Disclaimer: I don't own anything... etc

Meggles: LOL! Yesh, that would totally give me inspiration XD Anyways, read this chapter and tell me what you think! I've worked really hard on it and I think it came out good.

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Chapter 1, THERE IS NO HEAVEN

Lancelot sat in the dark, watching the snow fall silently on the ground, his mind blank from thought. It had been a long few weeks, and still the threat of the Saxons behind them grew, making him at edge at every noise he heard around him. He didn't want to fight, not yet, not now; if not for the accursed Romans he would be on his way home, and finally be free. Instead of live, it seemed, Arthur offered them death that day of which was to be their last; he didn't want to die here. But, he vowed to follow Arthur, and he would never betray his trust, and never leave Arthur alone in battle… he just wished it wouldn't bring him to his death.

I will die in battle, of that I am certain, and hopefully a battle of my choosing.

His own words echoed desperately in his mind, mirroring his deep thoughts and fears of dying. He had been in this life for fifteen years, as well as his companions; but he was so close now… so close to freedom. Arthur was a stubborn man, proud and fair, and yet never listened to the counsel of Lancelot, and for that Lancelot was tormented by need to prove himself to Arthur. Prove that he was worthy of freedom, worthy of being called a knight of the round table; worthy of being Arthur's friend and not just a companion in battle.

I choose life and freedom for myself and the men!

He reached to grasp his amulet, the one his sister had given him so many years ago before he left for Hadrian's Wall. He had worn it all these years, holding onto the hope that his family were still back in Sarmatia, waiting for him to return, as he promised. Little Bronwyn had to be peaking the age of twenty two! Lancelot shook his head, thinking of his little sister being a wife, and most likely a mother… ah! it almost was too much to think about, for he had left her at a ripe young girl of only seven years. His family was but a distant blur in his memory now, scenes of the many battles he had fought played over them instead.

He remembered the looks on their faces as vividly as the morning sun though, as he left that day to ride to his post. His mother… bearing proud tears as she cried onto his father's shoulder. Bronwyn, clasping to her mothers side and smiling at her older brother with a sense of pride; and his small brother, Brac, who was fated to follow in his brothers footsteps when he was old enough. He hadn't wanted to leave them behind, he didn't want to be the reason for his mother's tears, and as he had looked back to the village, his village, he had wanted to cry; for his mother, for his father, and for everything that he was leaving behind that he loved.

Don't be afraid, I will return.

His promise to them… he could almost see their faces now, surprised at how much he had grown, almost strangers to him while he would stand in front of them awkwardly, wondering how it was he survived those years away. With weakening eyelids, he could feel sleep coming on, comforted by thoughts of home and brushed it away, fidgeting nervously on the ground.

"What was it like?" a woman's voice, clear and cool ripped him from his dark thoughts, and he turned to the tall and beautiful figure of Guinevere. She was wrapped in a light blue cloak, half smiling at him, as if she knew something he didn't. "Your home?"

She was darkly beautiful, and Lancelot could make out her every move in the bright moon light, from her tightening grip on her translucent shroud to the slight twitch of her lips, which formed into a smile as he examined her. A drastic change from the damsel they had rescued in the cell of Marius Honorius, now in his eyes she was a woman; not a damsel in need of rescue, simply a beautiful woman. But there was always a small doubt in his mind, which kept reminding him… she was a Woad.

They are all Pagans here!

He had wanted to jump off his horse and punch Marius as he said this, and he remembered putting his arm around Guinevere defensively, quickly thinking of her safety. Only thinking of her…

So are we! Galahad had said angrily, his mouth contorted in hate.

But for just one moment, none of that mattered, and he hadn't even known her name; it seemed to him that he had… no, it couldn't be.

He smiled confidently, standing up, "We sacrificed goats, drank their blood, danced naked around fires," he laughed happily at his joke, hearing his own laughter for the first time in weeks, until his gaze met Guinevere's. Her unchanging expression still smiled at him, not saying a word but neither letting down her steady gaze. He studied her face for a moment, not wanting to look away, and his smile became faint, and almost sad.

