A/N: Yay! Chapter 6! I gave myself a few days break, and hopefully it paid off with this. Thank you so much to all of my wonderful, magnificent readers and reviewers! I love you all! You really make my life worthwhile. I only hope my writing is enough for you. I think this chapter will please a few of my reviewers in particular… Hehe. Glad to do it. I would like to remind that while the reader may interpret a fic any way they want, this fanfiction was not intended to be slash. That means NO Arthur/Lancelot or Galahad/Gawain in the sense that there is romance and/or sexual attraction. But again, the reader is free to interpret it any way they want, but it was not intended. Oh yes…. And this is another evil cliffhanger at the end. Hee hee. If you have not, please go R/R my latest KA oneshot: Hate You. It's a cute little thing…. Anyway, enjoy this! Please Read and Review!!! I've been babbling for too long….
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Chapter 6
Gawain lifted his head when the sound of the door opening interrupted his grievous thoughts. Pain and guilt had wearied him, mistakenly giving his face an older appearance. His eyes were narrow with sorrow, yet when he looked up, light opened them again. Only halfway through the crack, Galahad lingered tentatively, uncertainty in his visage. The injured knight rose, like the sun in the dawn, his slumped shoulders returning to their proud and cheerful stature. His lips could only twitch at the corners, and Galahad neither moved nor spoke. The young knight waited in the door, almost as if he doubted Gawain would want him back.
"Galahad," Gawain said, nearly in a tone implying disbelief and joyous question. Galahad looked to the floorboards with a smile, as Gawain got to his feet and approached him eagerly. Galahad did not need more than a second to leave the door and meet his friend halfway. They embraced, with Gawain holding fast to his young companion in overwhelming relief.
"Gods," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I thought I'd lost you."
"Nay," Galahad said. "I'm still here, though Bors isn't too happy about it." Gawain managed a chuckle, but no mistake could be made about the tears in his eyes. He could breathe again, after his agonizing wait. He stepped back from his friend, hands firmly grasping Galahad's shoulders.
"I take it we won?" he asked. Galahad only gave a single nod, and Gawain broke into a grin, as he cupped Galahad's neck snugly and beamed. After a moment, he ruffled Galahad's mop of curls and headed toward the door.
"Come on, then," he beckoned.
"Where are we going?" Galahad asked softly, traces of mirth playing on his lips.
"Why, to celebrate of course," Gawain replied. "I'm almost certain Bors has some ale he hasn't been sharing." Galahad scoffed and shook his head, before following Gawain out into the corridor.
"Bors made out all right?" the elder of the two questioned, as they walked. Galahad confirmed that he had. "And you?" Gawain persisted.
"I fare well," Galahad reassured, smiling. Gawain eyed him suspiciously for a moment but at last looked away in satisfaction. He next asked about the Woad lady, and Galahad was pleased to say that she had apparently escaped unscathed. He didn't want to think on what would have been had Arthur lost her, since Lancelot already hung in the balance. Thinking of Lancelot and Arthur, he began to wonder how his captain and comrade were doing in the Sarmatian's room. He hoped Lancelot was improving for all of Arthur's concern and Guinevere's work. He would have to look into it later, if he and Gawain did not get themselves too drunk. He led Gawain to the supply stores wordlessly, otherwise.
"Gawain," said Bors jovially, getting to his feet. He clapped one hand onto the knight's shoulder, the other hand curled around a bottle of ale, and grinned. "I told you I would take care of your lad, here." He inclined his head to Galahad, who stood behind Gawain's shoulder and rolled his eyes irately.
"And for that, I thank you," Gawain replied gladly.
"What the bloody hell?" Galahad exclaimed incredulously, side-stepping out from behind his friend. "Bors didn't do a damn thing for me today. I am a perfectly capable warrior. How dare you imply that I am but a child who needs to be 'taken care of' and 'protected' and what not, when I could take any of you on with a sword, and you very well know it?" Gawain and Bors, however, simply chuckled to themselves and made their way over to the crates. Sitting down, Bors offered Gawain another bottle and the injured knight took it eagerly, uncorking it as Galahad glared at them.
"What are you laughing at?" he huffed indignantly.
"Galahad," Gawain started with a pacifying grin to his best friend. "Everyone knows you are a fine warrior, skilled with your blade as much as the rest of us. Bors was simply saying that he looked out for you in battle, as we always do. He was just poking fun." He took a drink, Galahad still leering. "Besides, are you to tell me that you never look to my safety in battle?"
"Of course I do," Galahad admitted, through gritted teeth.
