Six.
The following day, Lancelot insisted on being moved back to his own rooms. Guinevere protested, but only lightly, as she knew it would seem strange for him to stay in her quarters when he had his own close by.
He took stock of all his posessions, and called for a servant. When the man arrived, Lancelot asked for a bath to be drawn for him.
"Sir, are you sure? You wouldn't want to catch your death of cold," the concerned servant asked. The knight just looked at him, and the man shrugged, muttering, "crazy foreigners," as he left to retrieve the heated water and basin.
The Sarmatian slowly pulled off his tunic and pants, and stood naked in the light of the afternoon sun that shone in his high windows. He had requested this room specifically when Arthur had become king; the watery British sun he received each day was so different from the heat of the summer plains of his home that it kept his mind off what could have been.
A knock sounded on the door, and he called out "enter," without covering up for modesty's sake. He did not care who saw him.
"Your bath, sir," the servant said, and he turned, watching as the eyes of the young girls who had brought the water in popped almost as big as the tankards in the tavern. He calmly walked to the large metal basin, and stepped in, sinking to his neck in the hot water, hissing in pleasure at the contact.
"Tell the king I will attend him presently…at the Table," he told the man, who bowed, and backed out of the room, the two young women goggling at the naked knight. He smirked at them, and winked salaciously. They blushed fiercely, although one smiled back at him. He laughed aloud as they shut his door behind them.
The Queen loves you, I see it.
Do not deny it, sir. Just take the gift she would give you, and be happy.
Blood swirled around him in the iron tub, and the faces of the boys who had been butchered while in his care rose out of the water to taunt his failure.
The scout's red hair, and bright green eyes filled his vision, her words echoing in his soul.
Lancelot let out a choked sob, and sunk his head under the water, the grime and sweat of many days on the road fanning out over the water, the oily muck a stain on the pristine crystal quality of the stuff.
He resurfaced a moment later, hair soaked and pushed back off his forehead. Scrubbing a hand over his beard, he balanced his arms on his knees, and dared to look intently at his left wrist.
It was healing for certain, but the scar would be deep, and thick. He wasn't truly certain if he would ever weild a sword in that hand again. At that thought, he glanced over at his blades, laying forgotten on the corner table of his apartments. He vowed to care for them as soon as he was done speaking with Arthur and the war council.
Looking down at himself, he was surprised at the sight of his hipbones, and the jutting of his ribs. "Must remember to eat more," he muttered, frowning.
Sick of introspection and ready to face Arthur and the others, he rose, and wrapped a thick robe about himself that the serving man had left on the bed.
Still weak, but not feverish, he sighed, pleased that he felt slightly back to normal.
Slapping the salve the druid had left for him on his wrists, he dressed hastily, happy to put on clean clothing.
A dark green undershirt, black studded tunic, and black pants went on quickly, followed by his boots, now clean of all road matter.
He strapped on one of his smaller swords, the leather belt the scabbard was attached to one of his favorites, a large black ornamental number purchased from a tribe of Moorish traders that had come through the area almost ten years previous.
Wringing out his hair, he glanced at himself as he passed the small mirror he kept for shaving.
Gaunt, high cheekbones, defined brown eyes shadowed by time and sorrow, and wrinkles he hadn't known he had were etched in his skin like fine lines in a cheaply made vase.
He laughed hollowly at his inspection. "Time waits for no man," he said grimly, and quit his rooms.
No more putting it off. He must face Arthur and the others now, and publically admit his failures.
Arthur had just slammed his fist down on the table, the noise echoing about the room, when Lancelot entered. The other knights stood, a few greeted him, Bors slapping him happily on the back when he passed.
He nodded at Arthur and took his seat.
"Welcome back, lazy bones," Bors called, smiling. "Little kitten venturing out from it's sick bed?"
"I head Vanora was having a hard time without me, so I couldn't stay ill for too long," Lancelot shot back, and the other man made an obscene gesture at him. He grinned and turned to Arthur, who looked pleased to see him up and about.
"Are you certain you are well enough for this?" Arthur said softly so only the knight could hear him. Lancelot tilted his head once. "It has to be done now, Arthur. We don't have much time."
Arthur agreed, and turned back to the conference of knights.
"Through no fault of his own, Lancelot suffered a trying ordeal in order to get us information on where the Saxons are moving. However, before we discuss our plans, I am sorrowed to mention the loss of four good people that served us well," he added, his displeasure etched in his features. Lancelot winced inwardly, but kept his face blank. He knew it was his fault, and he must not shy away from the telling of it.
Arthur stood, and raised his cup. The others joined him, Lancelot last, and moving slowly, the aching of his bones suddenly worse. He was loathe to admit to anyone else how bad the loss of the four wore on him.
"Ian, Roland, Edward. May they receive the bounty they deserve in the afterlife," Arthur said solemnly, and put his cup to his lips, drinking deeply. The knights in the hall did the same.