She watched him, searching his face, and an awkward silence grew as she stared at him under her unbreakable gaze. He realized with a sigh… she meant to make him talk, man to woman; she wanted to know more of him, and what made him as he was now. As beautiful as she was, he was almost frightened of her with her strong will… he had never met a woman he was intimidated by before. She was different, she got him, and Lancelot felt as if she knew every little thought that went on in his mind, as if she knew every bit of his soul and being. He shivered inwardly, and tried to remember all he could of a land he called home.

"What I do remember… home…" he said under his breath wistfully, looking up to smile at her, "Oceans of grass from horizon to horizon, further than you can ride. The sky… bigger than you can imagine…" he paused shaking his head, and whispered with a proud smile, "No boundaries."

Guinevere smirked, and walked closer toward him, wrapping her cloak more tightly as the wind blew her dark auburn hair back. She seemed content with his answer, but her expression didn't change much as she watched Lancelot with a cool eye. Visions of riding over the green ocean of grass invaded his memory, the fresh air under her nose, blowing his hair back; towering mountains in the far distance and rolling green hills under the hooves of his horse.

There is a legend that fallen knights return as great horses. He has seen what awaits you, and he will protect you.

"Some people would call that freedom… that's what we fight for, our land our people," Lancelot looked away from her, for once not wanting to hear comforting words. He felt a stab of guilt as she continued talking, knowing he was one of the reasons for many of her people dying… Woads, "The right to choose our own destiny," Guinevere eyed him, half smiling, "So you see Lancelot, we are much alike, you and I."

We are much alike, you and I.

Lancelot smiled, and nodded at her, his mind swarming with her image. Oh, she was different! She couldn't be a Woad, she was too beautiful, she knew him too well, and he was already too much attached to her. He spent years killing Woads without thought, but now he wondered if any of it was really necessary. Ah! But he couldn't be thinking about her at a time like this… he couldn't be getting his mind entangled into matters of love when they still had to return to Hadrian's Wall safely. Tristan warned Arthur that the Saxons were close by, not even half a days riding distance, which meant they all had to be on guard for any signs of a pursuit. The serfs of Marius were slow going, and the carts held many of the sick who were too weak to walk themselves. It was growing on Lancelot's mind more and more that it was a mistake to tarry with all of them, they weren't who they were sent to retrieve, and it was only burdening them to the point of being hunted down by the Saxon army.

Are they worth dying for? Lancelot thought angrily… This is Arthur's quest, not Rome's.

"And when you return home will take a wife? Have sons?" her voice made him return to reality, though they caught him by surprise, for he knew then that Guinevere would not be asking such a question without intentions of her own, intentions that he felt so strongly ever since he set eyes on her! He remained calm, and urged himself to say yes, that he would need a wife, that they could have sons together… but he heard himself say something very different.

"I've killed too many sons, what right do I have to my own?"

Killed too many sons…

"No family, no religion," Guinevere calmly said, though there was disappointment in her voice which sent a thrill through Lancelot's body, and she began to walk closer to Lancelot, stopping right before him, whispering, "Do you believe in anything at all?"

She lifted her hand to brush against his cheek, rough with stubble, and smiled. He watched her other hand do the same, carefully seducing him into a trance almost. Lifting his own hand, he brushed her shoulder, a faint smile appearing on his face… and then he looked into her eyes. Dark and deep wells of pain and longing, dark and beautiful as she herself was.

Do you believe in anything at all?

"I would've left you and the boy there to die…" he whispered to her, trying to make her understand. She shouldn't get involved with him, he had been in this lifestyle for so long he forgot what it felt like to actually care for a woman. Sure he had had his fair amount of maidens, but never a woman that could compare to the likeness of Guinevere, and what she meant to him.

But looking deep into her eyes, and feeling warmth finally reach his heart, and he watched as she closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss that he knew she knew she was to receive from him. He thought about the warm feeling that was spreading through him, and how he longed to take her small body into his large and strong embrace. He wanted to entwine his fingers with hers, and have her run her fingers through his hair; but he could no longer feel his arms, and he went lifeless in front of her, watching her breath out cold air into his face, waiting.