"Exactly," Gawain said. "We all look out for each other. I'm sure you did for Bors today." Galahad glanced at Bors grudgingly, but the elder knight only smirked and took a drink. "And this exactly why we all look out for you, Galahad. You're too damn impulsive for your own good." Galahad scowled at him. "Almost as bad as Lancelot." He chortled, joined by Bors, but Galahad was too spited.
"How dare you laugh at him?" he hissed, and the other knights suddenly silenced. "How dare you laugh at Lancelot?" he raged, shouting. "He lies dying in our captain's arms, and you dare mock him." He whipped around, turning his back on them and started to stalk off.
"Galahad," Gawain called in upset, getting to his feet. "Galahad, wait." The younger knight turned on his heel to stare murderously at his friend, fists clenched at his sides.
"We weren't mocking Lancelot," Gawain said, wearing a distraught expression that Bors shared. Obviously, hearing Galahad say that their comrade was dying did not bode well them. "We weren't laughing at him. We meant no offense."
"And how else should it be taken, Gawain?" Galahad inquired. "Am I to take it all in good fun when you laugh at the expense of my dying friend?"
"He's our friend too, Galahad," Gawain snapped, his remorse turning to resentment. "It's not our fault that you are too easily offended."
"I am too easily offended?" Galahad echoed in disbelief. He was about to continue onward but stopped himself. "Fine," he said, the fury in his eyes twitching as it faded. "Drink your damn ale without me." This time, he left without looking back, and Gawain did not call after him, only struck one of the crates angrily.
Arthur looked up when the door burst open, and overwhelming relief washed over him when it was Guinevere he saw standing there. They locked eyes for the second time that day, and she bound to him, taking his face in her hands and smothering his lips with her own. She had not known desperation such as this, that which rose up in her like a flame when the Roman filled her sight after a battle. She had wanted to believe she could keep her emotions reined and controlled, but she had fallen in love with the Roman, though her original intentions had been only to seduce him for the advantage of such a union. She had not counted on being seduced herself, but alas, here she was. His arms came away from Lancelot and slid up around her. Her bare limbs encircled him, her fingers in his hair, and her cold skin jolted the warmth that had been preserved in this room. He wasn't sure if he was melting her cold, or if she was freezing him over.
"Come with me," she gasped, as his hungry lips traveled down her neck. Her hand slipped into his, and she barely managed to pull away. Without resistance, he came away from Lancelot's motionless form and let himself be led into the corridor for the first time in days. He hurried behind her, hands still joined, as she ran down the empty hall. Suddenly, he was in her room, and she was pushing him onto her bed. The candle flame flickered, and her hands were smoothing his chest. His hands traveled up her legs, over the blue paint that sent the sound of the tide into his mind. He reached her back, relishing the silk of her skin, whether or not it was coated in blood and ash or not. He opened his eyes when she hissed and broke their kiss. His hands ghosted her back, finding the open wound that resided there, below her leather. Before he could move his lips to speak, she silenced them with her hand.
"Kiss me," she said, and he obeyed.
Lancelot awakened to find that he was alone. Unrelenting silence filled his room, and when his vision unclouded, he could see the light of the candle yet glowed. Confused by his solitude, the knight sat up, wincing when he disturbed his wound. No on lingered in the shadows, as far as he could tell. The battle must have ended, he concluded. Either Arthur had left to greet the victorious or to look upon dead faces. Perhaps his captain had saw fit to leave because he believed Lancelot to be well, but the Sarmatian yet felt himself in the grips of fever. He couldn't remain, he decided as he attempted to ease out of bed. With one hand on the bedside table to push up with, Lancelot stood on his feet at last. Weak and unsteady from confinement, he collapsed on the rug, his legs giving way beneath him. Despite his attempts to hold to the table, his hand only ended up swiping the surface and knocking the candle down. The flame died and darkness suddenly consumed him. Cursing, he began to crawl toward the door, unable to see anything. Once his outstretched hand met wood, he struggled to pull himself up off the floor, wearing himself out with his efforts. Once on his feet again, he paused for a while against the wall, heaving with weariness and an aching chest.
Using the wall for support, Lancelot staggered down the corridor, panting as he did so. Whatever time of day it was, the inside of the Wall was always dark and lit by torches. Only rooms with windows had any sunlight. He groaned, realizing he hadn't seen the sun in days. Lancelot tripped over himself, falling to the stones again. For a minute, he lay still and breathed, his hand pressed to his throbbing wound. His brow was beaded with perspiration, as he propped himself up on his elbow and began to drag toward the door somewhere in the shadows ahead. He had felt stronger last he woke, when Arthur had been at his side, but now that strength had waned. He needed more of the draught that he vaguely recalled drinking. His wrinkled clothes scraped across the floor, his legs pushed himself onward as his elbow pulled. His hand did not leave his chest.
