Blood in the water… he had seen that before- a couple times if he were being honest- but one time in particular that stood out. The one death he had loved executing, he didn't like killing, he was just depressingly good at it. This death, Arthur didn't know about-could never know about-it was a task he had taken one night when his commander was otherwise engaged.
He was sure Arthur would hate him if the story ever came out, not that he thought it would; that ship had long ago sailed. So why was he thinking about that now of all times, as he washed the blood from his battle worn body.
The water then had turned black with the Roman's blood and other bodily fluids, the smell had been horrible. The man had been horrible, truly horrible. But he had been killed from behind, the way a coward would kill someone. Lancelot wasn't supposed to be a coward.
He had lost Arthur today, maybe that was it. He had felt that the other man was slipping through his fingers ever since they saved that Roman family, ever since they saved those Woads. The journey back-their freedom- had been so long in coming. But it had happened, Dagonet had died today.
One of his brothers had died beneath the snowy and cold waters of this ancient, unforgiving land that wasn't their own. Lancelot was a Roman fighter no longer, he was Sarmatian, he was free and he was going home. Arthur wasn't though, Arthur was staying- for this land that they had fought in for so long, for that woman who had captured his heart.
He had watched Arthur follow her into the trees the first night, had arisen himself and listened to the conversation with the Woad leader, Merlin.
Arthur was staying and Lancelot was leaving.
He had not expected it
to turn out this way, he didn't know how he had expected it to turn
out, but it wasn't this way. He didn't even get a goodbye, just a
few scattered angry words that he had tried to take back. He had even
approached the door to take back, but that was when his heart had
shattered. After all, there was someone else in Arthur's bed
tonight.
He hated her. Lancelot had hated her since he saw her,
since Arthur had seen her; since Arthur fell in love with her.
Woad.
Woman.
Lover.
Those words used to mean so much and now they meant so little.
This is why he thought of that death, the secret that lay between him and his former commander. This is why he was in the Roman baths with the lights as low as possible, no servants in there, not paying attention to the form that had slipped into the room behind him, a blade glinting in the remaining lamp light.
It had not been her name that Arthur had called out tonight, his eyes had been closed and his lips had brushed across her shoulder, but he spoke someone else's name and opened his eyes to watch her in such a confused manner that she merely kissed him and watched him fall asleep. It wasn't just her that he loved.
The other was in front of her now, sitting alone in the bath, unmoving, with his head ducked and breathing painful.
His throat beneath her cold blade now, bringing him to swift attention.
"Bitch…"
"I
should say the same of you, Lancelot."
" You plan on killing
me?"
She watched him for a moment, keeping the blade pressed firmly to his skin before answering, "You hate me."
"What does that matter?"
"You love him."
His expression was that of something broken, after he had been freed this afternoon, his voice loosing its anger, "Again, what does that matter now. He's chosen you."
Lancelot saw her pause at his words, the blade shaving up his skin, closer to his jaw. Then he saw her smile, felt the softness of her hair caress his face as she shook her head, "No… no he didn't. Not just me. But why can't a man that great choose us both?"
Then she straightened and left the room as silently as she had entered, leaving Lancelot there in water that was suddenly very cold.
It's funny how things change, people choose one way when they could have chosen another one. Such small and seemingly inconsequential choices could destroy the world or save lives. They are so small though, taking only a moment worth of time before it is done, that even the person making these choices would not know how different the world could have been, if only they had stopped to smell just one more of the new blooming flowers growing in a field.
Guinevere had stayed up all that night, seeing that broken expression in Lancelot's eyes whenever she closed hers, instead of sleeping with Arthur till he awoke. She wouldn't have left him to search out the other man if he had called out her name and she would have been just a tiny bit more aware, would have fought a couple more Saxons and ultimately engaged the wrong one.
Lancelot would not have gone back to Arthur if Guinevere had still been there-if she had never come to kill him-. He would have never crept into Arthur's room if he hadn't stayed awake on that fateful night so long ago and if he had never known about Arthur's love. He would have waited until the sun had risen in the sky and his commander's form was silhouetted against the morning mist rising to gather his weapons and stand against the invading Saxons. Instead, when Arthur awoke to the grim knowledge that this would be his last day- and his beautiful Knights would be riding away from him- Lancelot was sitting on a chair, watching him.
"Its time to dance, isn't it love?"
It was his dream; he could see it all in his mind. The Saxons beyond the wall- the woads their allies in this time- his lover sitting astride his battle charger watching the remaining knights canter into place besides the two of them. Arthur was supposed to die in his dream, if he sat back and watched him. Or him, if he fought. He didn't understand how the connections were made, but he was free this day- and so he would die free, die so that the other man could live.
The slaughter began with the pounding of horse hooves that any survivors would claim to be the beating of the hearts of demons and gods.
Something had changed
today, Guinevere thought as she stood amongst the death and ruin of
the battle. So many things had changed, but something wasn't quite
right. The spirits were telling her this, that the world was
different than it really should have been.
"You fight alright,
for a woad." the cocky, arrogant voice behind her broke through her
introspection.
She understood then,
turning to look at a dirty, bloody but healthy Lancelot and sheathed
her blades, "You fight alright for a Roman mercenary."
He
glared at her for a moment, sheathing his own two swords, "I am
Sarmatian today, Guinevere. This wasn't Rome fighting with you;
this was Arthur and his men fighting with you."
"Aye, we are truly free today." Tristan said softly as he approached, still idly twirling his sword, "we start a new life."
Lancelot laughed at that, turning to the other man and slinging an arm over his shoulder, watching Guinevere thoughtfully, "Tristan doesn't really know the concept of life without death. He's the downer of the group"
"And Lancelot is the idiot."
Arthur paused as he approached the group of his knights speaking to Guinevere. He took count twice to be sure. They were all alive. The voice in the back of his head stubbornly listed off the others that had died before this day, but his Knights, the ones that were free- truly free- were all there in front of him.
"My brothers, we start a new world."
