair slinking around her shoulders and over his. He was motionless in the night and the chill, yet his mind was filled with the darkness that he could see through and feel in. Her eyes were in his soul, her fingers were traveling his scars, and her warmth was drowning him in comfort and pleasure and ease. He wondered if it had been wrong of him to leave her.

Yet the fur remembered older things more clearly. He could see each day of the fifteen years past, each hour coursing through his blood, each breath forgotten and now revived. He could see the faces of the empty round table chairs, and Bors' unashamed tears for Dagonet. He could see Tristan's eyes, set in a wild face, and the hawk that always knew where he was. Arthur watched the battles and the burials, with the smoke still clouding the corpses beyond. One memory crept up into him with quiet discretion, one that he cherished despite its nature. The world was white in this vision, not unlike the days before, and he was younger but no different. Battle had broken out in the desolate wilderness, and the Woads had left him alone with his knights alive or dead or fading. His own wounds had been numbed.

Lancelot had lain still in the snow, one man amongst the bodies strewn across the forest floor. Arthur had recognized his right- hand knight immediately, and he had crawled toward him with desperate hope for Lancelot's survival. Where the Sarmatian's blades were, he had not known, but Excalibur had dragged at his side. With no other man stirring, Arthur had worked his way to Lancelot, ignoring the bodies and the blood splattered on the snow, shocking red into the sky. His gloved hand had slipped into Lancelot's, which had lain empty and upturned. The Roman recalled how his fingers had curled tightly around his friend's and the emptiness that had filled him when Lancelot did not respond. He had pulled himself up alongside the knight, looking into his pale face and shut eyes. A bit of snow had settled on Lancelot's chapped lip, failing to melt. The only warmth Arthur had been able to find that day was in the snow beneath Lancelot, where the Sarmatian's blood continued to stain the white.

Lancelot had been so cold. Arthur had never forgotten how cold his knight had been. At first, it was only the Roman's impression, when Lancelot had not woken. The Sarmatian's lips had been blue, to accompany his color-drained face, and he had failed to shiver. Why he had not risen to his feet and began organizing matters, Arthur still did not know. Instead, he had reached into his pack that had been specifically made for the journey and pulled out his thick fur-skin. He had not expected a battle, he recalled. Arthur had stretched his hand out across Lancelot, the fur following, and had pulled the knight to his chest. It had been at that moment that Lancelot had cracked open his eyes, ice glittering in his lashes.

"Cold," he had murmured. Arthur had never rid himself of the image – Lancelot had looked like death. Enveloping the two of them in his fur, the Roman had tucked Lancelot's head to his chest, the black curls under his chin.

"I know," he had said, as Lancelot had started to breathe like sleep against him. Arthur's eyes had fluttered closed, his hand caught between fur and curls, and he had lain with Lancelot in the snow, bleeding in white silence.

Arthur could see it clearly in his mind, the fur around him once again. That memory had been three winters ago, before Guinevere, before the death of Tristan and Dagonet. He remembered the snow and the cold and Lancelot's head against his heart; he remembered his slow, fading breath and the way he had kissed Lancelot's curls. He wondered what it would have been like if they had both died that day, in that moment. He wondered if God had been watching, and if He thought it had been beautiful. Arthur could still feel Lancelot's back moving against his arm and Lancelot's breath warming the same patch of his chest, despite it being colder than his own. He closed his eyes and he could see the Romans coming to his aid. Part of him had wanted no one to arrive. He had never admitted it, but part of him had wanted to die there, with Lancelot sleeping in his embrace. For it had seemed in those hours that nothing could touch them. It had seemed as if they had finally claimed peace, and no toil could plague them again.

He could yet feel Lancelot's arms around. His own pain had faded, but his friend's love had not. It remained always, like Guinevere's. The tears lingered still also, and the words exchanged between them echoed in his mind. He had wanted to stay in Lancelot's embrace forever, those hours ago. And when Guinevere had shown him ecstasy, he had wished to die there too. Yet the moments always faded, as they are made to. Only his memories of them remained, woven into the fur and into his heart. Lancelot's arms still lingered, and Lancelot's hands still closed over his own – but would it matter in a few days time? When Lancelot had recovered, would he not return to his homeland? Would not his other knights follow? What would he do when they were gone? They were all he had in this world, with the exception of Guinevere. But even a lady could not suffice a man's need for companionship the way a friend could. He needed them all.

