The wet grass felt strange underneath his knees as Lancelot sunk to the ground, the queen in his arms.
He couldn't stop touching her, couldn't cease running his hands all over her, feeling her flushed and blushing skin against his.
She grabbed a hank of his hair, pulling him closer to her. She planted a kiss on his throat, and a twisted, angry moan made it's way through his vocal cords and into the night air, a sound born of despair and betrayed love. He kissed her back, all the while thinking anyone could see us, we are out in the open.
Throwing caution to the wind at the feel of her fingers wrapped in his, he dropped a hand to her shift, running it slowly up her trim abdomen, a smile blooming at her gasp of surprise. He toyed with the buttons on the front of the flimsy garment, popping one off in his haste.
She pushed him away, panting, eyes rolling in her sockets.
"I cannot do this, stop, don't," she garbled out, rage and indecision making the skin of her cheeks burn with blood.
"I owe him everything," she whispered. "I love him…Goddess! What am I doing here?"
"Taking advantage of the moment?" he responded harshly. "What are you doing here? What we have both been thinking of for months. What we have been acting out hastily in my rooms, or in the stable, or at the back of the commons. You fit me, my lady. You may have his heart, but you have my soul, and that is not something I can take back."
"Gods, Lancelot," she murmured, a hand rising to her face, her eyes flashing like lightning at his bald declaration.
"We both wanted you, you know. I yielded to his needs, just as I always will. I have never been ashamed of a choice before…and now, I wish to any gods that care to listen that I had fought harder for you. He needed you, I knew that. So I let him have you, didn't persue you. But Guinevere, from the moment I saw you in that squalid jail, you have held my essence in the palm of your hand. Why do you think I did what I did at Badon Hill?"
She gasped in shock. He never spoke of that event. Not to Arthur, not to the other knights. Here was a strange revelation indeed, and yet she still forced her mind from the truth of it.
Arthur worships her. He needs her to be the mighty queen to his king. And she does love him…but not in the way that she needs to love, with passion and all consuming fire.
And that need could be fulfilled, in the arms of the dark eyed knight kneeling in the grass in front of her.
She reached out a hand, to caress his face, and a voice came out of the darkness.
"Has he drunk too much again?"
She leaped back from Lancelot as if struck, hastily stood, and eyed Bors, who had come upon them making no noise whatsoever. She crossed her arms in as regal a way as possible, and crooked one eyebrow.
"I tripped. He was helping me up, that's all. I thank you, Sir Lancelot, for your kind assistance, but Arthur is surely wondering where I am. Can you see him safely back to the keep?" she asked the bald knight. He squinted an eye at her, then nodded finally.
"I will, lady. Have no fear, Sir Responsible will be abed soon," Bors answered. She glanced once at her dark haired knight, and wished she hadn't. His face was a mixture of anguish and lust, and she could just see a sheen of sweat standing out on his upper lip. She had to clasp her hands to keep from reaching out to touch his skin there. His sweet brown eyes, always so kind and open to her, were shadowed and shuttered.
She whirled about, her dress flying behind her, her anger and fear at discovery palpable in the air.
Lancelot in the meantime had sunken further to the ground, collapsing all his weight on his thighs.
Bors crouched down next to him, and shook his head.
"Can't keep it in your breeches, can you? Arthur's woman? Bah. Lancelot, you could choose from so many…why this one?"
"Because I will not love another like I love her," he answered simply, and Bors stared at him a moment before shrugging.
"It's your funeral," he replied, and helped the broken knight stagger back to the fortress.
Bors practically chucked the other knight through the door into his own chamber. All his needs for the journey the following morning had been seen to by several of Arthur's squires, and as Lancelot rolled into bed after toeing off his boots, he noted a goblet and beaker of wine sitting on the chest beside the bed.
A small note came with it, and an exquisitely jeweled dagger sat on the tray with the beaker and goblet.
He picked up the dagger, marking it's lightweightness and perfect balance.
Putting it aside, he unfolded the note, and read the short message there.
