Nothing to say. Long LOOOOOOOONG chapter. So have snacks handy. Peace, Mickey.
She was now experiencing the odd sensation of detachment; she couldn't feel a thing. She was numb inside. Questions buzzed through her head and made her feel dizzy and weak. What would happen when they reached the encampment? Would she stay? Or would she be asked to return with Lancelot and the knights? There was a part of her – the part that swelled with pride each time her home was mentioned – that wanted to return home for good. But when she thought of Lancelot riding into the distance, away from her, for a second time… her heart slowed with despair. If he asked her to stay with him, she would agree in a second. She'd throw away stability and her home and everything she'd ever known to be true to stay with that arrogant, charming fool. But what if he did not breathe a word? What if he silently handed her over to their people and left? What if all they'd said to each other had been true, but did not last the few days journey left until they reached their final destination?
She flinched as the dull ache in her side returned and added to the pain she was experiencing in her chest. It constricted painfully as his face raced through her mind. A face she might not see again once the journey was over… .
Arthur caressed the mane of his horse fondly before looking over his party. Galahad and two Woads were in a lively argument, though no real ill will passed between the three. Gawain was sharpening his ax, taking care to smooth every notch and dull patch. Bors was asleep and by the bonfire sat Guinevere, who looked fraught as she tossed dead twigs into the flames and tugged at the bandage around her thigh.
Arthur made to step forward but caught himself before he'd moved more than an inch. He yearned to go to her, to soothe her wound, kiss her lips, murmur with their eyes. She was his wife, a most sacred bond. She was his moon and his sun and his stars. He lived for her, her elegance and regal presence, but her feral and uninhibited nature. He woke each day for her, her lush lips and bright eyes. He slept each night, and still she lived in his dreams. He wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and embrace her tightly and whisper that everything was alright.
But deep down, he knew it was not.
She'd taken care of him through his short bout of illness, but he could not harbor anything but contempt for her at the moment. Since that day, that day she'd realized he knew, he felt that her knowledge of such things meant they were real, and her begging for his forgiveness meant that he wasn't wrong.
She would have his closest friend as well as him. And that thought pooled in his mind, even while he was delirious with sickness and she was above deck with him. With Lancelot. He would not deny that at times he hated Lancelot as much as he did Guinevere, but found it impossible to do anything but let his anger slip away. You are king, Merlin once said, because you carry the power of mercy every place you tread.
Arthur thought it more a curse than power.
"Go to her." Arthur turned abruptly at the sudden command to see Lancelot leaning against a narrow tree, hip jutted out, arms crossed. He looked to Arthur expectantly. "You obviously wish to, so go to her." Arthur was about to turn and do exactly that, but found his feet were rooted to the spot.
"I cannot." He breathed out. "I cannot go to her, Lancelot. Not when a burden still rests on my soul." Lancelot rolled his eyes at his friend.
"How is that burden to be resolved if you do not first speak with her?" he retorted logically. Arthur didn't move a muscle so he continued. "I fear that you are as pig headed when it comes to women as Bors." "I 'eard that." Came a gruff voice. Lancelot smirked.
"She loved you." Arthur said quietly. Lancelot shook his head, his wavy curls bouncing slightly as he walked slowly to his friend.
"Never. She loves you. She always has. It's always been you." He said clapping a hand on his shoulder. Arthur shook his head, and Lancelot sighed in soft aggravation.
"You are a great leader Arthur, do you know why? You are not afraid to take advice from others when it is needed, and refuse it when it is not. You listen patiently and without prejudice and lead a country when it refuses to do anything but follow. Now you are faced with a hard decision; you must choose between forgiveness and vengeance. And it is a decision all your own to make." Arthur looked at his friend and the frown on his face told that for once he was not entirely sure that forgiveness was the right route to take. Lancelot watched as his head waged a battle with his heart.
"Do you really wish to lose her?" "No." Arthur answered immediately. "I love her still." Turmoil was evident in his voice.
"No man should ever have to lose the one he loves most." Lancelot said, and the pain rooted in his voice told Arthur that he was not the only one with problems.
"Finnabhair." Arthur said looking at his friend with sympathy. Lancelot's features defined with anguish for a moment before he nodded. "What will she do when we reach your people?" It was the question that had plagued Lancelot all day. What would she do? Did she love him enough to return to the Wall with him, or would she stay with their people? He'd torn himself apart with thoughts of leaving her behind with their village, and then built himself back up with images of them, living at the Wall. He imagined their first child, a boy. He would be the spitting image of Lancelot, deep brown curly locks and tan skin, but he would have his mother's beautiful green eyes, and a smile all his own. Lancelot imagined what it would be to teach him to fight and read books and play games. He could see Finn hugging him closely, kissing his ruddy cheeks, her most precious little boy, because he was his. But suddenly he'd be tearing himself back down when faced with leaving her. Was he ready to wed? He did not think so. He had decided long ago he'd never wed. He'd always fancied himself to be the type of man to bed legions of women, have a few bastards, and die in battle. But now he really didn't know if that was exactly what he wanted. Did he want something more? He was slowly driving himself to insanity.
"I do not know." He finally answered quietly. Arthur sighed.
"Things are beyond complicated for us, aren't they old friend." He chuckled, though there was little mirth to be found in the laugh. Lancelot nodded solemnly. Arthur studied him a moment before a small smile graced his thin lips.
"Go to her." He said, echoing his friend's own advice. "Ask her." Lancelot looked up into his friend's sea green eyes. And something shone in them brightly and with such strength. "I have seen her look at you. You have nothing to fear." One last clap on the shoulder and Arthur turned and slowly began to walk toward the fire. Lancelot watched him sit down beside Guinevere. He began to speak and he saw her eyes softening, her face tremble with the happiness that she could be forgiven.
Perhaps he would go to her after all.
Finn slid gingerly from the caravan. She'd been cooped up all day and night and was sick of the limitations her injury was causing her. It now only gave off a dull ache, rather than razor sharp stabs of pain. Perhaps a walk would do her good.
She was ready to begin her walk to the camp, which was within sight. She could see Galahad and a Woad warrior comparing blades while another Woad looked on amusedly. And she could see the figures of Guinevere and Arthur sitting by the fire, looking into each other's eyes. Finn felt herself smile. All was as it should be.
She heard a twig snap behind her and she turned swiftly. She couldn't see anyone because it was so dark, she couldn't see much but what was a few feet in front of her. She strained her eyes and peered out into the woods.
"Who's there?" she asked, and it seemed quieter than she'd intended. She waited a few moments longer before someone came out of the darkness. The figure was tall, lean, and had a curly head of hair. She smiled softly and relaxed instantly. "You nearly scared me to death." She said raising a hand to her heart.
