This is a Lancelot romance. Its half OC, half movie character… read the summary to understand how that is possible. It's got some Guinevere angst thrown in for good effect. Basically just an excuse to write about an Ioan Gruffudd character.
Rated: R… Hard R for later chapters.
Disclaimer: Don't own a bloody thing.
Still waiting for any suggestions for a better title... HINT HINT
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He blinked. She seemed as surprised by him, and while transfixed with her face, he'd loosened his grip on her left wrist. Her left hand came up to trail down his angled cheek, a fond, affectionate gesture which caught him off guard. Then a wide smile broke over her face and suddenly she had crushed herself to him, her arm wrapping around his shoulder.
"It is you. I... we thought you were dead!" She withdrew from him, visibly shaking. "But I always thought… you were too strong to fall…" She was half sobbing, half laughing, her green eyes becoming watery. "You've grown up so much…so well…"
"Finn?" He asked, as his own large rough hand came up to rest on the underside of her jaw. She smiled and nodded. Finnabhair. This was the little girl he'd once play fought with in their old village in the mountains. The girl who'd been so devastated to see him leave. The one who'd made the necklace…
"I missed you… so damn much…" She said, wiping away a stray tear. She'd been no more than six when he'd left, a small ratty little girl who he thought of more as a pest than as a friend. And now, here she was, older and more beautiful than any Sarmatian woman he'd ever known. Suddenly he felt a fist collide with his bicep.
"Ow!" he exclaimed as he massaged his arm.
"Why the hell did you never come home?" She asked her face now grave and a bit annoyed. "We all waited for you to come back. When you didn't…" She trailed off, another tear sliding down her cheek. "We thought the worst had happened."
"I had duties to fulfill here." He answered lamely as he stood and helped her up. He should have gone home. He should have gone home to greet this beautiful creature who seemed so distraught over him. But she was twenty one, well past the age most girls married.
She was probably wedded to some handsome war hero who'd come home to the small village of surviving Samatians. They probably had three or four charming children, a warm inviting home… the very thought of all this made him sick, jealous and long for the life that could have been his.
"Duties?" She repeated, though he could tell by the look on her face she was not satisfied with his answer.
"How are ma and da?" He asked, quickly changing the subject. Suddenly Finn grew very still and her face paled even more. Lancelot's face was blank, emotionless. "They are gone then."
"Yes." Was the meek reply. "Your da passed away three winters ago. Your ma only lasted a fort night, before she died as well." Her voice was sad. He wished he could feel the same. Absence was meant to make the heart grow fonder, and yet he could barely remember his father's face, or his mother's voice.
"How?" he asked, trying to inject concern into his voice.
"He got sick real quick. He'd been out fishing too long by the springs." She smoothed her hair, though it didn't do much. "Your ma fell ill not three weeks later. They said she just got sick, but I know it was because of a broken heart."
Lancelot winced at the empathy in her voice. She shrugged.
"I don't expect you to break down into sobs." She said as if reading his mind. "You've been gone too many years for that." Fifteen years. Guilt stabbed at his chest. It shouldn't have mattered if he'd been gone a lifetime. He should have felt something.
"And how are you faring?" he asked giving her a sideways glance. She met his eyes and gave a small smile.
"The crops aren't faring half as well as me, and the winter was hard on the elders-"
"What are you doin' here Finney?" he interrupted, turning sharply to face her. She blinked up at him, her mouth parted from being cut off mid sentence.
"I… Doing here?"
"It's a fair ways from home to be sure." Lancelot said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Through Woad country. Rogue Saxons have been pillaging coastal villages. Why would you risk the journey?"
Finn stood staring at him, and she didn't hasten to answer either. This made Lancelot wary of an answer, but he'd learned that to plow through the worst of things meant they'd be over all the sooner.
"Finn. Is something wrong?" he pressed, and she lowered her eyes as her eyebrows creased.
"Something is wrong." She finally said. "Terribly wrong." She looked up, meeting his eyes again, and he could see fear and agony welling in those giant eyes.
"What? Tell me what is wrong?" he said, placing a hand on each shoulder. She bit her lip and let out a breath neither had been aware she'd been holding.
"It's the village." She said unevenly, as though she were having difficulty breathing. "It's…" She hiccoughed.
