"Blast!" he raged to the empty hall.
"Bloody hell stupid nobility…" the Sarmatian knight muttered as he hurried through the corridors of the keep and out onto the long brick walk that led around the fortress.
The parapet towers were blessedly only staffed with one guard at the moment, and Lancelot shooed the young man away, who was happy to get the night off with blessings from his captain.
"Gods!" the knight roared at the sky, and sat down heavily, his head falling into his hands. How had Arthur known? And how had he not said anything? If anything, Lancelot should be in irons right about now. Instead, Arthur was asking his forgiveness?
Lancelot's world was as twisted as the Castus banner that hung from the wall, and he moaned briefly before squaring his shoulders. It wasn't seemly to be so distracted by one's own problems. He knew what he must do…he just didn't want to do it.
It meant leaving his friends, his calling, and more importantly, his home. His soul's home. Which was with Arthur and Guinevere. Yes, with her as well. As much as he loved her as a man, he also loved her as his queen, and the thought of leaving her side to be possibly undefended tore at him.
And to leave Arthur again…it was too much to contemplate.
He shuddered briefly, and wished ashamedly for the simplicity of the past, when he had had no choice and had followed Arthur and his fellow knights into whatever hell that Rome had sent them to.
Night had fallen briskly and he stood on the edge of the parapet, the wind blowing his hair about his head. Things were quiet, and the hustle and bustle that was always heard in a fortress as large as theirs gradually died off. Lancelot hadn't realized how long he had been outside until the moon was almost directly overhead, and his stomach growled loudly.
He shook his head to clear it; hours of thinking had produced no easy solutions, and he was weary.
Turning to go inside, he froze suddenly. A strange feeling of being watched tickled his spine, and he spun back around just in time to feel the arrow whistling at him embed itself into his thigh.
Howling in pain, he reached for his swords, then cursed himself for leaving them behind.
He yanked the small dirk he always carried free from his boot, and launched himself at the dark figure that had just boosted itself over the edge of the wall.
They went down in a tangle of limbs, Lancelot fighting like a wildcat, but his injured wrists would not answer to his demands, and rather quickly he was subdued by the other man, who's lower face was covered by a tattered black sash.
The Sarmatian knight bit and kicked as his knife was taken away, and spit at the face of his attacker as three other men made their way silently to the side of the one sitting astride his chest.
"If you value the life of your king, I would suggest shutting the hell up," the man said in a pleasant tone, almost as if they were having a conversation in front of a tavern fire. Lancelot snapped his jaw shut, and glared daggers at the man. His thigh throbbed, and he could feel blood leaking out of it sluggishly. He kicked at his jailer one more time, then fell still as the man struck him across the jaw.
"Always a fighter. You could have picked an easier one to ambush, Donnell," the man seated on Lancelot said to one of the others behind him. In unison they pulled their face coverings off, and Lancelot bit off a curse as he recognized some of the Saxons from the battle earlier.
"But not a more loyal one," the man called Donnell replied. "He will do what we ask in regards to Arthur, make no mistake. Speaking of, I think it's time we visited said king."
Lancelot marched stiffly beside the men sneaking into the fortress. They hid behind some columns as serving women approached, then hustled him back into the corridor as the women's voices faded into the distance.
He tried desperately to think of any other way to warn the king, to warn anyone that death was coming for Arthur on swift, vengeful wings, but short of getting himself killed, which wouldn't do any good just yet, his mind could come up with nothing.
The men that led him were quiet, and obviously scouts or spies of some kind, because they were too good, and too silent to be foot soldiers. Lancelot tried to trip them up once, and was rewarded for his efforts with a swift clout across the ear that made his vision swim and his nose drip blood. That made him slightly nervous; how hard had they hit him before? His thigh had stopped bleeding, but the arrow was still there, and he knew it would flow again once the offending piece of wood was removed.
They approached the king's chambers at last, and Lancelot decided that he was close enough now to risk trying to warn Arthur.
His plan died in his throat when the door was answered after a short two knocks by another Saxon, this one holding Guinevere by the hair, a silver dagger at her throat. They had cut her already, and he felt a surge of violence race through him at the sight of her blood trickling down her neck into the edge of her bodice.
"Mmmmff!" was all she got out when she saw Lancelot. He succeeded in elbowing the man holding him, and reached for her. He saw that Arthur was still asleep, perhaps drugged into oblivion by the healer, and the room seemed filled with silent, angry sea devils, ready to butcher his king for whatever reasons they had.
