Disclaimer: I don't own anything...
A/N: This isn't the best chapter, I'm not completely satisfied with it, but I couldn't do anymore revisions to it or I would go crazy. Hope you like it, the next chapter will be a lot better!
Galaha: Thanks for reviewing! Yeah I like adding in little quotes here and there, it kind of makes them more meanigful it you repeat them twice (in my opinion). Here's the next chapter!
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Chapter 2, WOMEN DREAM TOO
Lancelot woke to a tree root sticking into his back, the usual price he paid for sleeping against a tree; and with it came the horrible day of riding which added to the pain. He stood up, and stretched, trying to get feeling back into his limbs, and perhaps less feeling in his back. It had been a long night, filled with hours, or what seemed like hours, of despair and hopeless thoughts; regret and unwilling to submit to his feelings for Guinevere. A most unusual night for him, for back at Hadrian's Wall a young maiden who shared his bed didn't even get the honor of crossing his mind the next day. He viewed it as a comfort to always have a woman's warm body under his arm, but nothing more to it than that. He may have felt loving feelings before, but if he couldn't remember them now, they couldn't have been very loving at all. Perhaps if he had he would have saved himself from the joy and despair that came with loving a woman.
What is heaven? He thought with a frown, thinking of Guinevere's face as she realized he wasn't going to kiss her, feeling embarrassed to have opened up to her in such a way. But ah! Guinevere! You are.
The snow hadn't ceased over the course of hours, it rather thickened in the sky, and it had matted over his body like a blanket during the course of the night. Brushing it off with cold fingers that had gone slightly numb, he yawned to himself, finally getting around to notice that he was seemingly alone in the small clearing. He could faintly see some of the carriages through the massive falling snow, but nothing more than that.
As if by reflex, his first move was to grasp his amulet, making sure it still rested safely by his neck, as if someone would have stolen it away from him during the night along with his hope. He believed very fiercely that the amulet had kept him alive, for more than a few times when he should have died he was saved… and he saw a vision of Bronwyn handing his the amulet when he was a young boy leaving for Briton.
Lancelot! Lancelot! He had looked onto the amulet as if it was nothing special, but hung it over his neck to see a smile lighten on his sister's face. And one did.
A few light horse steps made Lancelot turn, seeing Tristan just barely riding towards him, "Lancelot!" Tristan yelled, a crossbow grasped in his hand, pointing toward the sky. It was of the Saxons. "Where is Arthur?"
"The Saxons are close?" Lancelot began to panic again, just as he had begun the day before… "How many?"
Tristan bit his lip, and eyed Lancelot almost annoyed with him, but you never knew with Tristan, his thoughts were always unknown to the company; even after fifteen years of companionship, "An entire army… Lancelot, where is Arthur?"
"I do not know, I haven't seen him since last night," Lancelot sighed, and Tristan nodded, gripping the reins to his horse, about to ride away once more; but he stopped suddenly, looking at Lancelot with an unreadable smile.
"Where is Guinevere?" the question ripped through Lancelot, and he gasped as if he had been punched in the chest. How did he know! Tristan leaned toward Lancelot, biting his lip, his face bore no emotion, but in his eyes there seemed to be a light of wisdom, and it shone brightly with a smile, "Women dream too."
Women dream too? Tristan was known for giving such strange remarks, though this one baffled Lancelot completely. What did dreaming have to do with Guinevere? Women dream too… Tristan nodded toward his friend, straightening up on his horse, and rearing him to gallop back into the thicket of the forest. And as Tristan disappeared, a twig breaking behind him made him jump, and he turned quickly ready to draw his swords. Women dream too…
"Guinevere," he said with relief, taking his hands away from his swords, not daring to look her in the eyes, though he knew she was. A few moments of silence passed, before Lancelot couldn't bear it any longer, and he spoke, "I am sorry if I hurt you my lady."
He raised his eyes. She wasn't looking at him.
"I meant no harm to you nor to offend you," he said with sincerity, watching as Guinevere stood emotionless, and finally smile.
"What is heaven?" she said quietly, and Lancelot felt his heart warm once more.
A scream from the carriages brought Lancelot back to his senses; it was Lucan, the little Woad boy Dagonet had grown close to. Out of no where it seemed Guinevere pulled out a long wooden bow, striding quickly toward the sound of the scream, and Arthur behind her came charging through the woods. Lancelot shot Arthur a questioning look, though the commander just shrugged lightly, following after Guinevere quickly.
"I have the boy!" Lancelot could hear Marius shout, and he scowled with anger at the man. Romans. "Kill him now!"
"No don't, let him go!" Fulciana shouted at her husband, though a second later they burst through the snow covered trees, and Guinevere let loose an arrow aimed straight for Marius' heart. He fell with a gasp, the boy Lucan running with tears toward Dagonet… brave boy.
"Down!" Dagonet shouted to Lucan, grabbing his sword from the carriage, standing in position to fight the guards with a loud growl.
Lancelot walked up behind Guinevere, sporting one of his smirks, "Your hands seem to be better." He had his swords drawn, but seeing no more need of them he placed them behind his head to cross themselves, still smirking toward the Roman mercenaries.
Her expression didn't change from a glare, and she aimed another arrow, this time at the feet of the Roman guards, who shuffled their feet back nervously. Lancelot glanced at her, his smirk leaving his face for a moment; but from behind him came a loud yell of "Artorius!" by Bors, who rode up towards the mercenaries. His horse reared angrily behind him, as he questioned gruffly, "Do we have a problem?"
