A/N: Yay! Chapter 4! I think this is pretty okay....Some certain spots of fluff I am particular to....And there's a cliffhanger....Hee....Anyway, hope you all like this, please R/R! I recently wrote another KA one-shot entitled I Want Tomorrow and a poem entitled The Green Hills, so check those out if you haven't already. Does anyone know when the KA soundtrack comes out in the USA? It seems like it hasn't yet, all I've been listening to are sound clips of the net... Beautiful, it sounds, though....Especially the theme song: Tell Me Now (What You See) by Moya Brennan...Can anyone with the CD kindly provide me with the lyrics, please? I so desperately want them.... Anyway....thank you again, all!

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Chapter 4

When Lancelot's eyes fluttered open, he was met with Arthur's face, and the Roman smiled. His head was still in Arthur's lap, and the captain was yet cooling his face with the rag. Lancelot felt hotter and more tired than before, too disoriented to worry or inquire about his condition. His eyes rolled slowly, as he shifted, realizing Arthur's hand was still cupped over his shoulder. He took a breath and his chest rose into Arthur's arm, making the knight feel steady. He absent-mindedly bent his arm and lay his hand over Arthur's, moving his head in attempts to cool his neck. He was too hot.

"Hello," Arthur said, cheerfully, moving the rag over Lancelot's skin again.

"Arthur," the knight murmured, his head titled toward Arthur's arm.

"How are you feeling?" the Roman asked, stroking his friend's brow with the rag delicately.

"It's hot," Lancelot said, his eyes closed again. He was exhausted, so deeply that it kept him from falling back asleep completely. The heat nearly overwhelmed him, but Arthur was a comfort to him.

"I am trying to cool you," Arthur said, his tone as quiet as Lancelot's, his head bowed to always look upon his friend. "Your fever has deepened." His eyes were soft in their gaze, matching his face and the way his whole body fell into place, holding Lancelot. He had decided after Guinevere's departure that he would not leave Lancelot's side for anything, not until the knight began to recover. His lady had brought him meals periodically, staying for a while each time to keep him company. She understood his attachment to Lancelot and the importance of the Sarmatian's recovery. Even as she watched Arthur comfort his unconscious friend, love burned in her eyes and heart, for she discovered the Roman warrior had a tender side, making him all the more attractive as a man. He was more than grateful to her for her understanding and support. If he had only known his jewel of a woman belonged to the Woads, perhaps he would have been more careful in killing them. He grinned. Probably not.

Lancelot made a sound through his closed lips, so close to sleep yet not unaware of Arthur's touch. His body felt like it was filled with lead, like every move he made would drain him entirely of energy. Some part of him, the boyish part of him that had been saved from corruption by war, feared he would fall through the bed and the floor and the earth, if Arthur left his side. He wanted to cling to his friend, but he could scarcely move his head without feeling powerless, let alone roll on to his stomach and gather fistfuls of the Roman's clothes in his hands. He could only make a muffled sound, when he wanted to plead with his captain to stay, and Arthur worried. He knew his friend's strength was waning. He could not despair, however. Lancelot needed him, and for his knight, he would have to take heart and be strong. The Sarmatian had never failed him before, even on the battle field days before, and Arthur could lose hope and believe he would now. Lancelot would make it through. He had to. Arthur couldn't live without him.

The Roman looked up from Lancelot's face when the door opened with a click, revealing Galahad from the outside world. His youngest knight wore apprehension on his face, and Arthur could too easily tell that he was worried that he was intruding. Arthur, however, only gave a weary smile. Galahad stood only halfway into the room, the light from the corridor shining on his other half. He had washed himself, the Roman observed, but had apparently failed to tidy his hair. Arthur wondered where Gawain was, for Galahad was hardly ever out of his best friend's presence. Yet the youngest of his knights was undoubtedly alone now. Arthur dropped his gaze back to Lancelot, his strokes gentle enough that they drew Galahad's attention. The Sarmatian's eyes rested on his captain's hand for a long moment, shining in absence of words, before moving up the Roman's face. Galahad had not witnessed Arthur's tender side this way before. Each of the knights had seen the Roman's compassion, but only in times like these, in the dire and the solitary, did Arthur shed his armor to expose his sensitive flesh. He was man now and no longer a Roman officer. Just a man, caring for his friend. Galahad watched for as long as he felt was polite, eyes eventually returning to Arthur's hand and Lancelot's troubled face.

"How are the others?" Arthur asked quietly, in a tone Galahad had scarcely heard from him. The knight looked to his captain's face again, brought out of observant reverie.

"Fine," he replied, somewhat absently. "Bors is well, and Gawain is only sore in places." Arthur looked up at him, a knowing light in his eyes.

"He was wounded?" the Roman inquired.