He didn't care what their reasons were, he only cared to save Arthur from a fate that should have been his in that battle a year ago on Badon Hill.
He fell to one knee when Donnell cut his thigh with his own dirk, and tried to cover the sound of pain with a laugh.
"That..the best you can do? You can't even kidnap a king with less than ten men?"
Donnell kicked him in the ass with a booted foot, and he fell onto his face at Guinevere's feet. She gasped once, her eyes filled with outraged fire and damnation. Lancelot almost pittied the Saxon who met the end of her sword. Almost.
"You don't want to see my best. Michael, get the king from his bed and lets go. Tie these two like the turkeys they are."
At that moment Lancelot knew they had a chance. The idiot marauders should have just killed Arthur right then, he knew were it him he would have done so. A long, drawn out vengeance never turned out right. Something always threw a tool in the works, and he was determined to be that tool.
One of the younger Saxons came toward Guinevere and Lancelot, and pushed them together with his feet, trying to get them close enough to tie with just one rope.
The man bent over, slightly off balance, and at that second both he and Guinevere began to work like a well oiled machine.
Time slowed for him, even though what took place happened in seconds; it seemed like hours to his eye.
He and the queen used the touch of each other's backs to leap up, she grabbing a sword hidden behind an overturned trestle table, he kicking the Saxon in the crotch. When the man dropped his blade, retching in pain, Lancelot turned it on its owner, a red tide flowing from the man's throat in seconds.
The two of them fought together, using glances and a few grunts to communicate.
Snick.
Hack.
Slash, duck, roll.
Lancelot paused only once, when he was standing on the edge of the window in Arthur's room, and yanked the arrow out of his thigh. A brief, high pitched scream, then he snapped his mouth shut. He shot a quick glance at Arthur, who was struggling unnoticed to wake from his medicine induced slumber, surprise in his green eyes. That expression quickly turned to murder when he saw his queen and best friend being outnumbered by Saxons.
"Guinevere!" Arthur yelled, and Lancelot shut his eyes briefly against the pain in that voice. The king struggled out of bed, tangled in his linens, and raised Excalibur high. Lancelot understood then how little the Saxons actually knew about the king; he was never far from the legendary blade, and many men paid for that knowledge that night.
The queen was holding her own, her warrior's spirit in evidence as she stabbed the man behind her, then rolled over his back, swinging her blade swiftly.
The sound of the Saxon's head hitting the floor was a welcome one.
Arthur had managed to get free of his bedclothes, and fought his way to the center of the room, blood flying from Excalibur's shining length.
Lancelot slashed with his borrowed sword, spinning like a dervish, only feeling a slight fire against his ribs once. All else was a blur.
A moment later, and it was done.
Lancelot, Guinevere and Arthur stood in a small circle, their backs touching, all breathing heavily. It took them a few seconds to realize that all of the invaders were dead.
Arthur laughed, a dry noise that sounded like a bark, and faltered to his knees.
"Arthur," the queen and the knight breathed, and both dropped to their own knees beside the man.
"Help me get him to the bed, Lancelot," Guinevere said, and he complied, Arthur protesting weakly between them that he could get there just fine on his own.
By this time running sounds could be heard in the halls, and Arthur's door burst open, Gawain, Galahad and Bors making their way in, armed to the teeth.
"What in the world?" Galahad got out, but Bors and Gawain were already at the king's bedside.
"Do we have a problem?" Bors said, eyeing the dead bodies scattered around the room. Arthur snorted weakly. "Not anymore, my friend. Apparently I sleep like the dead, at least when drugged," he said, embarassment and anger coloring his pale face, "and would be just that were it not for these two." He grasped Guinevere's hand, and brought it to his lips.
"I am in your debt, my queen," he said softly, and she brushed the errant locks of hair out of his face.
"Not in this lifetime," she answered, and pressed her lips to his forehead. Her eyes avoided Lancelot's, who gazed at her so strangely she was momentarily afraid of him.
"Ah, my fair Sarmatian savior once again," Arthur joked, turning to his friend. Alarm crossed his features. "Lancelot?" he queried, touching the man's cheek.
"I..ah, suddenly do not feel very much myself," Lancelot said, his vision of Arthur and Guinevere doubling. "Forgive me."
The last thing he heard was the sound of rushing feet and Bors yelling "catch him!"
The bright light of the torches in the corridor wavered, and twisted into coils of flame as his head hit the solid brick ground.