At last, he reached the door to the outside world, and, clasping the knob in relief, he heaved himself back on to his feet. His breath was labored and loudly gasping, and he rested against the door for a long while. He could almost taste the air beyond, as he watched strange visions in his head of moving sky. Once he caught his breath, the knight turned the door open, letting light stream in through the top crack like dawn. The darkness and dim light of the corridor was disrupted with gray beams, and the draft hit Lancelot like a first breath after a near drowning. He gasped at the sudden chill, only to find himself reeling in satisfaction. Staggering into the winter, Lancelot shed the heat that had encapsulated him for too long. He squinted since the light hurt his eyes but was nonetheless gladdened to feel the sun on him again, though it hid behind a drape of cloud.
The dying grass crunched under his boots, and he found himself alone in the square. He stumbled across into the middle, looking around for someone he knew but failed to find anyone at all. He then decided to find the supply chamber, hoping more of the draught would be found to strengthen him. Perhaps he could sneak some ale, too.
Galahad stalked down the corridor, moving in an out of light and shadow that was patterned on the floor by the windows. His brow was set and creased in anger, his eyes burning intensely. His arms swung at his sides, muscles taut, and his fists were clenched still. He would see to Arthur and Lancelot, but he knew he was in no mood to be anywhere near other people. He would have to go out riding or perhaps for a walk, in order to dissipate his fury. How dare they mock Lancelot? How dare they treat him like a child? How dare Gawain call him impulsive? Damn them. Once Lancelot healed, he was going to ride home on his own. He had made up his mind. Damn Gawain. Let the bastard deal with that.
"Impulsive," he grumbled bitterly. "Is that why you're such an insensitive ass, Gawain?" he questioned loudly, briskly continuing onward. "And I suppose they've overlooked the fact that Bors has eleven, bloody, illegitimate children. Now, they tell me I'm bloody impulsive and mock a dying knight? The bastards," he fumed. "All they care about is getting bloody drunk." Of course, Galahad had conveniently forgotten that he enjoyed drunkenness quite thoroughly, and he absolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that he was as impulsive as they said. He didn't care if it was true about Lancelot, either. They had no right to speak of him when he was so sick. No bleeding right….
Having been so immersed in his raging thoughts, Galahad failed to see the other person standing before him, who he ended up running into. The two of them were knocked to the ground, and Galahad's vision finally returned to him. He groaned mildly as he sat up, apologizing for not paying attention. He got to his feet and offered a hand to the other man, and his eyes widened when he saw that it was Lancelot. His anger suddenly vanished, in place of disbelief and worry. Lancelot looked up at him disoriented, unsure of whom Galahad was at first.
"Lancelot," the younger knight began. "What the bloody hell are you doing out here?" He took Lancelot by the shoulders and pulled him up, allowing his comrade to lean against him.
"Needed some fresh air," Lancelot mumbled, failing to notice Galahad's somber and fixed gaze upon him.
"You're in no condition to leave bed," Galahad remarked. "I can't believe Arthur allowed you to come all this way alone."
"Arthur doesn't know," Lancelot confessed as he swayed. "I was alone when I woke." At this, Galahad's brow furrowed, confused and hoping to gods that his captain had not crept into the battle undetected.
"Come on," Galahad said, ignoring Arthur's absence. "You're getting back into bed, and you're bloody staying there, do you understand?"
"Wait," Lancelot whined. "Have to get more draught." He reached out past Galahad, who had his arms around him and was trying to move forward. He sagged against the younger knight, the fever claiming his mind again. Lancelot gave up moving against Galahad and instead pushed away from him, staggering. Galahad looked at him in misunderstanding.
"I don't need to be coddled, Galahad," Lancelot said gruffly, sounding more like a drunk than a casualty. His gaze was narrow and unsteady, and he swayed dangerously.
"Like hell, you don't," Galahad scoffed. He watched Lancelot sharply, afraid that the knight would fall at any moment. "And if that is true, why do allow Arthur to do so?"
"Arthur," Lancelot began. "Is different. And besides, I'm not that ill any longer. I'm improving." Despite his words, he quavered, and his eyes fluttered open and closed. The world was spinning now, and Galahad was just a blur to him. He suddenly plunged into a terrible coughing fit, his body wracked with violent spasms. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest that ached tremendously now, and Galahad knelt before him. The younger knight took him by the shoulders, holding him steady, but Lancelot shook in his grasp nonetheless. A minute past, but the fit did not subside. Galahad gratefully recalled that his water skin yet hung at his waist, and he took it from his belt to offer unto his comrade. Lancelot, however, only claimed a single drink, for the fit sent him choking after that. He spluttered water onto Galahad's jerkin, dropping the water skin to the grass from his quaking hands. He clutched his chest once more, the pain almost overwhelming, but he could not stop coughing.
