Chapter 8
Rated: R… Hard R for later chapters.
Disclaimer: Don't own a bloody thing.
This is probably my longest chapter yet. It's a little sappy at some points but bear with me. Don't reach for that pepto bismal just yet.
Hopefully I've kept with the true spirit of Lancelot, since I've focused on him in this chapter. I saw the movie for the second time yesterday, so I started trying to put together feelings he may have felt. Hopefully you'll enjoy. Try and be open minded and as always REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! hint - I LOVE long reviews...
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Lancelot sighed heavily as he swayed back and forth on his horse. He watched the fog of breath he'd expelled and once again cursed the climate of Britain. His cloak clung to him, or rather he to it, as the deep penetrating cold settled around them. They'd been journeying for two weeks, trekking through the mud and frost that had settled on the ground. He found that his appetite had waned the last week, and he ate only when needed. Otherwise he busied himself either with checking supplies and weapons or with tending to his horse.
He sometimes wondered why Arthur was so particular about having him up ahead of the knights and caravan. He had once tried to get into the caravan to clean a wound that Galahad had obtained from a wild boar that had crossed their path. But Arthur had not allowed it and had gotten the bandages himself. Anytime Lancelot tried to get within close distance of the caravan, he'd be ushered forward again by Arthur. Some days it was all he did, muse about why Arthur would always send him away.
Then one day he'd managed to get past Arthur and into the wagon. All that was inside was a small cupboard full of herbs and medicines, some animal pelts for warmth, a few cooking supplies and a sack full of dull weapons. The mystery of the caravan was over, and that left little to keep Lancelot amused when he was alone.
Bors and Gawain had attempted to bring him into an argument the two were having over which child of Bors would win in a fight. Bors insisted it was Gilly, but Gawain had been watching little William and swore that number four would be the victor in any fight between the two.
Lancelot had offered a weak siding with Bors, and then turned on his heel and headed back to the camp, leaving his fellow knights to wonder exactly why he was so withdrawn.
"He's getting to be worse than Tristan was." Gawain had commented offhandedly when Arthur had inquired into why Lancelot was acting so strangely. He hated to see his friend like this. He was usually bantering along with the knights, play fighting and talking. Now he would just sit by the fire and stare into it as if in a daze.
The only times he showed signs of life was when he and Guinevere were together. They would ride side by side and talk, solemnly but socially. He felt it increasingly difficult to keep himself in check, when he wished to be intimate with someone. He knew he probably shouldn't stay as close to Guinevere as he did, especially after he'd received a long slash in his arm and she'd tended to it. The way her long slender fingers had brushed his forearm had made him immediately tense, and every fiber of his body screamed as he fought the urge to claim her mouth with his own.
When night fell, Guinevere would disappear from Lancelot's side and he would fall back into his reverie. He didn't sleep much. He didn't eat much. The sooner they made it to his village, all the better it would be for him.
They stopped and Arthur declared that this would be where they would set up camp. The knights, most of whom were growing weary from the long journey and the cold, dismounted and began making their beds, and pulling layer over layer onto themselves.
Lancelot wandered into the forest and found a dry spot. He sat on the cold hard ground, his back leaning against a tree, as he turned to the page of his book where he'd last left off. He was engrossed in the particular chapter, so engrossed he barely noticed Arthur sidle up to him and take a seat beside him.
"So grim, Lancelot?" he said, but his dearest friend didn't even look up. "I believe it will be another two weeks before we reach your village." Lancelot nodded, still staring down at the page before him. "I spoke with Finn before we left." This had gotten Lancelot's attention and he looked up from his book.
"You spoke with her? She was awake before we left?" he said, his eyebrows creased. If she'd been awake, why hadn't she come to see him and argue with why she wasn't to come along? Why had she simply stayed? That didn't seem like Finn at all.
"I gave her your note." Arthur continued, looking up at the starry sky. "And I left her to her thoughts." Lancelot's face did not change to one of relief and Arthur turned to face his friend. "If you wished her to come, why make such a fuss over leaving her for her own safety?" Lancelot blinked.
"I didn't want her to come…" he said slowly. He didn't. Really, he didn't.
"You say nay, but your eyes betray you, my friend." Arthur said, his eyes crinkled as a light smile touched his mouth. "In your heart, you never expected her to really stay behind." It was true. Lancelot had not consciously realized it, but he hadn't thought that she would stay at the north wall obediently.
"I will not deny that." He said, pushing a large hand through his constantly tussled hair. "But I will also not deny that I find peace of mind knowing she is far from harm's way."
"Well. You seem at peace." Arthur said in a gently sarcastic voice. "You live Lancelot. But since we left the wall, you are not alive. You simply exist." Lancelot looked down at the hard pact earth, turning his friend's comment over in his head. "How is it you and Finn came about…?" Arthur could not quell his inner curiosity towards Lancelot and Finn's past.