When he awoke, Lancelot knew that this time, it was different. There were people in his quarters, but they were being careful to be very quiet, and the smell of incense was strong in his nostrils.
He tried to raise his head, and hissed as the world tilted on its axis.
"Stop moving, fool. You'll hurt yourself again, and then what would I do?"
He tried to smile at Arthur's comment, but found his face wouldn't work.
"What –" he croaked, then coughed. A thin trickle of water was poured down his throat, and he licked his dry lips, sighing.
"What is happening?" he finally managed.
"You have been fighting fever for several days now, friend," Arthur told him. Lancelot knew it was Arthur because he recognized the man's smell. He was dismayed to discover he couldn't see very well.
"What's wrong with my eyes?"
"I don't know – can you not see well? Guard, some light here!"
A faceless clanking, then a torch was brought to Arthur. He held it close to Lancelot, and suddenly the knight could see the king's face a little better.
"Better?" Arthur asked. Lancelot nodded.
"Aye. How are you feeling?"
Arthur laughed, a slightly hysterical sound that worried the Sarmatian man.
"You should not trouble yourself about me; thanks to you, again, I am well. You need to conserve your strength. You have a lot of healing to do, brother."
"The arrow wasn't in deep, it shouldn't have done that much damage," Lancelot said, confused. He lifted his left hand to brush at his hair. The room swam; the light that Arthur held whirled and spun enough to make him roll to his side and retch.
Arthur just held his shoulder silently. When he rolled back over, moaning and sweating, the king's face crumpled, and he put the torch into the wall sconce behind him.
"They had to take it, Lancelot. You were going black almost to your forearm, the woad healer knew it would soon take your heart. I'm so very sorry, my friend."
Lancelot turned his eyes to the right, where his swords rested in their special sheaths, handcrafted for him by a blacksmith attached to the fortress many years ago.
"I..oh, gods," was all he could manage, and he lifted his hand – no, the stump of his hand, to the light again.
They had obviously cauterized the wound, because he could still almost smell the charred meat stink coming off it. He tried not to vomit again, but did not succeed.
This time Arthur rose, and came back to the bed with a goblet of something that smelled like flowers and honey.
"Drink this," he said, and Lancelot complied. Surprisingly, it wasn't bad, and he drained it quickly.
Laying his head back, he shut his eyes.
"The queen?" he asked after a moment.
"She is well, and seeing to your recovery," Arthur stated. Lancelot was afraid to meet his eyes, but did so.
Nothing but kindness and worry there. And the Sarmatian man hated himself more for it.
"Arthur, I – we need to discuss…"
"Not now. What is done is done. There is nothing that we can say that would help, and I for one am ready to put aside anything that doesn't help me or my country. Do you agree?"
"Aye, my lord," Lancelot said, his mind reeling from the admission. How could Arthur forgive him so easily? Did he not know how seriously Lancelot had considered running with Guinevere? Had the queen discussed it with him? He had to know.
"Arthur, please, I have to know one thing," he added quietly. The king just looked at him, and Lancelot unconciously dragged his injured wrist closer to his chest.
"Has she…has the queen talked with you…about my…indiscretion?"
"She has. And I am satisfied. Lancelot, I need you to look at me."
And he did so.
"I understand. I love her too. I will not have you punish yourself for something I would have done myself. And this is the last we will speak on it. I love you as well, and want for nothing except for you to get well. Do you hear me, knight?"
"I hear you, brother," Lancelot answered, but a chill echoed across his heart. He had been wounded before. This was different. It was different than the time on the Hill. His vision was spotty, his stomach weak, his bones achy. The slash on his side burned like glass had been ground into it, and he was both freezing and wet with sweat.
He would never tell Arthur this, however. The man had far more important things to do, like hunting down the remainder of the raiding party that had ambushed himself and the queen in his own fortress. Lancelot knew questioning would have to commence; as much as he hated to think it, there had to be a traitor among them somewhere. And Arthur would find him. Simple as that.
"I am…tired, Arthur. I would like to rest, if you don't mind?"
Arthur jumped up at once, apologetic. "I shall let you rest, then. Call if you have need of me. I shall be right outside."
Lancelot smiled in what he hoped was the direction of his friends face; without the direct illumination of the torch he couldn't make out features very well.
"Sleep well, Lancelot," Arthur added, and touched his hand softly. Lancelot choked back a moan; instead, he nodded, and waited until he heard the door swing shut before allowing the tears to come.
The next time he awoke, he was aware of more light and more people, but the vision was so blurry this time he couldn't tell who it was around him until they spoke.