Arthur inhaled sharply, pulling the fur tighter around himself. His eyes glinted at the smoke mist, and he wondered where the world had gone. He tried to picture Rome the way it was, not the way he wanted it to be, and he found that he could not bring himself to do it. How could he have been so foolish? How could he have believed for all of these years that his dream had been realized? He had been fighting for something that did not exist, and more importantly, he had led his knights to that same fight. Even with Lancelot's words in mind, he could not escape the guilt or his sense of failure. If his friend had not made it clear that no grudge was held against him, Arthur would have already drowned in his own despondency. He sighed restlessly, sleep failing to seduce his eyes and the cold numbing his face. Finding no peace in the open night, he decided to return below, where the remnants of warmth drifted through the narrow passages.

He wondered if he was at all surprised that his feet had stopped at Lancelot's door. He had wandered through the dark until arriving at his comrade's room, though he could barely see the door in front of him, and he wasn't certain whether or not he should disturb the Sarmatian or not. Of course not, he chided himself instantly. Lancelot had just been critically wounded, for God's sake. He needed rest more than any man in the world, or at least, that was Arthur's exaggeration of the matter. He must've only left Lancelot a few hours ago, and now he was going to wake him up again? Did he even have a reason for being at his door in the first place? Arthur's eyes shifted over his boots for a minute, his silhouette looking like a great bear, what with his form enveloped in the fur. He was feeling increasingly silly by the moment and his conscience nagged for him to leave and return to Guinevere, who was most likely awake and confused as to why she was alone in the middle of the night.

Arthur was suddenly in Lancelot's room, standing against the door. His conscience had retreated to a dark corner somewhere. As for Lancelot, he was clearly asleep and unmoving in the dark shape that Arthur knew to be the bed. For some reason, it seemed like the knight's room was blacker than Arthur's, and the Roman knew that if Lancelot were in any condition to be on his feet and he woke, the Sarmatian would have his captain swiftly disemboweled before he thought to light the candle. Arthur smiled. Lancelot was insufferably rash sometimes, not to mention impulsive and temperamental. Actually, a whole list of personality faults seemed to unravel in Arthur's head at that very moment, leaving the Roman grinning broadly in the dark. He had to keep himself from laughing out loud when Bors' voice came into his head, reminding him that for all of Lancelot's faults, he was still the prettiest. His stifled his snickering through pursed lips, a quiet snorting noise failing to be suppressed.

Arthur collected himself, straightened against the door, and crept forward. His steps were careful and soundless, stopping when he felt the bedside table before his legs. After fumbling for a match, he struck it against the table and illuminated a patch of space around him with the little flame. He leaned over and lit the candle, the previously melted wax already dry in its strange shapes, and blew out the match to make a miniature smoke stack. Turning his head, his eyes fell upon Lancelot, who slept soundly in the same way Arthur had left him. The Roman smiled, struck helpless by this innocent side of Lancelot that was so rarely revealed. The Sarmatian looked positively harmless, as deceiving as that appearance was. He almost resembled an angel, Arthur contemplated. He blushed suddenly at his silliness. An angel? How old was he?

But he did, Arthur thought, as he knelt on the floor again, his hand falling to Lancelot's curls and stroking anew. Lancelot wasn't like any other angel he had seen, Arthur continued. The Roman had seen young, virgin angels and child angels, martyr angels and depiction of saints. He had seen angels painted on walls and ceilings and domes, all belonging to the church. He had seen angels frozen in grace, cast in marble and gilded. All of them had been beautiful in their own way. Yet Lancelot was entirely different. The knight did not possess the same innocence as a child or the beauty of an untouched girl, nor was he as self- sacrificing as any of the historical martyrs and saints, although he was admirable in his own way. He wasn't exactly a man to be carved naked in stone, Arthur thought, almost sniggering. Yet as the Roman looked into the knight's face, stroking away at his black curls, he could not deny that something about Lancelot made him angelic at the moment. He was defenseless, Arthur noted, which was an extreme rarity with Lancelot. The knight never consciously allowed for vulnerability in himself. Arthur continued to gaze upon his friend, fondling Lancelot's hair affectionately. The Sarmatian breathed in audibly and moved into Arthur's touch as he shifted, sending a tender expression into the Roman's face.