Lancelot's eyes seemed to glaze over as his mind flew back to a time when his worries were no greater than where his next fight with the boys would be. When times were simpler.
He knew everything he needed to know. He knew how to trap a rabbit with his father. He knew which berries to pick when he was too hungry to wait for his next meal. He knew his mother loved him. He knew that life beyond the rotting wooden fences of his little village was cold and dreary and drenched in blood.
"We grew up together." He finally began, after a long silence. Arthur nodded. "She was discovered by my father one morning, lying in a heap of cloth, her mother's dead body beside her." Arthur's brows knitted and Lancelot looked to him. "Romans." He said simply.
"They had tried to steal their horse. I suppose her mother tried to fight back, but they had overpowered her and she lay cold on the ground when my da found her. Finn was just a babe then." He fingered the figurehead that Finn had given him fifteen years ago. "As to her father's whereabouts…we never did find him."
"So your family took her in? Is she of Sarmatian blood?" Arthur asked, genuinely interested. Lancelot shrugged.
"She may be, she may not. But as far as my people were concerned, the moment her mother had her life taken, she became Sarmatian." He gazed out into the endless night, recounting his life back home.
"She was a girl with a sweet disposition, from a time when she was very young, to the day I left. But she could show that she had gall, of that be sure. She stood her ground when anyone tried to bully her into something. And mind you, I was one who teased her worst of all." There was a long guilt filled pause. "The girl can swear fiercer than even Bors." Arthur chuckled at that. He had no doubt it was true. "But she was vulnerable in many ways. She'd try to hide it, acting as tough as any boy, but we lived under the same roof. I'd hear her cry at night."
Arthur watched his friend's face as it changed slightly to one of pure sadness. "So young." Arthur said as if reading his mind. "To have everything stolen from you. Everything denied to you."
"We were demons to her. I suppose when she first came to the wall, I tried to ignore the unhappy memories. But now I see how much we tormented her in the past."
"Children can be cruel." Arthur cut in, not wanting his friend to feel any shame. "It was long ago. Now you've had some wisdom instilled, and she seems happy with the change."
"I've not met many women like her." Lancelot acknowledged.
"She has cast her spell on you, and you will find it hard to break free of it."
"She has put no spell on me. My feelings are true. It was Guinevere who cast a spell over you." Lancelot said defensively. Arthur laughed lightly.
"You may be right my friend. After all, it is you who knows me best and better than myself." He said good-naturedly. "And how is it you came to realize that it is Guinevere who has power over me?"
Lancelot looked down at his freshly blistered fingers and calloused hands. "Since the moment you laid eyes on her." There was a pause.
"You mean since the moment we laid eyes on her." Lancelot looked up, and Arthur was looking down at him, his head tilted back, as if he were gauging his friend's reaction.
"You followed her constantly friend." Lancelot continued, undaunted by his friend's comment. "I remember the way you followed her into the night, while we were fleeing the Saxons on our tails." His hands came together and he laced his fingers together. "Your eyes always strayed to her. She was the cause of your staying to fight the Saxons."
"Don't be a fool." Arthur cut in. "It was my own free will, my decision to stay and defend the outpost."
"She manipulated you." Lancelot continued, his voice growing louder and more passionate. "She and Merlin. They put you up on your pedestal, the only man who could lead Briton. They planted the seeds of your reign, even before you realized it. And then when it came time to choose between freedom from war and a life of responsibility, you chose her over your men." He stopped abruptly when those words left his mouth. He brought one hand up to his neck and massaged it, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. They sat in silence for a long while, each man staring out into the darkness of the forest.
"I am sorry, Lancelot." Came a quiet reply. "It may be true that Guinevere and Merlin brought it to my attention that Briton needed a leader. But I still had a choice. I was never trapped into leading you all into battle. It is my own fault that I forced the knights to come. My own fault that Tristan died and you were near death yourself."
Lancelot's hand trailed down to his chest, to just below his heart, where the arrow had pierced him. He'd barely survived. It was because of Guinevere that he had.
"Guinevere manipulated us both." He said. He had to place the blame in someone. And though sometimes he thrust it at Arthur, his friend was innocent of bad will. She was easy to blame. He could not have her, and so it made it all the easier.
"She manipulated no one." Arthur said gently. "Though I know I am not the only one she drew in." Lancelot's gaze shifted to Arthur, who had the lightest of smiles on his lips. "I see you look at her." His eyes fell shut. "And I see her return your gaze."
Lancelot was rendered speechless. He knew. His most deep and profoundly shameful secret and the man he'd never wished to find out knew it well. As well, he knew Guinevere felt it too.
"And yet you stay my friend, valiant as ever." Lancelot said softly, in a bitter tone. Arthur was too much of a saint to feel ill will toward Lancelot. Sometimes, he wished Arthur would hit him or yell or banish him away. Instead he was left to rot in his own guilt for having feelings for his most cherished friend's wife.