He stayed silent but now he'd come close enough so that she could see his dark eyes twinkling by the light of the moon. He to her mutely, and reached a hand up to her face. He could feel the softness of her cheek on his rough calloused hands and he wondered if he should even touch her. She was much too good for him and his coarseness. He pulled away abruptly just as she was leaning further into his warm touch.
"We're leaving tomorrow." He said, finally voicing the thing that had been tormenting them both. For a moment she was taken aback; frankly, he'd bashed her with the sudden change from romance to hard cold truth.
"I know." She said almost angrily.
"I will be sad to say goodbye." he said solemnly. She stared at him and suddenly her face was furious as hot tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her throat sticking together and making it hard for her to force the words out. "Do you want me to cry?" she asked as her lip trembled and she saw his face become horrified at what was happening. But before a single tear fell she'd turned her back on him. She wouldn't let him see.
"No! No, I…" he trailed off. This wasn't going at all according to plan. For the first time in his memory, he was having difficulty with a woman. Perhaps that was because this particular one was special. This one, he really did care for. Lord knows he was never very good at expressing his true emotions to the ones who needed to hear them the most. "What I meant to say was…I do not wish to say goodbye." She swallowed the large lump in her throat and sniffed lightly as she turned back to face him. A few tears had fallen and she did not wipe them away. "I do not wish to either." She said quietly as she looked at him longingly. "Lancelot, I-" "Finnabhair!" they both turned at the gleeful voice calling her name. A young man, probably no older than seventeen, came bounding toward her with outstretched arms. Finn looked momentarily shocked and even confused. But dawning soon washed over her face and she grinned.
"Avery!" she shouted in return. When he made to run to her and grab her, Lancelot stepped in the way. The boy froze for a moment, probably not understanding why he would come between the two of them. Fear flashed in his young eyes, and Finn could have smacked Lancelot.
"She is wounded." Lancelot said bitterly, thinking that if there were a God above, he must be on a mission to ruin Lancelot's life. "Be gentle with her." That was all he said before he stepped aside and stalked back toward the camp. Finn stared after him and was about to call him back, when she felt two arms encircle her tenderly.
"Finn… I can't believe you survived! We were so sure that you wouldn't have made it…" he spoke into her hair. Avery was quite tall and gangly, with dark blonde locks and sky blue eyes. When his mother had passed when he was only ten, Finn had taken on the role of his ward, to make sure he kept out of trouble.
Avery's mother had been of Britain, his father a Sarmatian who'd brought a family home after coming home from the fighting. Sometimes Avery's mother would plait her hair and tell her of the lands of Britain. Some days she even ventured to say that Finn looked as though she belonged to those lands. And she believed her.
"What are you doing so far from the village?" she asked when he finally let go. "I thought you were all on the Eastern side of the mountain." He nodded, as he rested his hands on his hips.
"We migrated toward the west. A town on the coast is willing to accommodate us. But they fear a Saxon attack is close. A cavalry would be crucial, if you've succeeded in finding one." She nodded and he sighed. "Who have you brought?" he asked, almost skeptically.
"Why, King Arthur of course. And his knights." She smiled kindly at his shell shocked expression. "So that was a knight!" he howled, clapping his hands before pushing back his long hair, laughing in disbelief. "Leave it to you to bring a King to our aid!" He clapped her on the shoulder and she winced. He didn't seem to notice as he gazed toward the fire where Lancelot had taken a seat opposite Arthur and Guinevere. "And who are they? Which one's Arthur?" he asked excitedly. Finn turned and pointed to where Arthur sat.
"And that is his queen, Guinevere." She said when she saw his awestruck expression. He obviously thought that she was beautiful, like so many men did. "And that is Gawain, with the axe, Galahad, Lancelot, Bors-" "Wait, wait…Lancelot? As in…our Lancelot?" he asked as he squinted at the hunched back of the knight in question. Finn blushed, and nodded.
"You can't have remembered him…you were a babe when he left." She said as she slowly began to guide him toward camp. He shook his head.
"I've heard the tales. How he went to serve Rome. I thought he was dead, but he looks well enough to me. He is free now, is he not?" Finn nodded once more.
"Where are you camped?" Finn asked as they passed Gawain, who scarcely looked up from his sharpening.
"Only a few miles toward the East. I was chasing a horse that escaped its tether. I caught it just over by that underbrush. Next thing I know, I saw bright lights, and I thought perhaps it was a Saxon camp. I investigated and who do I find? No Saxons, but Arthur and his knights and you!" he still seemed astounded with the news that the King of the Britons had come to aid their village.
The stories he'd heard, the bravado of which had been told of this one man had been told over and over by Andrzej who had returned from fighting not more than a few months ago. Finn chuckled at his boyish attitude. Avery really was a sweet boy.
"Finnabhair." She turned to face Arthur, who was now standing, Guinevere on his arm. She smiled brightly at Finn who returned one of her own. "And who is this young lad?" he asked, as Avery puffed out his chest.
"Arthur, this is Avery, a boy from our village." She made eye contact with Lancelot when she said this. It did not seem to relieve his sour face. "Avery, this is Arthur Castus, King of Briton." The two shook hands and Avery's cheeks grew dark at the idea of him shaking hands with a king.
"It is good to meet you young Avery." He said. "How have you come to be so far from home?" he asked kindly. "I haven't come far at all." He answered as he straightened his shoulders. "We are camped not but a few miles from here, as we journey to the Coastal Town of Braig." Gawain's head perked up at the news, and Galahad and the Woads became quiet. Arthur's face became grave.
"Braig…not a safe place. They are a port if I remember correctly." Avery nodded. "They are vulnerable to Saxon attacks. More so than your other village was." "They have suitable defenses…" he paused, not knowing what to call Arthur. "They are still situated in a weak area." Gawain said getting to his feet. Galahad nodded his agreement, and Avery looked as if he were under attack.
"Saxons don't venture into Sarmatia often. There is only a large party that bothers us constantly. In fact, they are perhaps only forty or fifty Saxons. The others are Woads." His eyes drifted to the markings on the Woad warriors, who glared back at him as if daring him to speak poorly of them. Arthur heaved a heavy sigh.
"Woads?" Bors barked incredulously. "Woads do not come this way. They don't often even venture south of the Hadrian's Wall." Avery frowned.
"I tell you, there is large party of them, here in Sarmatia." He was adamant of his explanation.
"Perhaps the escaping Saxons brought them home…" Gawain pondered aloud and everyone's demeanor turned suddenly dark and shadowed.
"Then it is true what the woman said. They have formed an alliance with the Rogues." He said with heavy heart. Guinevere closed her eyes, her face evident with suppressed anger.
"Merlin had always spoken of this danger. We never thought much of it, but I suppose we should have." She growled. "Rogues and Saxons would make for a merciless enemy. No man, woman or child would be safe." Arthur nodded, his face pensive, his fingers drumming against his wife's hand which clung to his arm.