"Amaidis. My faithful scout and friend," he added, and hesitated. Lancelot noted how his hand shook, and was surprised that he said no more, merely draining his cup. The men followed suit, and sat when Arthur waved them down.
"Now, onto business. Lancelot, would you care to show us the route you discovered the Saxons are taking?"
The men poured out of the hall, some heading to their quarters, others to the stable to prepare their horses to leave the following morning.
Arthur's scouts had returned in the middle of the war council, and had provided timely news. The sea devils were perhaps a days ride from the Wall, and if they rode out at dawns' first light, they could cut them off before the Saxons reached the outlying villages near the fortress.
Lancelot sat alone at the outskirts of Badon Hill, the simple, solitary graves stretched out before him like fence rows.
He studied the mound in front of him, and toed the ground slightly. The night breeze made the fabric wrapped around the large battle axe flutter like a trapped bird.
"For a quiet man, you always knew what to do," he murmured at last to the earth. It did not answer.
"He misses you. We all do…when you died, it was like the soul of us went with you," he added, touching the grass lightly with his fingers. "I know we did not have much in common, but you always respected me, and I wanted you to know that I had much admiration for you, and your ways. If I had half your patience and wisdom, I think much of what has befallen me would have ended up more to my liking. I am not a graceful or serene person," Lancelot added, laughing slightly. "But I did pay attention to your ways…and wanted you to know that. Arthur will never let your death have been in vain, Dagonet."
"Communing with the dead?" the voice hit him like a blow to the chest, and he did not turn to face her.
"They listen better than the living," he said acerbically. His mood was foul, and not much could make it any better.
She sighed heavily, and crouched next to him. "You miss him."
"I miss them both," he answered, gesturing at Tristan's grave as well. "They did not deserve to die the way they did, in answer to a fight not their own."
"I agree, Lancelot. But it wasn't your fault. It wasn't Arthur's fault. They died doing what they did best, and I don't believe they would be sorry for it," Guinevere said, and jumped back slightly when the knight rounded on her, tears of fury in his eyes.
"You know nothing of them. Don't think you do. They sacrificed themselves for a world that was already dead…and for a cause only fools followed."
He clenched his hands together, then ran one of them through his curly hair, making it stand up in the wind buffeting the air.
Guinevere moved around so she was facing him, and took his hands in hers. He finally met her eyes, and she raised a hand, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger. He shivered, and closed his eyes.
"The recent deaths weigh heavy on your soul, I can see it on your face," she whispered to him. "But, my love, they would be hard pressed to want such suffering from you. Do not do this. Avenge their deaths. Go with us tomorrow to fight. Arthur will need you at his side," she said, releasing his fingers from hers.
"Arthur will need me, yes. What of the queen?" Lancelot said softly. She shook her head.
"That way lies madness," she answered at last, and he laughed slightly. She looked at him askance, and he cocked his head, one corner of his mouth raised.
"Our lives are madness, lady. We have seen to it that they will be so."
She looked at him, and a small sob escaped her lips at the pain and fatigue in his brown gaze.
"I am not a weak woman," she told him. He smiled at that, knowing it to be the only truth he could always count on. "But I feel weak around you. I swoon like some silly maiden, and wish only for your hands to be on me. I am ashamed of it…and yet I can't make it stop," Guinevere said, "it angers me and makes me feel like a stranger in my own skin. And yet…" she tapered off, chewing on her lip distractedly. Lancelot stood, and she followed suit.
"This is pointless," she blustered to herself. "What will be, will be, and we cannot change the past. I refuse to feel guilty for loving you," she told him, and reached a hand up to cup his cheek, echoing a movement he had seen her make before with Arthur.
At the thought of his commanders' name, the Sarmatian knight pulled away from the queen, his dark gaze downcast.
"Aye, my lady, but we are guilty. Arthur does not deserve betrayal by his most loyal subjects," he said, the rising wind pulling the words from his mouth. She glared at him as if struck.
"Do you think I don't feel that too? Lancelot, he saved me from a fate worse than death. I owe him everything. He gave me my freedom. And he fought for me, and for this land, even when everything he had ever known was trampled on. I love him. I owe him. But, for the goddesses sake, and please tell me how to fix this if you can, I am not in love with him. And I berate myself every night when I lie in his arms, wishing it was yours around me instead."
"Oh, Guinevere," he answered her, the humor in his voice not reaching his eyes, "if wishes were horses, my lady."
"Indeed," she answered, the word leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She glanced sideways at him, and suddenly the severity of what the next few days action might bring brought a surge of unwanted emotions to her heart.
She ran the few feet that seperated them, and clasped him to her. He trembled at her touch, and raked his hands through her hair, and down her back, bruising her.
"He will be wondering where you are," Lancelot whispered to her between desperate, sucking kisses.
"Let him wonder," she replied, and they said no more.
Tbc.