Author's note: Set during the night, as the knights and their rescued followers camp in the snow, before the ice battle.
Lancelot's POV.
Disclaimer: Oh man, I wish they were mine.
Rated: PG13
For DeaLiberty. Thanks for the warm welcome, hon.
This is sort of an answer to the current challenge at King Arthur Fanfiction…a first person POV mentioning or involving holidays.

Enjoy!

Arthur follows her into the mist, and I smile as I lean against the rough bark of a large tree.

I have an idea as to why he would do something like this…I would have done it too, had I been awakened first. He is most definitely a light sleeper, as I would know.

My smile becomes more pronounced, almost annoyingly sardonic, and it takes a lot of will power to shove it off my face. I do so finally by allowing myself to realize just how cold and alone I am. Godforsaken country and it's winters. Nothing like home.

Or the idealized version of home that I remember.

Oh, we had snow all right, and huge storms that would last for days until you thought you'd go blind with the whiteness.

But there, we had a home to go back to at the end of the day, a family, hot food, and the cameraderie of others to share your misery and to laugh at you when you complained too much.

There you had a mother who would admonish you for staying out too late in the snow, a father who would reprimand then sneak a wink at you when your mother wasn't looking.

There you had a brother and sister who you could torment all day, then play with all night; siblings who would keep your bed warm during the worst of the winter.

There you had a horse of such magnificence he could barely be called just an animal. You had had to name him Atlas for lack of a better name – and the Greeks had such pretty names.

There, during the Winter festival, you had friends who help you with gathering firewood, friends who would join you in hearthside songs, friends who would help tease and chase the village girls – before kissing them, of course.

That version is the version I choose to carry with me in my mind of home.

Not the reality.

Not the pain of separation from family and friends, not the brutal treatment by your company leader on the trip to Britain, not the fights between you and the other 'recruits.'

I laugh at myself, ridiculous to be thinking of home and ancient holidays while I sit here in the drifting precipitation that floats gently down to coat my hair and beard with white.

Arthur has chosen Guinevere, like I knew he would the moment he saw her. How could he not? She is wonderous. A born leader, no doubt, just like he is.

I cannot give him up so easily…yet why? I've shared him before. We all love him. We are all devoted to him.

He is not the first person I've loved, and I pray not the last.

But he will be the best, I am sure of it.

The man shoulders guilt and takes life in stride like nothing I've ever seen before. It's awe inspiring and maddening at the same time.

I am no innocent; I am as addicted to carousing and tavern life as I am to my blades. Losing one's self in a soft, well rounded body, or an angular, muscular one at that, at least for the night, is a pleasure I will never be able to turn down.

But I don't expect to find love in those places – not the kind I desire, nor the kind I hope to have someday.

Do I want a family? A legacy of my own?

Oh, yes.

Will I ever lose the hold Arthur has over my soul?

When I stop breathing.

I see Tristan look at him every once in a great while with something like admiration and hero worship; expressions I never expected the scout to disdain to making. I know they have had a quiet reparte since Tristan got here. I am not certain of the extent of their relationship, but I know I'm not the only one who feels a kinship and a love for Arthur.

But Guinevere…

It's also not often you find a woman like her, either.

She and Arthur together could own me, and I would go willingly.

He's back. And not with her.

I get up creakily off the ground, and go to him.

He's standing at the edge of the emcampment, staring down at Dagonet and the sleeping boy.

"Arthur," I whisper at his shoulder. "Where is she?"

"Lancelot," he answers, and I meet his eyes, which are a grey green, like the grass plains of my homeland.

"Aye, commander?"

"Sit with me."

So I do, and I curse her silently for making him hurt like this. I don't ask what they discussed, but I know it has to be serious to cause this much silence from him.

He's usually fighting to talk strategy, or discuss future plans, or even make jokes or sing. Yes, he can sing; quite well, actually.

We sit unmoving in the snow for a long while. I finally get up, building up the small fire that has almost gone out in front of us. When I turn back I catch him shiver once, and I return to my place at his side, my shoulder against his, my leg flush with his. He leans into me, grateful for the warmth.

I slip a quick hand onto his neck, which is burning hot, and press a damp, snow covered kiss to his forehead. I feel him smile rather than see it; the raspiness of his stubble against my face feels like home so much all the images of my family wash away like so many ghosts.

Guinevere is suddenly there, crouching on the other side of him. I bite back a snarl at the look on her face.

It is a mirror of my own expression.

In that moment I know she loves him already. And I forgive her for any wrong she might have done him, for I know it was out of love and concern for his future.

She folds her legs neatly underneath her long shift, one of his spare fir-lined cloaks spread about her shoulders, covering her thin, prison worn body. Her tiny breasts poke at the cloth like icicles. I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't help it. Her eyes are so like his. Grey, then dark, then green, carrying the hurt and detritus of the world in them. A perfect warrior to match the god within him. I push down the pain that rises, knowing then that I will not be enough for him, as much as I would want to be. And she and I would destroy each other too quickly, before love could be allowed to blossom.

We sit on either side of him, her silence seemingly normal, my impression of a statue hard fought, but won.

I lay my head on his chest finally, desperate to hear the heartbeat beneath. I put out my hand, and Guinevere takes it. I nuzzle as close as I can to Arthur, trying to wrap my entire being around him, to give him the strength he needs. He can drain me and leave me a soulless husk; take it all, use me. I would be satisfied in that.

I know she would be too.

We surround him with our bodies and our hearts, and he rests finally, his gentle breath warm on my scalp. It is intoxicating.

A soft tugging at my hand, I meet her gaze. The façade cracks briefly, and I catch a glimpse of the girl hidden inside the ice princess. That girl is gone before I can offer any kind of sympathy.

A brief lean in, and our lips meet. She is sweet as honey…honey set in a trap for a dumb animal.

She sighs out of the kiss, and lays her head on Arthur's chest as well. His arm tightens around me, as I know it did around her.

Morning is not far off, but not so soon that I don't have time for last thoughts of home.

Not the home of my youth, the land of mother, brother, sister and father; land of holidays and celebrations and conquests; of growing up in harsh conditions – quickly.

Home is now where I lay my head, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Family? I have one.

I may very well die in battle, I could die tomorrow.

But I would die knowing I had created love for at least one person, and that would be all right.

We lay with him, a boneless mass of bodies, and wait out the sunrise.

Finis.