"And you are certain that it is this one bothersome party of Saxons that has made the alliance?" Bors barked at Avery, who visibly cringed at the roughness of the eldest knight. "Only them. We've come to see that we will eventually have to battle. There is no other way." Avery said this with a low voice, and to Finn's dismay, she could see the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of fighting.
"We may just. No one will be safe." Arthur pondered aloud. Gawain and Bors perked up, each with a bloodthirsty grin spread across their faces. Galahad rolled his eyes, knowing full well there was no escape from yet another bloody battle. And Lancelot merely looked to Finn, who was making a conscious effort not to look to him. The last thing they needed was for her to break down in sobs. And she would if she looked at him at that moment. She would.
"Very well then. Jols!" Arthur called out harshly. The squire stepped forward. "Ride back to the Wall and tell Merlin of our situation and send forth a small army to Braig." Jols nodded, his face set and determined, as he walked back to his horse. "And Jols," the squire turned, "hurry." Finn could feel the palpable tension. She forced a smile when all she felt like doing was hiding away in a dark corner and pretending that this had all been a bad dream. "Avery," she forced out, "would you be so kind as to show us to the camp?" He stared at her a few moments, still wrapped up in the severity of the situation with the Saxons, before he snapped out of his reverie.
"Yes. Yes of course." He fumbled before walking into a thicket. He returned with a speckled brown horse. "Will you be riding with me?" he asked almost hopefully. He'd been taken with her ever since he'd become a young adult. She knew this, and gave him a kind smile before declining.
"I believe I shall ride with one of the knights. You busy yourself with guiding us." She said, as she witnessed a rather deflated expression cross his face. He placed a foot in the stirrup of the saddle and hoisted himself onto the horse lazily.
Bors had taken care of the fire, throwing earth onto it to extinguish it. Guinevere and Gawain assisted the Woads in packing up the caravan, and soon the knights were mounting their horses, relieved that they were soon to be met with hospitality. "Is it too much to expect you to ride with me?" Finn turned to see Lancelot leading his steed toward her and again that sense that he wasn't safe pooled in her stomach and made her feel unwell. She never the less swallowed her fears and smiled.
"I wouldn't ride with anyone else." She really should have been riding in the caravan, so that the newly sewn stitches would not split in her side, but she needed to be held by him. She needed to show him she would always be his.
A slight smile of satisfaction crossed his beautiful face, as he held out his hand to her. She carefully placed her foot in a stirrup and delicately tried to mount the horse. She nearly fell off, but Lancelot gripped her thigh and pushed her up. Once she was settled and had removed her foot from the stirrup, Lancelot climbed onto the horse, and she felt his arms wrap around her, and heard him inhale her smell.
Her head fell back on his shoulder, and his trimmed beard tickled her neck, making her smile. Her head lolled to the side and she saw Avery looking at them. He was grinning like an idiot, and she felt the urge to throw her boot at him for openly staring at them. But suddenly he was turning and the knights began to follow him.
"So, Lady Finn," Gawain said, a smirk flitting across his face, "does this mean I can no longer try to win your heart?" She laughed self consciously and felt Lancelot's grip tighten a bit more firmly around her middle.
"I do not know, Sir Gawain." She played to his teasing. "You will have to ask Lancelot." Gawain snorted, as Lancelot made a rude face at him.
"Well, I believe the tables have turned." He said grinning to himself, his blue eyes pale with playfulness. "I believe it will be I who spends the days at your woman's house, and you will wonder why it is that at the end of the day she seems so satisfied." Bors guffawed at the comment while Galahad snickered. Arthur merely rode in silence, a peaceful smile on his face, as Guinevere rested her cheek in between his shoulder blades. He held her hand which was spread across his chest, the two riding his white stallion like the royalty they were.
Lancelot glared daggers at Gawain when Finn began to giggle. "Is that before or after I stab you repeatedly with my swords?" he asked almost mimicking Gawain's earlier reply. Arthur's laughter rang out, so infectious that even Lancelot himself began to chuckle. Avery smiled, taking in the easy comradely of the band of brothers. The Woad watched the exchange with fascination since they themselves rarely laughed so freely.
Finn sighed contently when the laughter had finally died away and they rode in silence (except for Gawain and Galahad, who spurred each other on about whether Gawain could truly seduce Finn). Lancelot rode further ahead to escape the hooting of the two. "You are too damn beautiful for your own well being." He whispered in her ear, making her smile. "Men in Sarmatia must have been falling all over themselves for you." He had actually been wondering about that very subject, whether Alden had been the only one who sought her affections back home. Whether he would have competition when they soon arrived.
She shook her head. "No, they were too busy chasing the looser girls about the village." She said letting her fingernails drag down his forearm in an innocent, but at the same time sensual movement. "Is that so?" Lancelot chortled.
"It is. I've been saving myself for marriage." She knew it was a lie. She'd been saving it for no one but him.
"Really?" he asked, and he knew that she was not being completely truthful. Though he also believed that no man had ever bedded her.
"Mmmm." She murmured as she placed a kiss on his neck, before snuggling into his warmth. The gentle rhythmic swing of the horse was soothing and she had to fight to keep awake.
"We are near." Avery's voice interrupted the silence, and she sat up now, lifting her head so that she could see soft firelight blaze beyond the trees. Lancelot could see the excitement in her eyes, as she began preening her garment – though it was ragged – and smoothed her unruly hair. His smile fell away. She was home. And yet he was not.
They slowly made their way into the encampment. In the few months that had passed since the attack, they'd managed to accumulate a few wagons and horses. The fire blazed in the center of the camp, a few people were dancing to the music of a rapid fiddle. Some elders were smoking pipes, as children ran circles around them, chasing each other. A few of the local girls, Lancelot recognized from childhood. They stared at the knights – him in particular – with what he could easily identify as desire.
Yet again he found himself clutching Finn a little closer. And his ego was pleased to feel her grip his hand possessively, and her other hand grasp his thigh tightly. "Avery!" a large, balding man cried out as he made his way toward the crowd that was forming around the knights. Avery jumped down from his horse and embraced the man. Lancelot followed suit, hopping down, before helping Finn to dismount. But even after she'd safely reached the ground, he kept hold of her.
He would not deny he still enjoyed the chase of flirting. It made him drunk, the idea of having hordes of women. Finn kept him sober, fulfilled the part of him that made him lust after others. And the idea of hurting her definitely kept him from chasing skirts. But still he did not wish to chance his old habits coming back.
"And… FINN!" the man shouted as he made toward them. Lancelot was again about to jump between the oncoming man and Finn to protect her from injury, but Finn gripped his hand behind her so that he would do no such thing. The man stopped in front of her on his own accord, his eyes making their way to Lancelot.