Arthur exhaled deeply and slowly. "You feel shameful." Lancelot snorted in reply and shook his head.
"Shouldn't I?" he said as he let his arm drop to his leg and scratched his knee. "Does Guinevere know that you are aware…?" Arthur shook his head.
"She knows not." He said simply. Lancelot waited for anything, a curse, a yell, a blow to his gut. He hadn't denied his feelings for Guinevere, and yet Arthur sat still, almost calmly.
"Hit me." Lancelot said shortly. Arthur turned to him and blinked, his face confused. "Punch me." Arthur frowned and got up from the ground, shortly after, Lancelot followed suit. "Fell me. Strike me down, for I am not worthy of your compassion."
"I won't hit you Lancelot." Arthur said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "And I will not tell Guinevere. I trust you both, and though you may have slight longing for each other, I believe it will never extend further."
"Really? And why would that be?" Lancelot said angrily. He was angry with Arthur for not being angry with him. It seemed odd, but he couldn't help loathing his friend's self righteous attitude.
"Because I know that you both care for me too much to let anything happen." He said bluntly. "And I believe that you love Finn far too much to let anything happen." At this Lancelot relaxed slightly, his hands unclenching. His friend had much wisdom, and sometimes he wondered where it had come from.
But before Lancelot could say anything, an apology or a curse of his own, Arthur had bowed his head slightly and walked back toward the camp and toward a wife he knew had thought for someone other than him. It seemed sad and tragic. Lancelot stared after Arthur, who walked away, into the darkness. He always walked into the darkness, and yet he had no fear. Lancelot envied him.
He hung his head and massaged his brow. He'd find even less peace tonight. He picked up his book and walked slowly toward the camp. As he neared his horse, he looked at his tattered and torn blanket. It seemed like a fitting end to a rotten day. He took it and threw it on the ground, turned and kicked a tree. His foot now ached, but he'd rid himself of some frustration.
He limped toward the carriage to fetch a blanket or animal pelt, when he heard voices from within. He slowed his pace and strained his hearing. Two female voices sounded from the silence. If he recounted correctly, the only lady to accompany them on their journey had been Guinevere.
His jaw ticked as he sped his pace toward the carriage. He finally reached its side and pulled back the coverlet roughly, revealing Guinevere, sitting cross-legged on the wagon floor. He looked around the rest of the caravan, but it seemed empty.
"May I help you Lancelot?" His eyes met hers and he could feel her uneasiness wash over him. She was hiding something. Her demeanor was different from usual, and he took his time, his eyes roaming over every inch of the interior. Finally he admitted defeat and let one hand fall across a large blanket.
"Nothing at all." He said in a low tone before he pulled the bedspread to him. And that is when he made the discovery.
His eyes snapped directly to the green ones that had been uncovered by the blanket. They looked shocked, and he saw, with some satisfaction, a small amount of fear flash in them. He jumped back and threw the blanket completely off of Finn, leaving her no place to hide.
"I knew it!" he shouted, his eyes squinting with anger. "I knew you'd not listen to me! You foolish idiot!" he yelled. Finn lay back on top of a pelt, a look of alarm still firmly planted on her face. But soon it was being replaced with a look of anger too, and it was directed at Lancelot.
"Of course I still came you evil git!" she cried back. "You think a sickly letter would keep me behind?! You may have tried to abandon me, but boyo, I've become an expert at not being left behind!" she pushed herself to the edge of the caravan and hopped down.
"Oh no. You get right back in that wagon." He ordered, taking her arm roughly in his hand. She wrenched it away, glaring daggers at him for his nerve.
"And then what?" she asked. "My secret is out. There is no more reason for me to stay locked away anymore." She side stepped him and began heading for camp, but he made a grab for her hand once again and pulled her back.
"You are going no where but home." He said, turning her to face him. "I will have one of the soldiers escort you back to the wall, where you will wait patiently for our return-"
"If you honestly believe that that will happen, then you are an even greater moron than I'd originally thought." She spat, but this time he would not allow her the leisure of a loose grip and he held her steadfast. But their argument was interrupted when a forth person happened upon the scene.
"What is the meaning of all the commotion?" Arthur belted out, his eyes for once agitated, but his voice died immediately when he beheld his wife, sitting dumbstruck at the wagon's edge, and Lancelot gripping Finn, his face furious. Actually hers was just as livid.
Lancelot watched Arthur and Finn's eyes meet, and that secret communication rose again, making all his blood rush between his ears. Their eyes spoke volumes this time however and his heart belt out a swift rhythm.
"You knew!" he bellowed, a look of dawning and betrayal rushing over his tan face. "You knew she was here all along!" He pushed Finn back forcefully and before any of them were aware, he hurled himself at Arthur, grabbing the slightly larger man around the neck and tackled him to the ground.