Arthur came up from behind Guinevere, holding Excalibur lightly in his hand, pointing it at the guards, "You have a choice. You help, or you die." Lancelot snickered at the choice, grinning down the mercenaries as they glanced at each other, fear inside of them. Lancelot admired how Arthur could intimidate people so easily.
"Put down your weapons," growled the head mercenary, and when the others didn't do as he commanded, he shouted almost in bewilderment or fright, "Do it now!"
"Here!" Dagonet growled, and Arthur motioned for Jols to pick up the discarded swords as the guards threw them down in defeat. The sound of hooves brought Tristan in, still with the large crossbow in his hand.
"How many did you kill?" Bors asked with a wide smile, getting the reply of, "Four." from the tracker. "Not a bad start to the day," Bors laughed obnoxiously.
Tristan rode up to Arthur, dropping the crossbow at Arthur's feet, "Armor piercing. They're close we have no time." Lancelot inched his way to hear Arthur's reply, hoping with a guilty conscious that he would finally take his advice and leave the serfs of Marius behind; the young boy Alecto was who they were charged to rescue, why not fulfill that mission with returning alive with the boy? But, Lancelot thought miserably, Arthur never takes my advice…
Arthur didn't hesitate a moment, simply replying to Tristan, "You ride ahead."
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The carriages made their way slowly through the woods, often getting caught by a patch of black ice, or a stray rock underneath the axels, which took both time and man power to get the wheel free. It was slow going, with the danger of tipping carriages and the ever growing beating drum of the Saxon army grew louder behind them. It was grim riding for Lancelot, for he had given up hope once again of getting to Hadrian's Wall alive; fifteen years of service for a land and people not of his own, fighting the enemies of his own personal enemy. The beating of the Saxon drum was like a clock, ticking off the hours and moments he had left to live.
Arthur stationed himself at the head of the company, Bors and Gawain riding on either side of the leading carriage. Tristan had ridden ahead at least an hour before, scouting as usual the best trail through the mountain pass. Lancelot found himself riding along the trail next to Galahad, the youngest knight of them all, who had lost his bright smile during the weeks of traveling they had already enduring, probably still fuming to himself that he could be on his way to Sarmatia, back home.
"I would be almost home by now," Galahad said somberly, and Lancelot smiled to himself, seeing he was right about his young friend still fuming. "See my father… mother…" he smiled for a moment, memories of years long past taking over his face; Lancelot rode unmoved, the smile weakening with trying not to be reminded of home, and he shivered at the slightest wind that blew past them.
"I miss it, Sarmatia," he remarked simply, looking to Lancelot for his word on the matter, but after a moment of silence he returned to watching the road ahead. "You, Lancelot?" he asked with a boyish grin, which Lancelot in turn returned.
"I don't remember well enough," he said calmly, thinking of his discussion with Guinevere the night before.
Oceans of grass from horizon to horizon…
"Once I'm there this will all be just a bad memory," Galahad said with distaste, "It's not in my blood, killing. I don't like it."
"And will you find yourself a young woman, Galahad? Have sons, daughters; tell them your tales of your service to Rome?" Lancelot asked finally, receiving an enthusiastic nod from Galahad, "A beautiful woman?"
Galahad laughed suddenly, shaking his head, "No no, my good sir, you for one shall not be welcome in my house," Lancelot grinned, knowing he would get his small joke; and a thought made its way into Lancelot's head… what did Galahad's future hold in store for him? Surely not a untimely death here in this wretched place, he deserved to be happy with a beautiful wife, many sons and daughters to make him proud, and a long life… he didn't think the same for himself.
"Once I get my papers…" Galahad said dreamily, smiling still, "I'm making my way home that same night."
Home, Lancelot though with a sad smile, knowing Galahad longed badly to be back in our home country, no matter what it held for him. What home?
"And who do you intend will ride with you? Or shall you venture out on your own?" Lancelot reasoned, and Galahad cocked his head toward him.
"You do not plan on going home?" Galahad asked, surprise in his voice as if he had figured out a big secret about Lancelot that had been bothering him awhile. Lancelot shook his head, whether for yes or no it didn't matter; he didn't plan on going home. He was going to die.
But at that moment, Gawain could be seen, riding towards them through the blinding snow, saving Lancelot from further discussion. Galahad smiled to see him, but as he caught up to them his face was grave, and Lancelot knew something was wrong.
"Ice, up ahead," Gawain gasped slightly, catching his breath, "We're riding forward."
Galahad shook his head gravely, making his way with Gawain towards the front of the carriage line. Lancelot watched them go, wondering to himself why he wasn't following them; something was holding him back.
"What tomorrow brings…" a soft voice behind him came through the snow and as Lancelot looked back, the figure of Guinevere appeared, a large fur blanket wrapped around herself, "We cannot know."
"Do you purposely mean to pain me?" Lancelot asked with a cheeky smile, and a suggesting shift of his eyebrows. Guinevere stared at him with a soft expression, her hand reaching out slowly, as if she meant for him to take it. Lancelot rode slowly by her carriage, holding out his own hand, daring to take her hand into his before the people surrounding them.
"I only mean to know you," she said quietly, her hand stopped right before reaching his, her smile seducing him. He could feel the heat of the night before return, flooding through his whole body, and she finally gripped for his hand. "Pain is love."
Pain is love.
"Not if you do not love," Lancelot whispered, barely hearing himself say the desperate words, silently pleading with Guinevere to let go of his hand and never think of him again. Or perhaps he though that for himself, for the next moment he dropped her hand from his, and looked at the ground with a despair he had never felt before. He dared not look back at her for fear of what he would see; rearing his horse he turned to follow the path of Galahad and Gawain, feeling the heat of Guinevere's eyes on his back as he rode away into the thick white snow.
Women dream too…