I will not speak with you before the morrow, so take this drink and toast our success. You are my dearest friend in the world, and I would give my own life for yours a thousand times over. Please believe I pray every night for the safety of my men, you most of all.
Rest assured in the knowledge that whatever the future may bring, I would be much poorer for it if you were not there with me to see it.
I remain loyaly yours.
Arthur
A smile crossed Lancelot's features, and he stared at the letter a few moments before setting it gently down on the chest. He ran a finger over the signature, and wondered at his idiocy in betraying the man the way he had. A true friend can forgive much, but Lancelot doubted that Arthur would forgive the sin of his passion for Guinevere. The man loved too deeply and steadfastly, and he would never understand the reasons the Lancelot could give him.
He picked up the goblet, lifting it in the air, saying softly, "To friendship," and drank the cup dry. It was a heady, sweet red, and he had another full cup before the lateness of the hour and too much drink sent him to slumber.
The sound of nothingness was what woke him. No horses, no men shouting at each other, no dogs barking, no Arthur yelling commands.
The only thing he heard were the birds chirping, and the soft breeze that came through his window. It blew the curtains back and forth, and he sat up, wondering and scrubbing at his face.
" 'm sposed to be somewhere," he muttered, and stood, looking about the room. His gaze fell on the pile of armor and weaponery set up in the center of the room, ready for him to wear. A white hot bolt of recollection hit him, and he slammed his eyes shut, a long string of curses escaping his mouth. He ran to the window, and smashed his injured left hand down on the sill.
They were gone. It was midmorning, and the raiding party had already ridden out.
"Damn it!" he roared, pounding his fists into the brickwork again and again, blood flowing fresh from the raw wounds.
"God damn you, Arthur!" he screamed until his voice was cracking from the volume. A hasty knocking was heard at his door, and he went to it, flinging it open.
"Where. Are. They," he asked Jols, who had the unfortunate duty of being the one requested to explain things to the very dangerously angry knight in front of him.
"Lancelot, please. You're scaring the chambermaids," the squire answered, hoping to joke the other man out of his temper.
No such luck. Jols could swear that steam was issuing from the man's nostrils, and the muscles in his cheeks jumped violently.
Lancelot gathered the material of Jols' shirt in his hand, and leaned in close enough to bite.
"Jols. Tell me where Arthur has gone."
"H-he left this for you," the man said, the nerves he felt at facing Lancelot firing to life. He wasn't a coward by nature, but Jols was no fool, either.
The Sarmatian snatched the piece of paper out of the squire's hand, and read it quickly, his hand still fisted in Jols tunic.
He let go finally, and the paper he held fluttered to the ground, forgotten.
"Jols," he said, a wooden tone to his voice the squire didn't like.
"Yes, Lancelot?"
"Saddle my horse. I will be there within ten minutes," the knight answered, and slammed the door to his quarters shut in Jols face.
The other man sighed, and bent to pick up the piece of paper Arthur had hastily given to him that morning.
He scanned it curiously, for since it was open, he hoped Lancelot wouldn't mind him reading the words written there.
I cannot risk losing you again. I am sorry for the trickery of the wine, but I saw no other way. Do not follow us. For my sake, if not your own.
A
Jols winced at the sound of boots echoing on the hard packed floor of the stable. Turning, he smiled brightly at Lancelot and offered a hand up, in deference to the knights' wounded hands.
Lancelot didn't even look at him, and practically flew from the ground to his saddle. His armor gleamed in the morning light, and to Jols eye he looked every bit the avenging madman he had gotten a reputation of being on the battlefield. Lancelot jammed the two blades he had been carrying into their scabbards on his back, the metal making a nasty snick sound that made the squires' blood run cold. He noticed the newly shined iron of the swords, and wondered if that was the only thing the other man had done before storming to the stables.
The knights' wounded wrists were wrapped with fresh bandages, but the left one was oozing through the white linen, staining it a light red. Jols opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut at the look on Lancelot's face.
"Your bags are packed with enough food for a few days, Sir," Jols told him, and he nodded a curt thanks.