His eyes seem to widen in recognition, as did a few others in the crowd. "Lancelot?" he asked hesitantly. He did not nod or answer, Lancelot just stood still and let the crowd adjust to him. But the man noticed Finn's smile, and his robust laughter rose again as he swept forward, grabbing Lancelot's free hand and shaking it vigorously. "This is a thoroughly pleasant surprise! Not one, but two of our citizens returned to us from the jaws of death!" His voice boomed and many were now trying to peer between heads to see the knight who'd finally returned.
If Lancelot were a lesser man, he would have blushed with all this attention. Even Arthur was smirking as they all watched villager after villager come forward and shake his hand. Finn had stepped out of the way and come to stand in front of Galahad's horse, the two of them exchanging looks of amusement.
"I'm Tomas," a thin man of perhaps fifty said, "you mighten't remember me, but I surely do remember you. You were quite the young trouble maker." He winked before a hearty red headed woman pushed him to the side and grabbed Lancelot and hugged him. He looked thoroughly shocked but laughed as best he could while she squeezed him hard.
"Oh, wee Lancelot, I knew you'd not yet left us!" she said before letting go of him. She smiled kindly to him. "You remember me? Giertrude, your ma's friend?" she said looking to him expectantly. In truth he had no idea who she was but he smiled and nodded, before she slapped him harshly on the arm and moved aside, telling anyone who would listen, "There you go, you see, the lad remembers me!" "Hello Lancelot." A young woman said seductively, stepping forward. Finn could see that flirtatious grin spread across his face as Lavinia stepped forward, and jealousy swelled in her chest. But she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder and turned to see Galahad shaking his head. She sighed and continued to look on as Lavinia brushed her sweetheart's arm and giggled. "Lavinia…you're looking very pretty." Was all he said, now aware that Finn was watching. She was more than that, thought Finn. She was gorgeous, with chestnut hair down to her waist and clear blue eyes that outshone even Gawain's. She was petite, not well endowed in terms of curves, but slender and beautiful. Finn had always been jealous of her looks. Always. If she had her say, she would have looked just as Lavinia did.
Lavinia blushed attractively and looked at him appreciatively.
"As have you." She said biting her lip, her eyes lingering on his hips. Finn had had enough.
"Lavinia!" she said stepping forward, taking care not to stand too close to Lancelot. Lavinia turned and regarded her with disinterest but smiled politely all the same.
"Finnabhair. It's lovely to see that you survived." She said, but her eyes went back to Lancelot. "Isn't it?" Avery said coming to her side and looking at Lavinia in the love sick way he reserved for many girls. "But it is even greater to see you again." Lavinia rolled her eyes and turned, before Avery began to trail after her.
After all introductions were disposed of, and Arthur and the knights had been thoroughly welcomed to their humble camp, they were invited to stay for the two weeks they intended to stay in that area. They agreed, and the weathered warriors looked overjoyed at the prospect of being guests in a Sarmatian camp.
Lancelot, however, had watched as Finn moved toward her friends, two older blokes and a young woman. They talked animatedly, and he felt cold seep inside of him when one of the males placed a possessive arm around her and she giggled at a story the other one was lively telling. It was then that it was all clear, no questions asked.
She would stay. She was home.
Later that night, as the wagon was rounded, and the chieftain, who was emphatic about his apology at the fact that they would all have to share a wagon, Lancelot settled on the floor of the wagon with a heavy sigh. He looked at his right boot, which had weakened in the toe, as Gawain snored loudly beside him.
"Care for a little wine love…" he murmured in his sleep and his hand circled Lancelot's knee.
"Oh shut up you barmy idiot." Lancelot said in disgust as he threw the hand off, and Gawain snorted before he rolled over in his sleep. Galahad was drifting off against a wall, as he watched some of the 'virtuous maidens' make their way past the wagon. Bors was asleep as well, unusually quiet, probably dreaming of Vanora and his bastards. The Woads had insisted upon sleeping outside, something they were used to. Arthur and Guinevere had been speaking with the Chieftain all night, and would probably be sleeping in a smaller wagon, all their own.
As for Finn. She was still outside with her companions.
Lancelot threw his boot into the corner and fell back against his cloak which he'd propped up to make a pillow for himself. In his heart he was not ready to give in, give up hope that she would find a way to still come home to him. That's when he smelled the sweet sent of pine and lilac…
His eyes fell open and met green ones, staring down at him intently. She smiled, and he painfully returned it. He sat up, and surveyed her, kneeling on the floor, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was the picture of serene, though he could see the excitement in her eyes.
"Isn't it wonderful? It's so good to be home, I missed it here. And everyone was so kind about letting us stay, even Lavinia was pleasant. Chieftain Pias seems to favor you, wouldn't you say he's a great man?" she whispered, desperately wanting his approval. She didn't know why, but she felt that to validate that their village was indeed great, she needed him to say so. He nodded silently, and she felt her heart plummet. "You do not like it here."
"No." he whispered as he scratched his head. He was vaguely aware he did not sound convinced. "No, it is a nice place. I miss the village I think, I do not remember its people as well as you." He was trying to speak the truth without injecting so much pain into his words. The pain he felt at the prospect of losing her.
"Perhaps because you never came …" she abruptly stopped. She didn't wish to nag him, but she'd felt he was attacking and… she sighed. "I suppose I couldn't expect you to be overjoyed." He frowned. He knew what she'd wished to say and he felt himself bristle.
"Well I am happy that you are so glad to be home for good." There was silence. There. He had said it.
She stared at him, her mouth open slightly at the shock she'd felt at his words. She quickly shut it, and looked to the floorboards for strength. But wood could still break, and she found she could too. She nodded and fled the wagon, him hot on her trail.
"We both knew it was going to come to this." He said reasonably, feeling anger well inside him at the way she was reacting. "Were you going to leave it until two weeks from now?" She turned to face him.
"So you are going to leave again?" she asked hotly, her blood boiling, thunder in her ears. "You are going to ride off again, away from us?!"
"It is of my choosing this time!" She stared at him for a few long moments before she cried out, burying her hands in her hair.
"I cannot believe this!" she said, exasperation evident in her voice. "You say you love, will always care from me, but you turn around and tell me that we are moving separate ways!"
"It is the truth!" he replied sternly. "You are in love with this place, these people. And I am not."
"You were in love with me!" she shouted back. "Or so you said. And I am one of these people!"
"And so you cannot leave! And I understand…but I am a knight. I am no longer the son of a retired warrior who can have every freedom the hills offer! I am a fighter and I must go back and do right by my king!" He explained furiously, hands clenched in fists. His voice quieted. "I am not one of you. I haven't been in nearly two decades. I do love you, but I know you love this place better."
"You're an idiot!" she screamed, "You no not of what you are talking about! And if I can't convince you with truth that I love you more than life here, then perhaps you do not deserve my love after all!" With that she turned and sprinted away, toward the camp, and probably toward her friends. And he let her go.