"Lancelot," Guinevere said, and he could tell from her tone that she knew what was happening to him.
"My lady," he answered in a voice rough with disuse. At her nod, the other people in the room left silently, allowing them some time alone.
She eased him to a sitting position, wincing inwardly when he groaned briefly as her hand accidentally touched his side.
"I'm sorry," she said, and he fluttered his right hand at her.
"Aren't you going to ask me how I'm feeling?" he said finally, a joke in his tone. She didn't laugh.
He sighed resignedly. "How is Arthur?"
"He is run ragged with worry. You must recover, if only for his sake," she snapped, the fear and anger in her voice coming across overtly. She sighed as well, and took his right hand in hers. Stroking the knuckles gently, she leaned forward until her forhead touched his chest. He raised his left arm, and placed it over her shoulders, ignoring the shoot of pain that came from the contact with his wrist.
"Why?" she said brokenly, and his brown eyes clenched shut.
"How long had he known?" she added, and Lancelot shook his head.
"I wish I knew, lady. I think we could have spared him an inordinate amount of pain."
"His nobility and morals will be the death of him," Guinevere said. The knight could only agree.
"He is a better man than I," Lancelot said, and she turned her face so it was resting against his heart.
They lay together like that until the moon was high in the sky, neither speaking again.
Chill nipped in the air, and Lancelot knew that winter was coming.
With the little strength that was left in him, he levered himself out of the bed, and sat in the window that looked over the fortress. If he squinted he could see Badon Hill and the cemetary there. Well, not really see it, but he didn't need to see it physically. It was burned into his brain.
This is where Arthur found him a few hours later, his skin clammy and cold, and his breath wheezing in his chest. The skin of his face was pink with fever, and beads of sweat ran like liquid diamonds down his cheeks.
"Do you ever wonder, Arthur, what would have happened had Dagonet lived? Had we not come back to you that day on the Hill? What then? Would you still be here? Or would you be mouldering in the ground next to your father – or in Rome?"
"Hush, Lancelot," was all Arthur said, carrying his friend back to the bed. He wrapped the knight up securely in the linens, then stoked the fire burning in the grate.
"I often wonder if you knew just how much we all loved you that day…your eyes like burnished coals, gods, look at you in that armor! And the standards flying in the wind…"
Arthur wiped the moisture off his face that had begun to fall from his eyes. He turned back to Lancelot, smiling brightly.
"Now I know you're getting better, you're becoming melancholic."
"Don't, Arthur. I know my journey is ending. The clearing at the end of the path looks brigher every day," the knight said, a cough wracking his whip thin frame. The infection had never let go of him, and it had eaten away at his body as surely as it had his mind.
Arthur sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him or touch the stump of his left hand. He took Lancelot's right hand in his own, and squeezed it gently.
"My swords…would you get them, please?"
The voice that came out of Lancelot's throat made Arthur's chest constrict. It was that of a little boy.
He brought the double blades to the bed, and lay them within the other man's reach.
Lancelot ran his hand lightly over them, and smiled.
"They are yours now. Use them wisely; they don't like being sheathed for long."
"You shall use them again, brother, and soon."
"In another time, perhaps," Lancelot mused, his face taking on a faraway expression the king did not like.
"Lancelot?" he asked.
"Do you remember the favor I asked you to grant me?"
Arthur knew what favor the knight was referring to, but chose not to answer.
"An east wind, Arthur. Do this, and I will be forever in your debt."
The king smiled back at his best friend and boon companion of sixteen long years, and crossed his right fist to his heart.
"Aye, my friend. It will be done."
Lancelot relaxed back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
The king stayed with him until he slipped away, holding his hand, not saying a word.
When Gawain came to relieve him, the king stood, and said naught. Gawain's face fell at the sight of the linen covered body, and he moved aside for Arthur to pass.
"Arthur?" Gawain finally voiced when his king had made no move to exit.
"I am…sorry, Gawain. I just…should I leave him in the dark, alone?"
Gawain's heart fell into his stomach at the words, but he clapped Arthur on the shoulder.
"I will stay with him, Arthur. Find Guinevere. And God go with you," he added as Arthur moved off stiffly down the corridor.
Gawain sat in the window, where Lancelot had spent his last day. He thought back on the years he and the others had spent together, and all that they had lost.
He thought of Dagonet, and Tristan, and finally this last one, perhaps the best of all of them.
"See him home," he whispered into the dark. He hoped someone heard.
Epilogue to come.