"Lancelot!" Finn screamed just as she hit the edge of the wagon. Her hand flew to her hip, as a stabbing pain attacked it. But she ignored it as best she could, ready to throw herself onto the two men on the ground. Lancelot was doing his best to hit Arthur, and Arthur was just as eagerly striking him back.
But before Finn could launch herself at the two, a slim figure dashed past her, flying over her shoulder from the wagon platform. Guinevere stumbled down onto the ground and proceeded to push the two men apart. The moment her hand clasped Arthur's shoulder, he seemed to sober and stopped his fighting. Lancelot however was not so ready to finish said brawl.
"Lancelot!" Guinevere yelled, pushing him away and helping her husband to his feet. He rolled away and up onto his feet in one fluid and feline motion. But he still stood as if to pounce back on Arthur. Guinevere was now standing between the two, her arms thrown out, a scowl on her elegant yet feral face.
"Lancelot he did nothing!" Finn declared vehemently. "He knew not of my plans to hide away in the wagon." Lancelot turned on her. He made no move to come closer, but all the same she felt herself press back against the edge of the caravan.
"Do not be false with me Finnabhair." He warned, his voice carrying a sense of danger with it. When she made no attempt to speak again, he turned back to Arthur, who had a long gash beside his left eye. "You promised me you would not allow her to come."
"He told her not to." Guinevere cut in. "Arthur has done no wrong here. It is she who has put herself in such a position not Arthur." Lancelot stood still, his nostrils flared, breathing hard. He raised his hand, but halted suddenly, his eyes looking deeply into Guinevere as she stood in defiance of him for Arthur. He let his hand drop, let out a sound of exasperation before he turned swiftly on his heel and walked out into the dark woods.
"Lancelot!" Finn yelled after him, becoming more and more aware of the pain in her side. Guinevere turned to Arthur, letting her thumb trail over his fresh abrasion. Finn pushed down her tenderness and chased after Lancelot into the dark. She wandered far, and every snapping twig, every rustled leaf made her jump. She was growing leery of the encompassing dark but she would not go back without him.
"Lancelot you utter shithead!" she hissed as she began to lose sight of Guinevere and Arthur.
"Leave me in peace." Came a low, angry voice. She looked up above, and there he sat, silhouetted in a tree.
"No I will do no such thing." She said through gritted teeth. "You're a true maniac, are you aware?" she said as she approached the tree and stared up at his dark form. "You could have seriously injured Arthur."
"That was the purpose." He said scathingly as he dropped down from his branch beside her. He towered over her threateningly and she backed up to the tree, trying to move away from him, but this time he felt he wished to intimidate her. He moved closer.
"You care more for Arthur than for me?" he asked. He was being melodramatic, and deep down he knew it. But at the moment he was seeing red and she was the source.
"Of course not." She said as her voice softened. She was trying to bring him back down from his now emotionally overwrought state. "I came here for you."
"I told you to stay!" he said, now so close she could feel his heavy breath on her cheek, and smell his musky odor.
"I couldn't!" she exclaimed her voice raw from her earlier screaming. "I couldn't stay away from you any longer!" she brought her fist up to punch his shoulder, and then repeated the action. Over and over she hit at his chest until he'd finally become fed up with it and grabbed her wrists, holding her against his chest. "You expected me to stay away, but I couldn't. I just couldn't." Her head fell under his chin.
"I'm trying to protect you." He said, desperately trying to make her understand. Her head shook beneath his chin, before it rose up so that their eyes could meet.
"I needed to see you." Her eyes were welling up but she refused to cry. "After you said all those sweet things in your letter," her hand made its way to his scratchy beard, "I knew I had to come. If only to be near you. I don't care if I die tomorrow-"
"No." he simply commanded as he brought his own hand up to her mouth. "Never say such things." But she pulled his hand from her mouth and drew it down to her neck.
"I cannot sleep when you are too far from the wagons. I cannot eat when I see that you starve yourself. I cannot think of other things while you plague my every waking thought. You make me insane, but I think that I do not mind so much…"
"Hush now, no more." He said frantic to force her to stop her sweet murmurs. "Be still and silent." He could not bear to have her pour her heart out to him. Not here or now. She needed rest and food.
She quieted, and a single tear rolled down her soft cheek, her green eyes watery and glistening in the starlight. He leaned down and gently kissed the single tear from her jaw. It was a chaste kiss, one that tasted of salt and lilac. He drew her to him and stooped to sweep his arm under her knees. She was in a daze now, so many nights of no sleep taking their toll after such an emotionally charged night.
He carried her, and though she was in a dreamy state, she could faintly hear him humming to her. As they neared the wagon, his eyes wandered down to her face and he saw that her eyelids were shut. He lay her down softly on the animal pelt, before bending down and retrieving his blanket. He climbed onto the edge and crawled to her side lying down and drawing the blanket up over them both. He felt her nestle into his side and as his arm weaved over her side he felt himself drift into a truly peaceful sleep.