He loved her still. But all he could do was let her go.
She was now experiencing the odd sensation of detachment; she couldn't feel a thing. She was numb inside. Questions buzzed through her head and made her feel dizzy and weak. What would happen when they reached the encampment? Would she stay? Or would she be asked to return with Lancelot and the knights? There was a part of her – the part that swelled with pride each time her home was mentioned – that wanted to return home for good. But when she thought of Lancelot riding into the distance, away from her, for a second time… her heart slowed with despair. If he asked her to stay with him, she would agree in a second. She'd throw away stability and her home and everything she'd ever known to be true to stay with that arrogant, charming fool. But what if he did not breathe a word? What if he silently handed her over to their people and left? What if all they'd said to each other had been true, but did not last the few days journey left until they reached their final destination?
She flinched as the dull ache in her side returned and added to the pain she was experiencing in her chest. It constricted painfully as his face raced through her mind. A face she might not see again once the journey was over… .
Arthur caressed the mane of his horse fondly before looking over his party. Galahad and two Woads were in a lively argument, though no real ill will passed between the three. Gawain was sharpening his ax, taking care to smooth every notch and dull patch. Bors was asleep and by the bonfire sat Guinevere, who looked fraught as she tossed dead twigs into the flames and tugged at the bandage around her thigh.
Arthur made to step forward but caught himself before he'd moved more than an inch. He yearned to go to her, to soothe her wound, kiss her lips, murmur with their eyes. She was his wife, a most sacred bond. She was his moon and his sun and his stars. He lived for her, her elegance and regal presence, but her feral and uninhibited nature. He woke each day for her, her lush lips and bright eyes. He slept each night, and still she lived in his dreams. He wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and embrace her tightly and whisper that everything was alright.
But deep down, he knew it was not.
She'd taken care of him through his short bout of illness, but he could not harbor anything but contempt for her at the moment. Since that day, that day she'd realized he knew, he felt that her knowledge of such things meant they were real, and her begging for his forgiveness meant that he wasn't wrong.
She would have his closest friend as well as him. And that thought pooled in his mind, even while he was delirious with sickness and she was above deck with him. With Lancelot. He would not deny that at times he hated Lancelot as much as he did Guinevere, but found it impossible to do anything but let his anger slip away. You are king, Merlin once said, because you carry the power of mercy every place you tread.
Arthur thought it more a curse than power.
"Go to her." Arthur turned abruptly at the sudden command to see Lancelot leaning against a narrow tree, hip jutted out, arms crossed. He looked to Arthur expectantly. "You obviously wish to, so go to her." Arthur was about to turn and do exactly that, but found his feet were rooted to the spot.
"I cannot." He breathed out. "I cannot go to her, Lancelot. Not when a burden still rests on my soul." Lancelot rolled his eyes at his friend.
"How is that burden to be resolved if you do not first speak with her?" he retorted logically. Arthur didn't move a muscle so he continued. "I fear that you are as pig headed when it comes to women as Bors." "I 'eard that." Came a gruff voice. Lancelot smirked.
"She loved you." Arthur said quietly. Lancelot shook his head, his wavy curls bouncing slightly as he walked slowly to his friend.
"Never. She loves you. She always has. It's always been you." He said clapping a hand on his shoulder. Arthur shook his head, and Lancelot sighed in soft aggravation.
"You are a great leader Arthur, do you know why? You are not afraid to take advice from others when it is needed, and refuse it when it is not. You listen patiently and without prejudice and lead a country when it refuses to do anything but follow. Now you are faced with a hard decision; you must choose between forgiveness and vengeance. And it is a decision all your own to make." Arthur looked at his friend and the frown on his face told that for once he was not entirely sure that forgiveness was the right route to take. Lancelot watched as his head waged a battle with his heart.
"Do you really wish to lose her?" "No." Arthur answered immediately. "I love her still." Turmoil was evident in his voice.
"No man should ever have to lose the one he loves most." Lancelot said, and the pain rooted in his voice told Arthur that he was not the only one with problems.
"Finnabhair." Arthur said looking at his friend with sympathy. Lancelot's features defined with anguish for a moment before he nodded. "What will she do when we reach your people?" It was the question that had plagued Lancelot all day. What would she do? Did she love him enough to return to the Wall with him, or would she stay with their people? He'd torn himself apart with thoughts of leaving her behind with their village, and then built himself back up with images of them, living at the Wall. He imagined their first child, a boy. He would be the spitting image of Lancelot, deep brown curly locks and tan skin, but he would have his mother's beautiful green eyes, and a smile all his own. Lancelot imagined what it would be to teach him to fight and read books and play games. He could see Finn hugging him closely, kissing his ruddy cheeks, her most precious little boy, because he was his. But suddenly he'd be tearing himself back down when faced with leaving her. Was he ready to wed? He did not think so. He had decided long ago he'd never wed. He'd always fancied himself to be the type of man to bed legions of women, have a few bastards, and die in battle. But now he really didn't know if that was exactly what he wanted. Did he want something more? He was slowly driving himself to insanity.
"I do not know." He finally answered quietly. Arthur sighed.
"Things are beyond complicated for us, aren't they old friend." He chuckled, though there was little mirth to be found in the laugh. Lancelot nodded solemnly. Arthur studied him a moment before a small smile graced his thin lips.
"Go to her." He said, echoing his friend's own advice. "Ask her." Lancelot looked up into his friend's sea green eyes. And something shone in them brightly and with such strength. "I have seen her look at you. You have nothing to fear." One last clap on the shoulder and Arthur turned and slowly began to walk toward the fire. Lancelot watched him sit down beside Guinevere. He began to speak and he saw her eyes softening, her face tremble with the happiness that she could be forgiven.
Perhaps he would go to her after all.
Finn slid gingerly from the caravan. She'd been cooped up all day and night and was sick of the limitations her injury was causing her. It now only gave off a dull ache, rather than razor sharp stabs of pain. Perhaps a walk would do her good.
She was ready to begin her walk to the camp, which was within sight. She could see Galahad and a Woad warrior comparing blades while another Woad looked on amusedly. And she could see the figures of Guinevere and Arthur sitting by the fire, looking into each other's eyes. Finn felt herself smile. All was as it should be.
She heard a twig snap behind her and she turned swiftly. She couldn't see anyone because it was so dark, she couldn't see much but what was a few feet in front of her. She strained her eyes and peered out into the woods.
"Who's there?" she asked, and it seemed quieter than she'd intended. She waited a few moments longer before someone came out of the darkness. The figure was tall, lean, and had a curly head of hair. She smiled softly and relaxed instantly. "You nearly scared me to death." She said raising a hand to her heart.