This is heaven for me. Guinevere had said, with a tired expression, drawing his in with her voice.

I don't believe in heaven, I've been living in this hell, and he remembered with a soft smile of how he had wanted to reach out and hold her hand, or at least be closer to the woman who was sending shivers down his spine, But if you represent what heaven is… then take me there.

"I believe in heaven," he whispered to her suddenly, her eyes half closed and half open, as she realized he wasn't going to submit to her seductive appeal, "I believe in heaven…"

"What is heaven?" she asked him quietly, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her, stepping slightly away from the knight. Lancelot grinned at her, not wanting her to move away yet for a moment everything seemed clear in his eyes.

"You are." he sighed.

She looked into his eyes with a cold expression, her eyes darting from his eyes to examine his whole face, but he still stood unmoved. He gathered enough strength to look away from her, he snow falling silently once more, making his heart cold in the bright night. Guinevere still stood unbearably close to him, shaking her head disbelief in defeat.

"There is no heaven," he cocked his head toward her, no longer smiling, and she gave him one last sad smile, "There is only hell."

She turned her back toward him, and walked away, not looking back as she disappeared into her carriage, where Lancelot could no longer see her. With a sigh of relief Lancelot turned from the direction she had left, and leaned himself against the tree, closing his eyes waiting for sleep to catch up to him again.

There is only hell…

"Lancelot?" his eyes fluttered open, and for a moment he thought it was Guinevere, coming back to rattle with his feelings once again. But he could see a dark figure in the woods some distance before him. It was Arthur.

"Lancelot?" he was standing not too far away from him, but Lancelot wondered if he had caught any of the conversation between him and Guinevere. He hoped not; he could feel his cheeks burning with the jests he would get from the knights if they heard of the late night appearance of Guinevere, and how he turned her down. He was legendary with women, the one the knights both envied and respected for charming women so easily; and the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen… he had turned down. Lancelot sighed, and made his way toward his commander, sick with sudden regret.

"It is me, Arthur." Arthur nodded, putting Excalibur back into its scabbard. Lancelot stopped before him, his hand held out in a gesture of greeting. Arthur took it and sat back down against a large tree, leaving room for Lancelot to sit beside him. Snow coated the ground, and when Lancelot sat down, he could feel the warmth Guinevere brought him fade away, leaving him shivering in the darkness.

"God works in mysterious ways, Lancelot," Arthur sighed heavily, while Lancelot mirrored his sigh angrily, not wanting to hear of his God at a time like this. "If ever I believed it I believe that now."

"Why is that Arthur?" Lancelot replied sarcastically, only slightly interested, "As I said before you can pray to whomever you pray that we don't meet the Saxons, but if we continue on with all these people… Arthur," he paused, trying to control his anger, "We will have to fight!"

"What would you have me do Lancelot? Would you have me leave all these people behind to fend for themselves?" Arthur said calmly, only a hint of anger in his voice.

"Arthur…" Lancelot sighed, feeling himself calm down, "I don't want to die here. I don't want the men to die here."

Lancelot tried to put one his cocky smiles on for show, but found he could only smile sadly, wondering if Arthur would share his concern. Arthur just stared at him, his expression blank, though Lancelot could see in his eyes that he wasn't the only one with this fear, but it disappeared as quickly as Lancelot caught it.

"They won't die here." He said simply. Lancelot nodded hopelessly, either not believing or not wanting to believe Arthur, for he had convinced himself he was to die in battle. They sat in silence for moments, watching the snow fall silently onto the forest floor. Lancelot looked behind them, where he could see Gawain sitting against a tree, his head hung in sleep. Galahad sat next to him, fidgeting a lot more than his cousin but nonetheless sleeping. He suddenly envied the way they could fall asleep so quickly in such uncomfortable positions.

A soft crack of twigs to their left made both men jump, and look to a small figure, making her way into the woods. Arthur got up quickly, his hand on his sword hilt already.

Guinevere…

Lancelot watched as Arthur followed her, his heart sick with love and pain, and wonder at what Guinevere could want with Arthur; perhaps something he himself would not give to her.