Yet something wasn't entirely right. Lancelot's brow knitted in the next moment, his eyes stirring behind their lids. Arthur noticed the knight's skin yet gleamed, and his hand moved to Lancelot's brow. The captain joined his friend in a troubled expression; Lancelot had not broken the fever. The Sarmatian did not ease but instead shifted, turning and breaking Arthur's contact to him. He uttered incoherent words and interrupted them with sounds, moving restlessly, and Arthur knew not what to do for a time except wait and watch.

"Arthur," the knight muttered, tossing again.

"I'm here, Lancelot," the captain replied quietly but to no avail. Lancelot continued to dream, his face contorted and void of the angelic quality Arthur had reminisced over. The Roman leaned in, waiting, and still Lancelot dreamt.

"Arthur," he whimpered, his face now altered to fear and grief. He sounded so much like a child, it chilled the Roman. Lancelot's hands were squeezed into fists, gripping the thicket of blankets. "Arthur," he gasped and turned toward the captain, waking at last. "Arthur," he said again, surprised to see his friend at his side. He sat up without thinking and immediately grimaced, biting back a hiss of pain and laying his hand carefully over his wound.

"Easy," the captain warned, taking Lancelot by the shoulders and laying him down again, his tone belying his concern. "It was only a dream." Lancelot was breathing fast, staring at Arthur steadily, as the captain fetched the rag out of the water bowl that sat on the table. After wringing it over the bowl, he began to cool the knight's face and neck. "You have not broken the fever," he murmured as he worked, not looking directly into Lancelot's intense gaze.

"It was not a dream," Lancelot said. "It was a nightmare." Arthur looked to him, pausing his hand for a moment.

"What about?" he asked. Lancelot looked away from him, ashamed and guilty.

"The battle," he said. "The choice I made – to aid Guinevere instead of you." Arthur's gaze remained unmoving. "It began as it had in reality," Lancelot started. "But it did not end right. It was not I who died, but you. Because of my foolishness, you were slaughtered." His eyes had the same look that they had had the night before the battle, when Arthur had refused his pleas to turn away from it. "And I had to watch..." The knight choked, his eyes brimming again, his chest still heaving unsteadily.

"It was only a nightmare," Arthur murmured again.

"But you don't understand," Lancelot snapped, facing him again. "It could have happened. It could have happened that exact way. You could be dead because of me." He was worked up to the point of sitting again, his breathing quickening once more.

"But I am not," Arthur uttered, eyeing him warily. Lancelot shouldn't be straining himself in this way, he knew. His breathing was dangerously sporadic and the anxiety could pressure his heart more than it could handle. He had to ease him. "I live. It did not happen as your dream played out. Everything's all right."

"I betrayed you," Lancelot said, despair in his voice and his face.

"How did you betray me by going to the aid of someone I love?" Arthur questioned.

"I had to choose between the two of you," Lancelot began, panting. "I had to choose between a strange woman and my friend, and I left you to your own defense. I should be executed."

"Don't be unreasonable," Arthur chided, his brow furrowing at Lancelot's last words. He started to cool the knight's face with the rag again, trying to push the image of killing Lancelot out of his mind. "You did what you thought was best. I can take care of myself, besides. Guinevere needed you."

"Arthur, I'm scared," Lancelot said. The Roman looked up from his work, freezing. For his best friend to blatantly admit vulnerability was the equivalent of Guinevere resigning herself to the life of a traditional lady. "I'm scared for you." Lancelot's voice was a frightened whisper, his tears on the brink of falling. "I cannot forgive myself for my choice, and I'm scared that nightmare will manifest into reality one day because of my disloyalty."

"Lancelot, that battle was no different than any other one we have fought over the last fifteen years. Each time, there is risk of death, you know that," Arthur reminded.