"Do you know where-"
"I know."
And he thundered out of the building, calling for the guard to open the gate if you want to live to see tomorrow.
The squire watched the knight leave, and shook his head. The best laid plans always seemed to go awry for Arthur; he only wanted to protect his friend, and instead succeeded in making him angrier than Jols had ever seen Lancelot.
"What will pass, will pass," Jols muttered, and went back to his task of grooming the remaining horses.
Lancelot hated to stop his breakneck journey, but he knew if he didn't, his horse wouldn't make it much further.
Sighing, he reigned up and let the animal walk a bit before feeding it a quick apple, and letting it drink from his water bag.
He poured a bit over his sweaty brow, and swore. His left hand was on fire, and the blood/pus combination seeping through the bandages was not a welcome sight or smell.
He was raging inside. How in the name of all that was holy did Arthur dare to leave him behind?
His friend. Drugged his drink, and left him. The captain of his guard. Left him behind! Lancelot had suffered worse injuries than his recent ones, and he couldn't understand Arthur's logic.
Lancelot's near death had been hard on Arthur, he knew. But he and Arthur had not spoken of it much, and if it truly bothered the king, wouldn't he have said something? Lancelot wasn't sure…but perhaps Arthur had lost trust in him. And there could only be one thing that would cause that.
"Blast it!" he yelled to the clouds, and a few angry crows took off from the nearby trees, their rest disturbed by his outburst.
"The reasoning must come from the horse's mouth," he muttered to himself, and remounted his ride.
The smell of smoke and burning flesh hit his nostrils as he crested the rise of a small hill at dawn the next morning.
He could do nothing but stare at the open field, the carnage sickening him, even with as much violence and death as he had seen and participated in before.
Arthur's banners fluttered limply in the wind, and he saw knights hurrying about the field, putting out fires and dragging the dead away.
He caught a glimpse of blue paint and brown leather, and closed his eyes in thanks that Guinevere still lived.
He spurred his horse, and galloped down through the wreckage.
"Lancelot?" the shout came from one of the tents set up to serve as a makeshift hospital, and he headed that way, seeing Bors standing outside, his bald head sliced in a half dozen places, and his arm in a sling.
"Bors, what the hell happened?" Lancelot asked, sliding off his horse as the animal came to a quick stop.
"Well…let's see. They had pitch and flaming arrows, and they made a bloody mess of us. That enough?" The other knight was obviously in a lot of pain, and angry to boot. Lancelot softened his tone, and looked Bors in the eyes.
"Bors. Where is Arthur?"
Bors sighed, letting his face fall. A strange feeling crawled its way through Lancelot's stomach; it was as if a large spider had settled there and had no intention of leaving.
"What, man? Out with it, for pity's sake," the younger knight said harshly, and Bors raised his head, his eyes narrowed.
Oh gods, oh no oh no not Arthur… "They've got him, Lancelot. He was ambushed by at least a dozen men, and we couldn't get to him for fear of them slitting his throat. Guinevere wanted to send a raiding party after him immediately, but some of us," he jerked his head toward Gawain and Galahad, who were bent over a table, studying maps, "helped her decide to make a little plan first."The world went white suddenly, and the young Sarmatian had to blink rapidly to clear his vision. Should have been me.
He turned his head, and saw the queen glowering in the corner of the hospital tent, her eyes a bright grey, blood coating her small frame. He made to go to her, then turned back as Bors grabbed his arm. "For the record, I'm not a fan of what Arthur did to you…but I understand his action," the older knight told him. Lancelot shook his arm lose and snarled, "I'm the captain of his guard, Bors. I should have been here. If anyone could have helped him it would have been me. Should have been me. I'm supposed to lay down my life for him! Gods! The man is insufferable!" he yelled, and Bors laughed. Lancelot glowered at him, and the other man just grinned. "Don't try to scare me, boy. That gaze may work on the queen, but not on yours truly. And you don't get to hog all the guilt. Now lets figure out how to get Artorius back…alive."
Tbc.