"Only a bit," Galahad confirmed. "He's all sewed up now, and we found some brandy to ease ourselves. He'll be fine." The knight almost spoke to himself, a tinge of worry in his voice and his fallen eyes. Arthur only stared at him a minute longer.

"He will," Arthur reassured his knight, and his eyes returned to Lancelot. Galahad was silent for a time, eyes unmoving from where they had fallen, as he thought.

"He asked after Lancelot," he said. "Gawain did. He's been worried for a while now. He saw Lance on the battlefield." Galahad's eyes had met Arthur's once more, fear hovering within them. He had taken Lancelot's limp body from the Arthur's arms back to the wall, but he had not had the displeasure of seeing Lancelot dead for those few moments, still and cold on the ground. Gawain had, however. His friend had been unsettled ever since. He said to Galahad that it wasn't just the way Lancelot had looked, but the way Arthur had wept.

"Tell him he'll be fine," Arthur said, louder than before. "If he wants to come see him, he's welcome to." His fingers were untiring, wrapped in the damp rag and moving in the same path over and over. Galahad could see a sudden change in his captain's mood, a darkness. The way Arthur looked at Lancelot unnerved him – it was a almost a hopeless look.

"Is that why you came?" Arthur asked, gaze fixed on Lancelot.

"No," Galahad denied. "I came of my own accord. I wanted to see him for myself." He had long since shut the door behind him but had not come any closer to the bed.

"And how does he look to you?" Arthur questioned. His tone was almost bitter. Galahad's eyes rested on Lancelot's face, a face that was clearly fevered and troubled, one of a man who was beyond the waking world.

"Ill," Galahad answered, yet staring upon his wounded comrade.

"Yes," Arthur said resentfully. "Ill." Galahad said nothing in return, for he knew not what was right to say. "Ill because he is wounded," Arthur continued. "Wounded because he fought my battle." His tone wad completely embittered now, though his manner in stroking Lancelot had not changed from its tenderness. "He fought my battle out of loyalty to me, and this is where its brought him," Arthur raged, his tone dangerously bordering a shout. " He's dying because of me," he admitted blatantly. "Because I'm his friend," his tone faded, but Galahad could not see the sprouted tears yet. "I am his friend, and yet I did not make him leave. I did not tell him to turn back. I did not speak a word to any of you. Tristan is dead now, and Lancelot will join him." He had cut himself open before Galahad's eyes, releasing the guilt and sorrow that had been festering within since the battle's end. Galahad could find no words again, as he watched his captain begin weep.

"We are free men," Galahad finally said. "We joined you of our own free will." Arthur's tears did not cease, and he shuddered back a sob. He could not longer see Lancelot's face clearly, and he was moistening the rag.

"Lancelot would not have left your side for anything. He would not have listened, had you told him to go home. You know that." His voice was quiet, a murmur that seemed to belong to another man. His eyes glimmered, staring at Lancelot.

"Tristan died the death he wanted. He was a knight. What else was he made for, but to fight?" Arthur stifled a whimper, tears falling into the curves of Lancelot's eyes and sliding down his friend's face, as if they were his.

"His hawk never truly left him, though it would fly, until he informed it that it was free. What makes you think any of us are any different?" Galahad questioned, not expecting an answer.

"The same goes for all of us. It has been fifteen years, Arthur. We know no other life. I have wanted home most desperately, and even I must admit to that truth." Arthur had stopped stroking Lancelot's brow, too overwhelmed with grief and regret to do anything but weep and grip Lancelot's shoulder.

"We returned to you because our horses stirred," Galahad confessed. "Because we are men, and therefore have hearts. You have been our captain all this time and our friend. Even with the door let loose, we could not leave the cage so soon." Arthur's sobs now filled the room without restraint, and Galahad was too immersed in his own words to realize the burning in his own eyes.

"Not when that cage belonged to a man who carved love into the bars."

"I condemned you all to death," Arthur shouted at him, and Lancelot only slept on because the fever would not loosen its grip. The captain had snapped his head up at his former knight, face red with tears.

"Every man chooses when to leave this earth," Galahad said. "We choose whether to fight or whether to surrender. You are a solider as much as any of us. How could you not know that by now? When we lie in the place between the two worlds, as Lancelot lies in your arms now, it is the man's decision, whether he will fight to live or submit to the death that calls him. It was our choice to follow you into the battle against the Saxons."

"Whether it be your choice or no, it is I who led you to this fate," Arthur argued, his anger turned to guilty despair again. "I let you each become attached, and I made the same mistake myself."

"What could you possibly be saying?" Galahad questioned incredulously, bordering anger. He stepped forward in his enthusiasm, his brow knit in confusion. "You say that because both you and your knights grew to care about each other that you are at some kind of fault?"