Rated: R… Hard R for later chapters.
Disclaimer: Don't own a bloody thing.
This is probably my longest chapter yet. It's a little sappy at some points but bear with me. Don't reach for that pepto bismal just yet.
Hopefully I've kept with the true spirit of Lancelot, since I've focused on him in this chapter. I saw the movie for the second time yesterday, so I started trying to put together feelings he may have felt. Hopefully you'll enjoy. Try and be open minded and as always REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! hint - I LOVE long reviews...
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Lancelot sighed heavily as he swayed back and forth on his horse. He watched the fog of breath he'd expelled and once again cursed the climate of Britain. His cloak clung to him, or rather he to it, as the deep penetrating cold settled around them. They'd been journeying for two weeks, trekking through the mud and frost that had settled on the ground. He found that his appetite had waned the last week, and he ate only when needed. Otherwise he busied himself either with checking supplies and weapons or with tending to his horse.
He sometimes wondered why Arthur was so particular about having him up ahead of the knights and caravan. He had once tried to get into the caravan to clean a wound that Galahad had obtained from a wild boar that had crossed their path. But Arthur had not allowed it and had gotten the bandages himself. Anytime Lancelot tried to get within close distance of the caravan, he'd be ushered forward again by Arthur. Some days it was all he did, muse about why Arthur would always send him away.
Then one day he'd managed to get past Arthur and into the wagon. All that was inside was a small cupboard full of herbs and medicines, some animal pelts for warmth, a few cooking supplies and a sack full of dull weapons. The mystery of the caravan was over, and that left little to keep Lancelot amused when he was alone.
Bors and Gawain had attempted to bring him into an argument the two were having over which child of Bors would win in a fight. Bors insisted it was Gilly, but Gawain had been watching little William and swore that number four would be the victor in any fight between the two.
Lancelot had offered a weak siding with Bors, and then turned on his heel and headed back to the camp, leaving his fellow knights to wonder exactly why he was so withdrawn.
"He's getting to be worse than Tristan was." Gawain had commented offhandedly when Arthur had inquired into why Lancelot was acting so strangely. He hated to see his friend like this. He was usually bantering along with the knights, play fighting and talking. Now he would just sit by the fire and stare into it as if in a daze.
The only times he showed signs of life was when he and Guinevere were together. They would ride side by side and talk, solemnly but socially. He felt it increasingly difficult to keep himself in check, when he wished to be intimate with someone. He knew he probably shouldn't stay as close to Guinevere as he did, especially after he'd received a long slash in his arm and she'd tended to it. The way her long slender fingers had brushed his forearm had made him immediately tense, and every fiber of his body screamed as he fought the urge to claim her mouth with his own.
When night fell, Guinevere would disappear from Lancelot's side and he would fall back into his reverie. He didn't sleep much. He didn't eat much. The sooner they made it to his village, all the better it would be for him.
They stopped and Arthur declared that this would be where they would set up camp. The knights, most of whom were growing weary from the long journey and the cold, dismounted and began making their beds, and pulling layer over layer onto themselves.
Lancelot wandered into the forest and found a dry spot. He sat on the cold hard ground, his back leaning against a tree, as he turned to the page of his book where he'd last left off. He was engrossed in the particular chapter, so engrossed he barely noticed Arthur sidle up to him and take a seat beside him.
"So grim, Lancelot?" he said, but his dearest friend didn't even look up. "I believe it will be another two weeks before we reach your village." Lancelot nodded, still staring down at the page before him. "I spoke with Finn before we left." This had gotten Lancelot's attention and he looked up from his book.
"You spoke with her? She was awake before we left?" he said, his eyebrows creased. If she'd been awake, why hadn't she come to see him and argue with why she wasn't to come along? Why had she simply stayed? That didn't seem like Finn at all.
"I gave her your note." Arthur continued, looking up at the starry sky. "And I left her to her thoughts." Lancelot's face did not change to one of relief and Arthur turned to face his friend. "If you wished her to come, why make such a fuss over leaving her for her own safety?" Lancelot blinked.
"I didn't want her to come…" he said slowly. He didn't. Really, he didn't.
"You say nay, but your eyes betray you, my friend." Arthur said, his eyes crinkled as a light smile touched his mouth. "In your heart, you never expected her to really stay behind." It was true. Lancelot had not consciously realized it, but he hadn't thought that she would stay at the north wall obediently.
"I will not deny that." He said, pushing a large hand through his constantly tussled hair. "But I will also not deny that I find peace of mind knowing she is far from harm's way."
"Well. You seem at peace." Arthur said in a gently sarcastic voice. "You live Lancelot. But since we left the wall, you are not alive. You simply exist." Lancelot looked down at the hard pact earth, turning his friend's comment over in his head. "How is it you and Finn came about…?" Arthur could not quell his inner curiosity towards Lancelot and Finn's past.