He stayed silent but now he'd come close enough so that she could see his dark eyes twinkling by the light of the moon. He to her mutely, and reached a hand up to her face. He could feel the softness of her cheek on his rough calloused hands and he wondered if he should even touch her. She was much too good for him and his coarseness. He pulled away abruptly just as she was leaning further into his warm touch.
"We're leaving tomorrow." He said, finally voicing the thing that had been tormenting them both. For a moment she was taken aback; frankly, he'd bashed her with the sudden change from romance to hard cold truth.
"I know." She said almost angrily.
"I will be sad to say goodbye." he said solemnly. She stared at him and suddenly her face was furious as hot tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her throat sticking together and making it hard for her to force the words out. "Do you want me to cry?" she asked as her lip trembled and she saw his face become horrified at what was happening. But before a single tear fell she'd turned her back on him. She wouldn't let him see.
"No! No, I…" he trailed off. This wasn't going at all according to plan. For the first time in his memory, he was having difficulty with a woman. Perhaps that was because this particular one was special. This one, he really did care for. Lord knows he was never very good at expressing his true emotions to the ones who needed to hear them the most. "What I meant to say was…I do not wish to say goodbye." She swallowed the large lump in her throat and sniffed lightly as she turned back to face him. A few tears had fallen and she did not wipe them away. "I do not wish to either." She said quietly as she looked at him longingly. "Lancelot, I-" "Finnabhair!" they both turned at the gleeful voice calling her name. A young man, probably no older than seventeen, came bounding toward her with outstretched arms. Finn looked momentarily shocked and even confused. But dawning soon washed over her face and she grinned.
"Avery!" she shouted in return. When he made to run to her and grab her, Lancelot stepped in the way. The boy froze for a moment, probably not understanding why he would come between the two of them. Fear flashed in his young eyes, and Finn could have smacked Lancelot.
"She is wounded." Lancelot said bitterly, thinking that if there were a God above, he must be on a mission to ruin Lancelot's life. "Be gentle with her." That was all he said before he stepped aside and stalked back toward the camp. Finn stared after him and was about to call him back, when she felt two arms encircle her tenderly.
"Finn… I can't believe you survived! We were so sure that you wouldn't have made it…" he spoke into her hair. Avery was quite tall and gangly, with dark blonde locks and sky blue eyes. When his mother had passed when he was only ten, Finn had taken on the role of his ward, to make sure he kept out of trouble.
Avery's mother had been of Britain, his father a Sarmatian who'd brought a family home after coming home from the fighting. Sometimes Avery's mother would plait her hair and tell her of the lands of Britain. Some days she even ventured to say that Finn looked as though she belonged to those lands. And she believed her.
"What are you doing so far from the village?" she asked when he finally let go. "I thought you were all on the Eastern side of the mountain." He nodded, as he rested his hands on his hips.
"We migrated toward the west. A town on the coast is willing to accommodate us. But they fear a Saxon attack is close. A cavalry would be crucial, if you've succeeded in finding one." She nodded and he sighed. "Who have you brought?" he asked, almost skeptically.
"Why, King Arthur of course. And his knights." She smiled kindly at his shell shocked expression. "So that was a knight!" he howled, clapping his hands before pushing back his long hair, laughing in disbelief. "Leave it to you to bring a King to our aid!" He clapped her on the shoulder and she winced. He didn't seem to notice as he gazed toward the fire where Lancelot had taken a seat opposite Arthur and Guinevere. "And who are they? Which one's Arthur?" he asked excitedly. Finn turned and pointed to where Arthur sat.
"And that is his queen, Guinevere." She said when she saw his awestruck expression. He obviously thought that she was beautiful, like so many men did. "And that is Gawain, with the axe, Galahad, Lancelot, Bors-" "Wait, wait…Lancelot? As in…our Lancelot?" he asked as he squinted at the hunched back of the knight in question. Finn blushed, and nodded.
"You can't have remembered him…you were a babe when he left." She said as she slowly began to guide him toward camp. He shook his head.
"I've heard the tales. How he went to serve Rome. I thought he was dead, but he looks well enough to me. He is free now, is he not?" Finn nodded once more.
"Where are you camped?" Finn asked as they passed Gawain, who scarcely looked up from his sharpening.
"Only a few miles toward the East. I was chasing a horse that escaped its tether. I caught it just over by that underbrush. Next thing I know, I saw bright lights, and I thought perhaps it was a Saxon camp. I investigated and who do I find? No Saxons, but Arthur and his knights and you!" he still seemed astounded with the news that the King of the Britons had come to aid their village.
The stories he'd heard, the bravado of which had been told of this one man had been told over and over by Andrzej who had returned from fighting not more than a few months ago. Finn chuckled at his boyish attitude. Avery really was a sweet boy.
"Finnabhair." She turned to face Arthur, who was now standing, Guinevere on his arm. She smiled brightly at Finn who returned one of her own. "And who is this young lad?" he asked, as Avery puffed out his chest.
"Arthur, this is Avery, a boy from our village." She made eye contact with Lancelot when she said this. It did not seem to relieve his sour face. "Avery, this is Arthur Castus, King of Briton." The two shook hands and Avery's cheeks grew dark at the idea of him shaking hands with a king.
"It is good to meet you young Avery." He said. "How have you come to be so far from home?" he asked kindly. "I haven't come far at all." He answered as he straightened his shoulders. "We are camped not but a few miles from here, as we journey to the Coastal Town of Braig." Gawain's head perked up at the news, and Galahad and the Woads became quiet. Arthur's face became grave.
"Braig…not a safe place. They are a port if I remember correctly." Avery nodded. "They are vulnerable to Saxon attacks. More so than your other village was." "They have suitable defenses…" he paused, not knowing what to call Arthur. "They are still situated in a weak area." Gawain said getting to his feet. Galahad nodded his agreement, and Avery looked as if he were under attack.
"Saxons don't venture into Sarmatia often. There is only a large party that bothers us constantly. In fact, they are perhaps only forty or fifty Saxons. The others are Woads." His eyes drifted to the markings on the Woad warriors, who glared back at him as if daring him to speak poorly of them. Arthur heaved a heavy sigh.
"Woads?" Bors barked incredulously. "Woads do not come this way. They don't often even venture south of the Hadrian's Wall." Avery frowned.
"I tell you, there is large party of them, here in Sarmatia." He was adamant of his explanation.
"Perhaps the escaping Saxons brought them home…" Gawain pondered aloud and everyone's demeanor turned suddenly dark and shadowed.
"Then it is true what the woman said. They have formed an alliance with the Rogues." He said with heavy heart. Guinevere closed her eyes, her face evident with suppressed anger.
"Merlin had always spoken of this danger. We never thought much of it, but I suppose we should have." She growled. "Rogues and Saxons would make for a merciless enemy. No man, woman or child would be safe." Arthur nodded, his face pensive, his fingers drumming against his wife's hand which clung to his arm.