"It was that attachment that led you all to come back," Arthur confirmed, gasping for breath in his tears. "It was that attachment that caused me to want my knights to come back, no matter how selfish of me it was. It is that attachment that brought Tristan and Dagonet to their deaths and leads Lancelot on now." His face crumbled alike his heart, when he mentioned the Sarmatian in his lap.

"Tristan and Dagonet were killed by the Saxons," Galahad exclaimed. "How could you believe that you are responsible for that? And Lancelot yet lives. Do you now lose hope? Do you know lose faith in him? The one who knows you best?" Galahad was angry now, not to mention frustrated, and he had nothing to restrain him from blatant self- expression.

"Look at him," Arthur yelled. "Look at him, Galahad." The young Sarmatian's eyes glinted in angry disbelief but lowered enough to gaze upon his fallen comrade. "He's dying," Arthur said, his heart ripping as he did so. Lancelot was deep in slumber, the fever shining in his face with a visible heat, since Arthur had stopped cooling him. "My Lancelot is dying," he murmured, caressing the knight's face and black locks with sorrow. His friend's flesh burned his hands, and yet he would torch his own heart if only soothe Lancelot, if only to give the knight what strength he had left so that he may live.

"Lancelot is free," Galahad whispered. "He is a free man. He will choose his own fate. But if you have already forsaken hope, what reason does he have to come back? You cannot despair, Arthur." His tears were on the verge of spilling down his face, and his knuckles were white in his grip of the bedpost. "You must be strong."

"I know," Arthur whispered, bowing his head. "I know. It's just hard to see any hope when I look into his face." His fingers drifted over Lancelot's brow like a ghost, and his eyes glimmered in their stare. "My guilt shall have to be dealt with some other time. For now, I must do you as say. I must be strong." His hand tightened around Lancelot's shoulder, and he looked up at his former knight. "Forgive me, Galahad. I strayed into sorrow needlessly."

"Nay," said Galahad. "No sorrow of ours is needless. But we cannot allow it to cloud our hope now. We must see Lancelot through. Once he has returned, we may confront our despair." His hands were loose again. His eyes were unmoving from Lancelot, who slept unaware of his presence. Galahad waited only a moment, before moving to sit beside his comrade, in what space Arthur left. The young Sarmatian reached out to touch Lancelot's curls and rested there for a long breath, bringing tears to his eyes despite his words of hope. Slowly, his hand ran back, pushing Lancelot's hair away from his face. Arthur looked up at him, not knowing what to say. Galahad, however, leaned toward him and clapped his hand on the captain's shoulder, managing a smile.

A few hours later, Guinevere arrived again, bringing fresh bandages and healing remedies for Lancelot. The Sarmatian had not improved since Galahad's visit, and the lady hoped what she had brought would help cleanse his system of the poison that coated the tip of the arrow. She hung her lantern above the table, as Arthur cleared it off and blew out the candle. Reaching into her satchel, she produced several glass bottles and three pouches, creating an array of color. Arthur hovered about her anxiously, awaiting her instruction, and Galahad mirrored him at the foot of the bed. Standing at the bedside, Guinevere looked silently down into Lancelot's face for a moment, before lowering the hood of her cloak and speaking in a low tone.

"We must re-bandage his wound," she said. "We'll unwrap his chest, cleanse it with the water, coat the wound with a mixture of herbs, and wrap it anew. I also have something for him to drink." Both men listened attentively, and Galahad glanced at the bottles. Woad healing remedies? On Lancelot? If it had been any other Woad, he would have said something against it, but not Arthur's Guinevere. Not with the way she fought....

Arthur returned to his place on the bed and lifted Lancelot's limp body to sit, his grip firm on the knight's shoulders to prevent him from falling forward. Guinevere took care of the work, carefully unwrapping the bandages once Arthur had pulled Lancelot's tunic off. She bundled them in a rag, as Galahad winced at the sight of the wound from his place at Lancelot's feet. The gash was sewn up well enough, but it was outlined in purple and green, appearing sticky where it was starting to scab around the stitches. Guinevere interrupted his goggling when she reached out to him, and he realized she was after the rag. The Sarmatian wrung it over the water bowl in his lap, everything from a few hours before having been replaced, and handed it to her. Gently, she began to dab at the wound, only provoking a slight twitch from Lancelot, whose head was lolling back. She continued to clean it until she was satisfied and grabbed the biggest bottle on the table next to her. Uncorking it with a pop, she put the rim to the bundled cloth and tilted it for a mere second, before setting at Arthur's feet. Lancelot stirred when she pressed it to the wound and let it soak in.

"Ale from the stores," she said, focused on the rag.

"Bors is going to be happy at that," Galahad muttered, and Arthur grinned. "In fact, I wouldn't mind a bit of ale, myself. Gawain's been moaning, and I think it's because he hasn't drunk anything in the past two days."