Lancelot's eyes seemed to glaze over as his mind flew back to a time when his worries were no greater than where his next fight with the boys would be. When times were simpler.
He knew everything he needed to know. He knew how to trap a rabbit with his father. He knew which berries to pick when he was too hungry to wait for his next meal. He knew his mother loved him. He knew that life beyond the rotting wooden fences of his little village was cold and dreary and drenched in blood.
"We grew up together." He finally began, after a long silence. Arthur nodded. "She was discovered by my father one morning, lying in a heap of cloth, her mother's dead body beside her." Arthur's brows knitted and Lancelot looked to him. "Romans." He said simply.
"They had tried to steal their horse. I suppose her mother tried to fight back, but they had overpowered her and she lay cold on the ground when my da found her. Finn was just a babe then." He fingered the figurehead that Finn had given him fifteen years ago. "As to her father's whereabouts…we never did find him."
"So your family took her in? Is she of Sarmatian blood?" Arthur asked, genuinely interested. Lancelot shrugged.
"She may be, she may not. But as far as my people were concerned, the moment her mother had her life taken, she became Sarmatian." He gazed out into the endless night, recounting his life back home.
"She was a girl with a sweet disposition, from a time when she was very young, to the day I left. But she could show that she had gall, of that be sure. She stood her ground when anyone tried to bully her into something. And mind you, I was one who teased her worst of all." There was a long guilt filled pause. "The girl can swear fiercer than even Bors." Arthur chuckled at that. He had no doubt it was true. "But she was vulnerable in many ways. She'd try to hide it, acting as tough as any boy, but we lived under the same roof. I'd hear her cry at night."
Arthur watched his friend's face as it changed slightly to one of pure sadness. "So young." Arthur said as if reading his mind. "To have everything stolen from you. Everything denied to you."
"We were demons to her. I suppose when she first came to the wall, I tried to ignore the unhappy memories. But now I see how much we tormented her in the past."
"Children can be cruel." Arthur cut in, not wanting his friend to feel any shame. "It was long ago. Now you've had some wisdom instilled, and she seems happy with the change."
"I've not met many women like her." Lancelot acknowledged.
"She has cast her spell on you, and you will find it hard to break free of it."
"She has put no spell on me. My feelings are true. It was Guinevere who cast a spell over you." Lancelot said defensively. Arthur laughed lightly.
"You may be right my friend. After all, it is you who knows me best and better than myself." He said good-naturedly. "And how is it you came to realize that it is Guinevere who has power over me?"
Lancelot looked down at his freshly blistered fingers and calloused hands. "Since the moment you laid eyes on her." There was a pause.
"You mean since the moment we laid eyes on her." Lancelot looked up, and Arthur was looking down at him, his head tilted back, as if he were gauging his friend's reaction.
"You followed her constantly friend." Lancelot continued, undaunted by his friend's comment. "I remember the way you followed her into the night, while we were fleeing the Saxons on our tails." His hands came together and he laced his fingers together. "Your eyes always strayed to her. She was the cause of your staying to fight the Saxons."
"Don't be a fool." Arthur cut in. "It was my own free will, my decision to stay and defend the outpost."
"She manipulated you." Lancelot continued, his voice growing louder and more passionate. "She and Merlin. They put you up on your pedestal, the only man who could lead Briton. They planted the seeds of your reign, even before you realized it. And then when it came time to choose between freedom from war and a life of responsibility, you chose her over your men." He stopped abruptly when those words left his mouth. He brought one hand up to his neck and massaged it, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. They sat in silence for a long while, each man staring out into the darkness of the forest.
"I am sorry, Lancelot." Came a quiet reply. "It may be true that Guinevere and Merlin brought it to my attention that Briton needed a leader. But I still had a choice. I was never trapped into leading you all into battle. It is my own fault that I forced the knights to come. My own fault that Tristan died and you were near death yourself."
Lancelot's hand trailed down to his chest, to just below his heart, where the arrow had pierced him. He'd barely survived. It was because of Guinevere that he had.
"Guinevere manipulated us both." He said. He had to place the blame in someone. And though sometimes he thrust it at Arthur, his friend was innocent of bad will. She was easy to blame. He could not have her, and so it made it all the easier.
"She manipulated no one." Arthur said gently. "Though I know I am not the only one she drew in." Lancelot's gaze shifted to Arthur, who had the lightest of smiles on his lips. "I see you look at her." His eyes fell shut. "And I see her return your gaze."
Lancelot was rendered speechless. He knew. His most deep and profoundly shameful secret and the man he'd never wished to find out knew it well. As well, he knew Guinevere felt it too.
"And yet you stay my friend, valiant as ever." Lancelot said softly, in a bitter tone. Arthur was too much of a saint to feel ill will toward Lancelot. Sometimes, he wished Arthur would hit him or yell or banish him away. Instead he was left to rot in his own guilt for having feelings for his most cherished friend's wife.