"And you are certain that it is this one bothersome party of Saxons that has made the alliance?" Bors barked at Avery, who visibly cringed at the roughness of the eldest knight. "Only them. We've come to see that we will eventually have to battle. There is no other way." Avery said this with a low voice, and to Finn's dismay, she could see the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of fighting.
"We may just. No one will be safe." Arthur pondered aloud. Gawain and Bors perked up, each with a bloodthirsty grin spread across their faces. Galahad rolled his eyes, knowing full well there was no escape from yet another bloody battle. And Lancelot merely looked to Finn, who was making a conscious effort not to look to him. The last thing they needed was for her to break down in sobs. And she would if she looked at him at that moment. She would.
"Very well then. Jols!" Arthur called out harshly. The squire stepped forward. "Ride back to the Wall and tell Merlin of our situation and send forth a small army to Braig." Jols nodded, his face set and determined, as he walked back to his horse. "And Jols," the squire turned, "hurry." Finn could feel the palpable tension. She forced a smile when all she felt like doing was hiding away in a dark corner and pretending that this had all been a bad dream. "Avery," she forced out, "would you be so kind as to show us to the camp?" He stared at her a few moments, still wrapped up in the severity of the situation with the Saxons, before he snapped out of his reverie.
"Yes. Yes of course." He fumbled before walking into a thicket. He returned with a speckled brown horse. "Will you be riding with me?" he asked almost hopefully. He'd been taken with her ever since he'd become a young adult. She knew this, and gave him a kind smile before declining.
"I believe I shall ride with one of the knights. You busy yourself with guiding us." She said, as she witnessed a rather deflated expression cross his face. He placed a foot in the stirrup of the saddle and hoisted himself onto the horse lazily.
Bors had taken care of the fire, throwing earth onto it to extinguish it. Guinevere and Gawain assisted the Woads in packing up the caravan, and soon the knights were mounting their horses, relieved that they were soon to be met with hospitality. "Is it too much to expect you to ride with me?" Finn turned to see Lancelot leading his steed toward her and again that sense that he wasn't safe pooled in her stomach and made her feel unwell. She never the less swallowed her fears and smiled.
"I wouldn't ride with anyone else." She really should have been riding in the caravan, so that the newly sewn stitches would not split in her side, but she needed to be held by him. She needed to show him she would always be his.
A slight smile of satisfaction crossed his beautiful face, as he held out his hand to her. She carefully placed her foot in a stirrup and delicately tried to mount the horse. She nearly fell off, but Lancelot gripped her thigh and pushed her up. Once she was settled and had removed her foot from the stirrup, Lancelot climbed onto the horse, and she felt his arms wrap around her, and heard him inhale her smell.
Her head fell back on his shoulder, and his trimmed beard tickled her neck, making her smile. Her head lolled to the side and she saw Avery looking at them. He was grinning like an idiot, and she felt the urge to throw her boot at him for openly staring at them. But suddenly he was turning and the knights began to follow him.
"So, Lady Finn," Gawain said, a smirk flitting across his face, "does this mean I can no longer try to win your heart?" She laughed self consciously and felt Lancelot's grip tighten a bit more firmly around her middle.
"I do not know, Sir Gawain." She played to his teasing. "You will have to ask Lancelot." Gawain snorted, as Lancelot made a rude face at him.
"Well, I believe the tables have turned." He said grinning to himself, his blue eyes pale with playfulness. "I believe it will be I who spends the days at your woman's house, and you will wonder why it is that at the end of the day she seems so satisfied." Bors guffawed at the comment while Galahad snickered. Arthur merely rode in silence, a peaceful smile on his face, as Guinevere rested her cheek in between his shoulder blades. He held her hand which was spread across his chest, the two riding his white stallion like the royalty they were.
Lancelot glared daggers at Gawain when Finn began to giggle. "Is that before or after I stab you repeatedly with my swords?" he asked almost mimicking Gawain's earlier reply. Arthur's laughter rang out, so infectious that even Lancelot himself began to chuckle. Avery smiled, taking in the easy comradely of the band of brothers. The Woad watched the exchange with fascination since they themselves rarely laughed so freely.
Finn sighed contently when the laughter had finally died away and they rode in silence (except for Gawain and Galahad, who spurred each other on about whether Gawain could truly seduce Finn). Lancelot rode further ahead to escape the hooting of the two. "You are too damn beautiful for your own well being." He whispered in her ear, making her smile. "Men in Sarmatia must have been falling all over themselves for you." He had actually been wondering about that very subject, whether Alden had been the only one who sought her affections back home. Whether he would have competition when they soon arrived.
She shook her head. "No, they were too busy chasing the looser girls about the village." She said letting her fingernails drag down his forearm in an innocent, but at the same time sensual movement. "Is that so?" Lancelot chortled.
"It is. I've been saving myself for marriage." She knew it was a lie. She'd been saving it for no one but him.
"Really?" he asked, and he knew that she was not being completely truthful. Though he also believed that no man had ever bedded her.
"Mmmm." She murmured as she placed a kiss on his neck, before snuggling into his warmth. The gentle rhythmic swing of the horse was soothing and she had to fight to keep awake.
"We are near." Avery's voice interrupted the silence, and she sat up now, lifting her head so that she could see soft firelight blaze beyond the trees. Lancelot could see the excitement in her eyes, as she began preening her garment – though it was ragged – and smoothed her unruly hair. His smile fell away. She was home. And yet he was not.
They slowly made their way into the encampment. In the few months that had passed since the attack, they'd managed to accumulate a few wagons and horses. The fire blazed in the center of the camp, a few people were dancing to the music of a rapid fiddle. Some elders were smoking pipes, as children ran circles around them, chasing each other. A few of the local girls, Lancelot recognized from childhood. They stared at the knights – him in particular – with what he could easily identify as desire.
Yet again he found himself clutching Finn a little closer. And his ego was pleased to feel her grip his hand possessively, and her other hand grasp his thigh tightly. "Avery!" a large, balding man cried out as he made his way toward the crowd that was forming around the knights. Avery jumped down from his horse and embraced the man. Lancelot followed suit, hopping down, before helping Finn to dismount. But even after she'd safely reached the ground, he kept hold of her.
He would not deny he still enjoyed the chase of flirting. It made him drunk, the idea of having hordes of women. Finn kept him sober, fulfilled the part of him that made him lust after others. And the idea of hurting her definitely kept him from chasing skirts. But still he did not wish to chance his old habits coming back.
"And… FINN!" the man shouted as he made toward them. Lancelot was again about to jump between the oncoming man and Finn to protect her from injury, but Finn gripped his hand behind her so that he would do no such thing. The man stopped in front of her on his own accord, his eyes making their way to Lancelot.