Despite her wound, Guinevere lay on her back in bed, contented and tired. Her leather garb and weapons lay in a heap on the rug, and her chest rose and fell evenly. Her dark hair was splayed out over the pillow and around her shoulders, her blue paint catching the light. Arthur sat hunched on the edge of the bed, half of the sheets wrapped around his waist. Scars were faint on his muscles, sprinkled over his arms and back and chest. She looked at him with heavy eyes, embers of fading pleasure. He was troubled once more, but her desperation had vanished.
"You need to have that wound tended to," he murmured.
"I know," she said quietly. A pause ensued before she asked, "What troubles you?"
"Lancelot," he said, and she had suspected correctly.
"Hasn't the medicine worked?" she questioned.
"He seemed better," Arthur began. "But I'm not sure if he had broken the fever or not. I forgot to check." His brow had knitted again, and she was quiet for a while.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have left him," Arthur said.
"He's probably still asleep," Guinevere suggested.
"Probably," Arthur said, but he wasn't so sure. Guinevere hesitated briefly but sat up slightly, propping back on her elbow. She held the sheets to her breast, and her eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
"If you have a bad feeling, you should go to him," she said, no trace of spite in her tone. He looked over his shoulder at her and managed a faint smile that only lasted a second.
"I don't know what else to do," he said, his eyes growing unfocused again. "We've done all we can with the wound, and your draught seemed to help. He didn't seem to break the fever, though. He would be fine, if it weren't for that damn poison."
"All we can do is wait," Guinevere said. "And hope. Love's presence holds power, Arthur. He does benefit from having you near him."
"I know," he said. "But I wonder if it is enough." He looked at her again, her dark eyes waiting. "If I am enough."
"You're more than enough, Arthur," she said. "For everyone." She reached out and lay her hand over his. "You must know how much he loves you." He dropped his eyes into his lap.
"Aye," he said quietly. "Too much." His lips twitched into a short-lived smile. He took her hand into his and held onto it for a moment, looking back at her. She knew not what to say. After a pause, he stood from the bed and began to dress.
Galahad had moved to Lancelot's side, his arm draped across the other knight's heaving back and his hand on Lancelot's shoulder. Arthur's best friend had not stopped coughing, and Galahad had already grown frightened. For a few seconds, it would cease and Lancelot would gasp for breath, only to have it start again. The younger knight stayed by him, rubbing his back in small in small circles and offering water periodically. He didn't want to leave Lancelot, but he knew his friend needed help. Who the bloody hell was out now? He couldn't hear or see a soul around them. Damn it, where had Arthur gone? Fear sprawled across his face like ink in water.
"Oh, gods, Lancelot," he said in terror, but he wasn't given another chance to speak. Galahad's head suddenly flung back, his curls bouncing away from his brow and returning. His mouth was agape, and he looked up into the sky. He had barely heard the hiss rip through the air. He was quivering, unable to make a sound.
"Galahad," screamed Gawain, who stood in horror only for a second. He rushed to his friend's side, skidding over the ground to his knees. Galahad slumped on to Gawain, his eyes glazed and wide. Gawain could only tremble in shock, gawking at the hilt of a knife that protruded from his best friend's back.
"Bastard," coughed the dying Saxon that leaned in the doorway that had been at Galahad's back. He choked and spluttered, eyes rolling back in his head, before finally falling to the ground dead. Gawain whimpered, falling apart as he pulled the blade from Galahad's back. The younger knight did not flinch or make a sound.
"Oh, gods," Gawain said, tears springing up in his eyes that were huge with disbelief. His hands shook in midair for a moment, until finally coming to rest on Galahad's back and in his hair. "Oh, gods." Galahad's stare was blank.
"Lancelot," Arthur cried, sprinting to the crumpled knight. He fell to his knees beside him not unlike Gawain had with Galahad. Lancelot managed to sit up and fall into Arthur, who wrapped his arms around his beloved friend. He yet coughed for a while, banging against Arthur's ribs with his own. His arms had draped limply over the Roman's shoulders, and Arthur knew he was crying.
"I'm so sorry," he gasped, his hand going to the black curls naturally. He began to slightly rock the knight. "I'm so sorry." Arthur suddenly stopped, however. His eyes narrowed to the ground and glinted. Lancelot had stopped coughing and now only panted desperately for air, tears running down his face. The Roman said nothing. He felt his heart go still.
Blood stained the dirt.