Arthur exhaled deeply and slowly. "You feel shameful." Lancelot snorted in reply and shook his head.
"Shouldn't I?" he said as he let his arm drop to his leg and scratched his knee. "Does Guinevere know that you are aware…?" Arthur shook his head.
"She knows not." He said simply. Lancelot waited for anything, a curse, a yell, a blow to his gut. He hadn't denied his feelings for Guinevere, and yet Arthur sat still, almost calmly.
"Hit me." Lancelot said shortly. Arthur turned to him and blinked, his face confused. "Punch me." Arthur frowned and got up from the ground, shortly after, Lancelot followed suit. "Fell me. Strike me down, for I am not worthy of your compassion."
"I won't hit you Lancelot." Arthur said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "And I will not tell Guinevere. I trust you both, and though you may have slight longing for each other, I believe it will never extend further."
"Really? And why would that be?" Lancelot said angrily. He was angry with Arthur for not being angry with him. It seemed odd, but he couldn't help loathing his friend's self righteous attitude.
"Because I know that you both care for me too much to let anything happen." He said bluntly. "And I believe that you love Finn far too much to let anything happen." At this Lancelot relaxed slightly, his hands unclenching. His friend had much wisdom, and sometimes he wondered where it had come from.
But before Lancelot could say anything, an apology or a curse of his own, Arthur had bowed his head slightly and walked back toward the camp and toward a wife he knew had thought for someone other than him. It seemed sad and tragic. Lancelot stared after Arthur, who walked away, into the darkness. He always walked into the darkness, and yet he had no fear. Lancelot envied him.
He hung his head and massaged his brow. He'd find even less peace tonight. He picked up his book and walked slowly toward the camp. As he neared his horse, he looked at his tattered and torn blanket. It seemed like a fitting end to a rotten day. He took it and threw it on the ground, turned and kicked a tree. His foot now ached, but he'd rid himself of some frustration.
He limped toward the carriage to fetch a blanket or animal pelt, when he heard voices from within. He slowed his pace and strained his hearing. Two female voices sounded from the silence. If he recounted correctly, the only lady to accompany them on their journey had been Guinevere.
His jaw ticked as he sped his pace toward the carriage. He finally reached its side and pulled back the coverlet roughly, revealing Guinevere, sitting cross-legged on the wagon floor. He looked around the rest of the caravan, but it seemed empty.
"May I help you Lancelot?" His eyes met hers and he could feel her uneasiness wash over him. She was hiding something. Her demeanor was different from usual, and he took his time, his eyes roaming over every inch of the interior. Finally he admitted defeat and let one hand fall across a large blanket.
"Nothing at all." He said in a low tone before he pulled the bedspread to him. And that is when he made the discovery.
His eyes snapped directly to the green ones that had been uncovered by the blanket. They looked shocked, and he saw, with some satisfaction, a small amount of fear flash in them. He jumped back and threw the blanket completely off of Finn, leaving her no place to hide.
"I knew it!" he shouted, his eyes squinting with anger. "I knew you'd not listen to me! You foolish idiot!" he yelled. Finn lay back on top of a pelt, a look of alarm still firmly planted on her face. But soon it was being replaced with a look of anger too, and it was directed at Lancelot.
"Of course I still came you evil git!" she cried back. "You think a sickly letter would keep me behind?! You may have tried to abandon me, but boyo, I've become an expert at not being left behind!" she pushed herself to the edge of the caravan and hopped down.
"Oh no. You get right back in that wagon." He ordered, taking her arm roughly in his hand. She wrenched it away, glaring daggers at him for his nerve.
"And then what?" she asked. "My secret is out. There is no more reason for me to stay locked away anymore." She side stepped him and began heading for camp, but he made a grab for her hand once again and pulled her back.
"You are going no where but home." He said, turning her to face him. "I will have one of the soldiers escort you back to the wall, where you will wait patiently for our return-"
"If you honestly believe that that will happen, then you are an even greater moron than I'd originally thought." She spat, but this time he would not allow her the leisure of a loose grip and he held her steadfast. But their argument was interrupted when a forth person happened upon the scene.
"What is the meaning of all the commotion?" Arthur belted out, his eyes for once agitated, but his voice died immediately when he beheld his wife, sitting dumbstruck at the wagon's edge, and Lancelot gripping Finn, his face furious. Actually hers was just as livid.
Lancelot watched Arthur and Finn's eyes meet, and that secret communication rose again, making all his blood rush between his ears. Their eyes spoke volumes this time however and his heart belt out a swift rhythm.
"You knew!" he bellowed, a look of dawning and betrayal rushing over his tan face. "You knew she was here all along!" He pushed Finn back forcefully and before any of them were aware, he hurled himself at Arthur, grabbing the slightly larger man around the neck and tackled him to the ground.