His eyes seem to widen in recognition, as did a few others in the crowd. "Lancelot?" he asked hesitantly. He did not nod or answer, Lancelot just stood still and let the crowd adjust to him. But the man noticed Finn's smile, and his robust laughter rose again as he swept forward, grabbing Lancelot's free hand and shaking it vigorously. "This is a thoroughly pleasant surprise! Not one, but two of our citizens returned to us from the jaws of death!" His voice boomed and many were now trying to peer between heads to see the knight who'd finally returned.
If Lancelot were a lesser man, he would have blushed with all this attention. Even Arthur was smirking as they all watched villager after villager come forward and shake his hand. Finn had stepped out of the way and come to stand in front of Galahad's horse, the two of them exchanging looks of amusement.
"I'm Tomas," a thin man of perhaps fifty said, "you mighten't remember me, but I surely do remember you. You were quite the young trouble maker." He winked before a hearty red headed woman pushed him to the side and grabbed Lancelot and hugged him. He looked thoroughly shocked but laughed as best he could while she squeezed him hard.
"Oh, wee Lancelot, I knew you'd not yet left us!" she said before letting go of him. She smiled kindly to him. "You remember me? Giertrude, your ma's friend?" she said looking to him expectantly. In truth he had no idea who she was but he smiled and nodded, before she slapped him harshly on the arm and moved aside, telling anyone who would listen, "There you go, you see, the lad remembers me!" "Hello Lancelot." A young woman said seductively, stepping forward. Finn could see that flirtatious grin spread across his face as Lavinia stepped forward, and jealousy swelled in her chest. But she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder and turned to see Galahad shaking his head. She sighed and continued to look on as Lavinia brushed her sweetheart's arm and giggled. "Lavinia…you're looking very pretty." Was all he said, now aware that Finn was watching. She was more than that, thought Finn. She was gorgeous, with chestnut hair down to her waist and clear blue eyes that outshone even Gawain's. She was petite, not well endowed in terms of curves, but slender and beautiful. Finn had always been jealous of her looks. Always. If she had her say, she would have looked just as Lavinia did.
Lavinia blushed attractively and looked at him appreciatively.
"As have you." She said biting her lip, her eyes lingering on his hips. Finn had had enough.
"Lavinia!" she said stepping forward, taking care not to stand too close to Lancelot. Lavinia turned and regarded her with disinterest but smiled politely all the same.
"Finnabhair. It's lovely to see that you survived." She said, but her eyes went back to Lancelot. "Isn't it?" Avery said coming to her side and looking at Lavinia in the love sick way he reserved for many girls. "But it is even greater to see you again." Lavinia rolled her eyes and turned, before Avery began to trail after her.
After all introductions were disposed of, and Arthur and the knights had been thoroughly welcomed to their humble camp, they were invited to stay for the two weeks they intended to stay in that area. They agreed, and the weathered warriors looked overjoyed at the prospect of being guests in a Sarmatian camp.
Lancelot, however, had watched as Finn moved toward her friends, two older blokes and a young woman. They talked animatedly, and he felt cold seep inside of him when one of the males placed a possessive arm around her and she giggled at a story the other one was lively telling. It was then that it was all clear, no questions asked.
She would stay. She was home.
Later that night, as the wagon was rounded, and the chieftain, who was emphatic about his apology at the fact that they would all have to share a wagon, Lancelot settled on the floor of the wagon with a heavy sigh. He looked at his right boot, which had weakened in the toe, as Gawain snored loudly beside him.
"Care for a little wine love…" he murmured in his sleep and his hand circled Lancelot's knee.
"Oh shut up you barmy idiot." Lancelot said in disgust as he threw the hand off, and Gawain snorted before he rolled over in his sleep. Galahad was drifting off against a wall, as he watched some of the 'virtuous maidens' make their way past the wagon. Bors was asleep as well, unusually quiet, probably dreaming of Vanora and his bastards. The Woads had insisted upon sleeping outside, something they were used to. Arthur and Guinevere had been speaking with the Chieftain all night, and would probably be sleeping in a smaller wagon, all their own.
As for Finn. She was still outside with her companions.
Lancelot threw his boot into the corner and fell back against his cloak which he'd propped up to make a pillow for himself. In his heart he was not ready to give in, give up hope that she would find a way to still come home to him. That's when he smelled the sweet sent of pine and lilac…
His eyes fell open and met green ones, staring down at him intently. She smiled, and he painfully returned it. He sat up, and surveyed her, kneeling on the floor, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was the picture of serene, though he could see the excitement in her eyes.
"Isn't it wonderful? It's so good to be home, I missed it here. And everyone was so kind about letting us stay, even Lavinia was pleasant. Chieftain Pias seems to favor you, wouldn't you say he's a great man?" she whispered, desperately wanting his approval. She didn't know why, but she felt that to validate that their village was indeed great, she needed him to say so. He nodded silently, and she felt her heart plummet. "You do not like it here."
"No." he whispered as he scratched his head. He was vaguely aware he did not sound convinced. "No, it is a nice place. I miss the village I think, I do not remember its people as well as you." He was trying to speak the truth without injecting so much pain into his words. The pain he felt at the prospect of losing her.
"Perhaps because you never came …" she abruptly stopped. She didn't wish to nag him, but she'd felt he was attacking and… she sighed. "I suppose I couldn't expect you to be overjoyed." He frowned. He knew what she'd wished to say and he felt himself bristle.
"Well I am happy that you are so glad to be home for good." There was silence. There. He had said it.
She stared at him, her mouth open slightly at the shock she'd felt at his words. She quickly shut it, and looked to the floorboards for strength. But wood could still break, and she found she could too. She nodded and fled the wagon, him hot on her trail.
"We both knew it was going to come to this." He said reasonably, feeling anger well inside him at the way she was reacting. "Were you going to leave it until two weeks from now?" She turned to face him.
"So you are going to leave again?" she asked hotly, her blood boiling, thunder in her ears. "You are going to ride off again, away from us?!"
"It is of my choosing this time!" She stared at him for a few long moments before she cried out, burying her hands in her hair.
"I cannot believe this!" she said, exasperation evident in her voice. "You say you love, will always care from me, but you turn around and tell me that we are moving separate ways!"
"It is the truth!" he replied sternly. "You are in love with this place, these people. And I am not."
"You were in love with me!" she shouted back. "Or so you said. And I am one of these people!"
"And so you cannot leave! And I understand…but I am a knight. I am no longer the son of a retired warrior who can have every freedom the hills offer! I am a fighter and I must go back and do right by my king!" He explained furiously, hands clenched in fists. His voice quieted. "I am not one of you. I haven't been in nearly two decades. I do love you, but I know you love this place better."
"You're an idiot!" she screamed, "You no not of what you are talking about! And if I can't convince you with truth that I love you more than life here, then perhaps you do not deserve my love after all!" With that she turned and sprinted away, toward the camp, and probably toward her friends. And he let her go.
He loved her still. But all he could do was let her go.