"What?" he asked with more urgency.
"It's gone."
Rated: R… Hard R for later chapters.
Disclaimer: Don't own a bloody thing.
Still waiting for any suggestions for a better title... HINT HINT
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He blinked. She seemed as surprised by him, and while transfixed with her face, he'd loosened his grip on her left wrist. Her left hand came up to trail down his angled cheek, a fond, affectionate gesture which caught him off guard. Then a wide smile broke over her face and suddenly she had crushed herself to him, her arm wrapping around his shoulder.
"It is you. I... we thought you were dead!" She withdrew from him, visibly shaking. "But I always thought… you were too strong to fall…" She was half sobbing, half laughing, her green eyes becoming watery. "You've grown up so much…so well…"
"Finn?" He asked, as his own large rough hand came up to rest on the underside of her jaw. She smiled and nodded. Finnabhair. This was the little girl he'd once play fought with in their old village in the mountains. The girl who'd been so devastated to see him leave. The one who'd made the necklace…
"I missed you… so damn much…" She said, wiping away a stray tear. She'd been no more than six when he'd left, a small ratty little girl who he thought of more as a pest than as a friend. And now, here she was, older and more beautiful than any Sarmatian woman he'd ever known. Suddenly he felt a fist collide with his bicep.
"Ow!" he exclaimed as he massaged his arm.
"Why the hell did you never come home?" She asked her face now grave and a bit annoyed. "We all waited for you to come back. When you didn't…" She trailed off, another tear sliding down her cheek. "We thought the worst had happened."
"I had duties to fulfill here." He answered lamely as he stood and helped her up. He should have gone home. He should have gone home to greet this beautiful creature who seemed so distraught over him. But she was twenty one, well past the age most girls married.
She was probably wedded to some handsome war hero who'd come home to the small village of surviving Samatians. They probably had three or four charming children, a warm inviting home… the very thought of all this made him sick, jealous and long for the life that could have been his.
"Duties?" She repeated, though he could tell by the look on her face she was not satisfied with his answer.
"How are ma and da?" He asked, quickly changing the subject. Suddenly Finn grew very still and her face paled even more. Lancelot's face was blank, emotionless. "They are gone then."
"Yes." Was the meek reply. "Your da passed away three winters ago. Your ma only lasted a fort night, before she died as well." Her voice was sad. He wished he could feel the same. Absence was meant to make the heart grow fonder, and yet he could barely remember his father's face, or his mother's voice.
"How?" he asked, trying to inject concern into his voice.
"He got sick real quick. He'd been out fishing too long by the springs." She smoothed her hair, though it didn't do much. "Your ma fell ill not three weeks later. They said she just got sick, but I know it was because of a broken heart."
Lancelot winced at the empathy in her voice. She shrugged.
"I don't expect you to break down into sobs." She said as if reading his mind. "You've been gone too many years for that." Fifteen years. Guilt stabbed at his chest. It shouldn't have mattered if he'd been gone a lifetime. He should have felt something.
"And how are you faring?" he asked giving her a sideways glance. She met his eyes and gave a small smile.
"The crops aren't faring half as well as me, and the winter was hard on the elders-"
"What are you doin' here Finney?" he interrupted, turning sharply to face her. She blinked up at him, her mouth parted from being cut off mid sentence.
"I… Doing here?"
"It's a fair ways from home to be sure." Lancelot said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Through Woad country. Rogue Saxons have been pillaging coastal villages. Why would you risk the journey?"
Finn stood staring at him, and she didn't hasten to answer either. This made Lancelot wary of an answer, but he'd learned that to plow through the worst of things meant they'd be over all the sooner.
"Finn. Is something wrong?" he pressed, and she lowered her eyes as her eyebrows creased.
"Something is wrong." She finally said. "Terribly wrong." She looked up, meeting his eyes again, and he could see fear and agony welling in those giant eyes.
"What? Tell me what is wrong?" he said, placing a hand on each shoulder. She bit her lip and let out a breath neither had been aware she'd been holding.
"It's the village." She said unevenly, as though she were having difficulty breathing. "It's…" She hiccoughed.
"What?" he asked with more urgency.
"It's gone."