"But in every other battle, I went to your side without question," Lancelot retorted, raising his voice dangerously. "I protected you with my life." Their eyes had merged and their pain was one. "But this time, I left you abandoned." His shoulders shook, and Arthur was deathly afraid his friend would pass out at any moment. He rose from his knees, set the bowl and rag aside, and seated himself on the bed, beside the pillow, and drew his fur skin up to the knight's neck. Taking Lancelot's head in his lap, with his right hand in the Sarmatian's curls, and his left drawn across his shuddering chest, settled on his shoulder, Arthur began to calm his friend. Lancelot lay still for the Roman, his tears finally falling from the corners of his eyes, and Arthur stroked over his hair soothingly.

"You did not abandon me," he said. "You did the best thing you could've done. You saved Guinevere. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way."

"You could've died," the knight whispered hoarsely, weeping soundlessly.

"But I didn't," Arthur reminded. "Guinevere could have died, but you saved her. And in doing so, you saved me. You have nothing but pride to take in what you did." Lancelot repressed a sob, however, and turned his face into Arthur's lap, his arm hooked around the Roman's waist.

"Arthur," he breathed, after a long moment of weeping. "I'm going to die."

"No," the captain hissed, taking Lancelot's face in his hands and locking eyes with him. "You're healing already. You'll ride home in a week or two, in perfect condition." He prayed his own words were true.

"I'm afraid," Lancelot whispered again, turning free from Arthur's hands and letting the Roman fondle his hair. "I'm going to die, Arthur. I can feel it."

"Lancelot," the captain began, his brow knitted again.

"I thought I didn't care whether or not I died, but I do," he cut his friend off. "I don't know if I want to go home or stay, I just don't want to die this way – slowly. I'm afraid." His voice was not that of the warrior Arthur had known for years, but of a boy that had been made to grow up too fast. His honesty was wounding, and Arthur found himself aching.

"You will not die," he said, more certain than before. "I won't let you. I'll stay with you until you're completely healed if I have to. Whatever it is you need from me, I will gladly give it." His touch was comforting to Lancelot, who was slowly ceasing to weep and drift to sleep again, as Arthur's hands stroked over his hair and back.

"Arthur," he said after a long while. "Will you forget me when we part?"

"Of course not," Arthur replied honestly. "You know I never could."

"I don't want to part," Lancelot said sleepily, his eyes drooping closed.

"I know," Arthur said. "I don't wish it either." He stared blankly ahead, lost in thought as his hands soothed Lancelot without yielding. "Follow me," he said absently, only receiving a murmuring sound from the knight. "Follow me to wherever I go. Stay with Guinevere and I." Lancelot did not answer, for he was on the edge of sleep, though he vaguely heard his captain's words. "I know it is selfish of me," Arthur continued. "I should not ask this of you or any of the other knights. You have all waited to go home long enough. But I cannot help but want you all to stay."

"Will you stay with me?" Lancelot mumbled, his eyes closed. Arthur did not push his proposition again. He only forced a smile and kept up his ministrations.

"I will," he said. "Sleep, now." Lancelot nuzzled into Arthur's leg in reply, before surrendering to a dreamless sleep, and Arthur leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes just until Lancelot was wholly asleep...

Yet when he opened his eyes again, the candle had burned out, and Guinevere sat across the small room with a lantern faintly glowing. When he met her eyes, he straightened, his eyes widening in a surprise. Surely, she would begrudge him for leaving her in bed, he thought. But the Woad only smiled.

"Good morning," she said, her tone indicating that she was quite pleased with herself. Her hair was somewhat unruly, obviously unattended to this far. The hem of her green night gown peeked out from the fur skin wrapped around her own shoulders, and sleep still lingered in her face.

"Guinevere, forgive me, I did not mean to leave and not return, but," Arthur began rambling, sitting up further and shifting Lancelot. Guinevere, however, hushed him silent.

"You'll wake him," she said, her eyes twinkling. She smiled, and Arthur eventually grinned back. After a moment, Guinevere stood, lantern in hand, and swept toward Arthur. She kissed him deeply for a long breath, before breaking away and giving one last smile as she left. All Arthur needed to do was see Lancelot through healing, and he would have all he desired in life. His hands moved up to caress Lancelot's curls as he looked down into them. All he needed was to see Lancelot through.