"Were all of your men such avid drinkers, captain?" Guinevere asked, dabbing at the wound with the ale-stained cloth. Arthur opened his mouth to answer, grin unfailing, but Galahad cut him off.

"Actually, Arthur never drank nearly as much as us knights, though he'll have a round or two in our company. Drunkeness would compromise his nobility, you see." Galahad smirked cleverly, and Arthur could not help but grin, though he rolled his eyes. Guinevere shared in the silent gesture.

"I suppose that's good to know," she said. "Though I was hoping for a fair partner." Galahad laughed aloud at this, despite himself, and Guinevere grinned to herself as she stopped dabbing and motioned for Arthur to lower Lancelot.

"Yes, you see," Guinevere started, as her fingers prodded the bottles carefully. "I've had a fair bit of practice with drinking amongst my people, and though I could not abide a drunkard husband, it would have been refreshing to have a man who was a real challenge to beat."

"Well, my lady," Galahad said merrily. "Since Arthur isn't quite the opponent you're looking for, I would be happy to oblige in competing with you, and I know Bors would find it good fun."

"I'm lucky, then," she said, picking one of the red bottles. "And what of Lancelot? Is he another drinking man?"

"I'm afraid he takes after Arthur when it comes to that," Galahad replied. "He drinks more than Arthur, but he isn't one to deliberately get drunk on a nightly basis, unlike some of us." He was grinning, Lancelot's condition almost lifted from his heart.

"So he won't be joining us then. 'Tis a shame. But I can assure you he'll be wailing after something to drink once he wakes up," she warned and dabbed the wound with a new corner of the damp cloth that had been soaked in the red bottle solution. Lancelot jerked a bit and groaned quietly, trapped in slumber, and Arthur hushed him, his shoulder cradling the knight's head. Lancelot's muscles gleamed in the light of Guinevere's lantern, rippling in his torso and carved out in his arms like those belonging to a Greek statue. Scars decorated his flesh but only sparsely, for they were mostly scattered on his back. The arrow's gash was nestled right below his left breast and next to the bottom of his heart. Galahad noted the scars quietly, comparing them with his own. He remembered each battle that had dealt Lancelot each scar, and he tried to remember the ones on his friend's back. Arthur's arm was drawn across Lancelot's chest again, against the collarbone, holding his friend against him as Guinevere worked. Lancelot's slow breaths filled his ear, since the Sarmatian's head rested on his shoulder. He pondered his friend's scars as well, remembering the battle from whence they came and the ones he had tended to himself or had helped Lancelot tend to, when his friend had been too stubborn to be completely cared for.

Guinevere had gone through three more bottles, each a different color, and now began meticulously wrapping Lancelot's torso in new bandages. Galahad was watching the way his Sarmatian brother breathed, while Arthur felt every breath and beat against him. He closed his eyes for a long moment, as Guinevere worked, shutting out everything but Lancelot's breathing and heartbeat and feeling those with all of his senses. After a minute, he realized he had fallen into rhythm with Lancelot, and they were breathing as one being. Their hearts were beating as one, just as emotionally, they might be said to share one because of their closeness. Arthur took in the scent of Lancelot's curls near him and felt Lancelot's skin beneath his fingertips, a scar slipping under his hand that started from the back of the knight's shoulder and curved over it to the top of his arm. He had never felt so connected to Lancelot before, almost as close as he felt to Guinevere when they made love. It was intimate. It almost scared Arthur to connect with Lancelot that way, but most of him was left breathless by the feeling. Being intimate with a lover and being intimate with a friend were too completely different things, and he wasn't sure which was more amazing. He had known Guinevere for little more than a few weeks, and yet he had reached passionate intimacy with her a few days ago, to repeat their actions last night. He had known Lancelot for fifteen years and felt as if this was the first time he was really under the knight's skin and with him, instead of just near him. His free hand moved to grip Lancelot's, and Guinevere smiled to herself when she noticed and pinned the bandages in place.

"All right, then," she said. "That should be it, save for the draught I made him." Instead of reaching back at the table, she slid her hand into her satchel and pulled out a small bottle. Uncorking it, she placed it at Lancelot's lips and tipped it carefully. A bit of it dripped down his chin from the corner of his mouth, but he began to unconsciously swallow afterward. She gave him the whole bottle, and once it was empty, slipped Lancelot's tunic back on as Arthur continued to hold him. Galahad watched silently all the while, until the door burst open, earning three head snaps toward it. Gawain was heaving in the doorway, haste in his eyes. Galahad's had widened, and he immediately strode to his friend's side, Gawain leaning against him in the same instant.

"Saxons," the knight gasped. "Back from the dead."