"Lancelot!" Finn screamed just as she hit the edge of the wagon. Her hand flew to her hip, as a stabbing pain attacked it. But she ignored it as best she could, ready to throw herself onto the two men on the ground. Lancelot was doing his best to hit Arthur, and Arthur was just as eagerly striking him back.
But before Finn could launch herself at the two, a slim figure dashed past her, flying over her shoulder from the wagon platform. Guinevere stumbled down onto the ground and proceeded to push the two men apart. The moment her hand clasped Arthur's shoulder, he seemed to sober and stopped his fighting. Lancelot however was not so ready to finish said brawl.
"Lancelot!" Guinevere yelled, pushing him away and helping her husband to his feet. He rolled away and up onto his feet in one fluid and feline motion. But he still stood as if to pounce back on Arthur. Guinevere was now standing between the two, her arms thrown out, a scowl on her elegant yet feral face.
"Lancelot he did nothing!" Finn declared vehemently. "He knew not of my plans to hide away in the wagon." Lancelot turned on her. He made no move to come closer, but all the same she felt herself press back against the edge of the caravan.
"Do not be false with me Finnabhair." He warned, his voice carrying a sense of danger with it. When she made no attempt to speak again, he turned back to Arthur, who had a long gash beside his left eye. "You promised me you would not allow her to come."
"He told her not to." Guinevere cut in. "Arthur has done no wrong here. It is she who has put herself in such a position not Arthur." Lancelot stood still, his nostrils flared, breathing hard. He raised his hand, but halted suddenly, his eyes looking deeply into Guinevere as she stood in defiance of him for Arthur. He let his hand drop, let out a sound of exasperation before he turned swiftly on his heel and walked out into the dark woods.
"Lancelot!" Finn yelled after him, becoming more and more aware of the pain in her side. Guinevere turned to Arthur, letting her thumb trail over his fresh abrasion. Finn pushed down her tenderness and chased after Lancelot into the dark. She wandered far, and every snapping twig, every rustled leaf made her jump. She was growing leery of the encompassing dark but she would not go back without him.
"Lancelot you utter shithead!" she hissed as she began to lose sight of Guinevere and Arthur.
"Leave me in peace." Came a low, angry voice. She looked up above, and there he sat, silhouetted in a tree.
"No I will do no such thing." She said through gritted teeth. "You're a true maniac, are you aware?" she said as she approached the tree and stared up at his dark form. "You could have seriously injured Arthur."
"That was the purpose." He said scathingly as he dropped down from his branch beside her. He towered over her threateningly and she backed up to the tree, trying to move away from him, but this time he felt he wished to intimidate her. He moved closer.
"You care more for Arthur than for me?" he asked. He was being melodramatic, and deep down he knew it. But at the moment he was seeing red and she was the source.
"Of course not." She said as her voice softened. She was trying to bring him back down from his now emotionally overwrought state. "I came here for you."
"I told you to stay!" he said, now so close she could feel his heavy breath on her cheek, and smell his musky odor.
"I couldn't!" she exclaimed her voice raw from her earlier screaming. "I couldn't stay away from you any longer!" she brought her fist up to punch his shoulder, and then repeated the action. Over and over she hit at his chest until he'd finally become fed up with it and grabbed her wrists, holding her against his chest. "You expected me to stay away, but I couldn't. I just couldn't." Her head fell under his chin.
"I'm trying to protect you." He said, desperately trying to make her understand. Her head shook beneath his chin, before it rose up so that their eyes could meet.
"I needed to see you." Her eyes were welling up but she refused to cry. "After you said all those sweet things in your letter," her hand made its way to his scratchy beard, "I knew I had to come. If only to be near you. I don't care if I die tomorrow-"
"No." he simply commanded as he brought his own hand up to her mouth. "Never say such things." But she pulled his hand from her mouth and drew it down to her neck.
"I cannot sleep when you are too far from the wagons. I cannot eat when I see that you starve yourself. I cannot think of other things while you plague my every waking thought. You make me insane, but I think that I do not mind so much…"
"Hush now, no more." He said frantic to force her to stop her sweet murmurs. "Be still and silent." He could not bear to have her pour her heart out to him. Not here or now. She needed rest and food.
She quieted, and a single tear rolled down her soft cheek, her green eyes watery and glistening in the starlight. He leaned down and gently kissed the single tear from her jaw. It was a chaste kiss, one that tasted of salt and lilac. He drew her to him and stooped to sweep his arm under her knees. She was in a daze now, so many nights of no sleep taking their toll after such an emotionally charged night.
He carried her, and though she was in a dreamy state, she could faintly hear him humming to her. As they neared the wagon, his eyes wandered down to her face and he saw that her eyelids were shut. He lay her down softly on the animal pelt, before bending down and retrieving his blanket. He climbed onto the edge and crawled to her side lying down and drawing the blanket up over them both. He felt her nestle into his side and as his arm weaved over her side he felt himself drift into a truly peaceful sleep.