Lancelot was sitting on his bed, fully dressed, his armour in place, the only light in the room coming from the small oil lamp burning on the table. He busied himself with cleaning his sword, the one that had been used to kill the Romanus family. He had cleaned it the previous evening as well, and the evening before that. It was already shining, with no traces of blood left, but the dark knight didn't relinquish his labour of cleaning the blade. No matter how much he polished it, he couldn't get rid of the bad vibes surrounding it.
Ire, rage, fury were burning inside of him, but he knew he had to control his temper for just a little while longer. He felt like hitting something, throwing anything. He had wrapped black clothes around both of his hands as his knuckles were already raw and bruised from the many times he had hit his solid wooden door or the stone walls. But right now he didn't want to alert anyone in the fortress to the fact that he was wide awake even though it was in the middle of the night. So he kept himself occupied with cleaning the already clean sword.
He hadn't expected much of the inquiry. His long experience with the Romans told him that they were all talk, no action. Especially not since they were working on the assumption that he was guilty of murdering the Romanuses, despite Arthur's best attempts to convince them otherwise, despite all the other knights testifying that he had not gone anywhere near the carriage during the battle. The Romans had asked the others how they could be so certain if they were involved in fierce fighting themselves? The underlying threat of being accused of being his accomplishes in the murders had silenced his fellow knights effectively. Of course, he had all heard this from his brothers-in-arms themselves, because no one had asked his opinion about what had occurred yet. Although that might be best, he considered, because he wasn't so certain that he would be able to control his anger and his temper when faced with those bloody Romans, arrogant fools. He wasn't sure though why he hadn't been asked to tell his 'side' of the story. He wouldn't put it behind Arthur to attempt to protect him against himself in such a way. Lancelot smiled slightly in the dark. That was definitely something Arthur would do for him.
He hadn't even seen much of Arthur, who was more busy with the inquiry than anything else. He knew that. And he was grateful for it. As he was grateful that Arthur did seek him out every evening. To lend him his unwavering support. To offer a listening ear. To give him a target on which to unleash his seething anger.
He had spent most of his time in his room, angry, brooding, not in the mood for company. On the first day after the Romanus family had been killed, Gawain and Galahad had come to his room and convinced him to come with them to the tavern for dinner, ale and games. They had said that he needed some fresh air and a change of environment to clear his thoughts. The air in the tavern had turned foul the moment he had entered. Conversations had died down at first, but started up again soon. He caught many a word along the meaning of murderer, traitor. He had stayed through dinner, feeling the stares of Roman soldiers burning into his back. He had retreated to his room without a word, none of his fellow knights stopping him. He felt like an outcast. His blood had been boiling by the time he had reached his room. Somehow Arthur had found his way there only minutes later. His chair hadn't survived the assault of being thrown against the wall as the older man had tried to calm him down a little. The pity and pain in his commander's eyes had only fueled his fury further.
On the second day he knew that Gawain and Galahad had been right, that he did need some fresh air to clear his head and collect his thoughts. He had gone to the stables early in the morning, and saddled his black stallion for a ride outside the fortress. The Roman guards at the gates had refused to open them. Jols had already sent someone to alert Arthur, and his commander had interfered before he could kill the guards at the gates with his twin swords. Arthur was the one that had told him then that he wasn't allowed to leave. He had clenched his teeth, not wanting to blame his closest friend and she knew Arthur was only helping him. He had stalked off, back to his room, his body shaking with raving rage. Slamming the door shut, he had conveyed clearly to Arthur and his fellow knights to keep their distance. He hadn't slept at all during the night after that day.
On the third day he had joined his fellow knights for breakfast. He had been quiet, unusually quiet. He had been too absorbed in his own thoughts to be aware of how much it unnerved his friends. That day he had made the decision that he couldn't take it anymore, the decision to find out for himself what had happened. It was obvious to him that the Romans, with the exception of Arthur, were not seeking the truth. He had stayed in his room all day, not speaking with anyone. He had heard several knocks on his door, first Gawain and Galahad, later Dagonet, then Tristan, all concerned about him, but he had not answered. When Arthur came in the evening, he opened his door, knowing that the Roman would break it down or kick it in, out of concern for him, if he didn't respond. They had talked for a little while, but he hadn't really felt like talking. The worry etched on Arthur's face hadn't escaped him, but he had bit his tongue and not told the older man about his decision.
Finally the light of the moon appeared from behind the clouds, casting a veiled light into his room. He sheathed the shining sword in his hand in the scabbard on his back, rejoining the twin swords for the first time since it had been returned to him. He stood up, threw his saddle bag over his shoulder, and walked towards the door to his room. He opened it slowly, and looked up and down the hallway first, before stepping outside. He closed the door behind him again, careful not to make a sound.
Lancelot arrived at the stables without meeting anyone. The dark Sarmatian opened the door to his stallion's stall, and quickly proceeded to saddle him. It was like the big horse realized that he too had to keep quiet as not to alarm anyone to his rider's presence within the stables. Lancelot stroked the neck of the black horse tenderly. "Good boy. You won't mind stretching your legs a bit either, will you?" He checked one more time whether he had everything he needed before he led his mount out off the stall.
Lancelot's hand went to the swords at his back instantly as he saw a figure looming up next to him. He halted the movement, but his hand remained on the hilt of his sword when he recognized Galahad leading his white horse out of the stall next to his own. Immediately he noticed that Galahad was dressed in his armour, alike himself. For once, the curly haired Sarmatian was stunned into silence. He just stared as the youngest of the knights directed a crooked grin at him.
"Arthur asked us to hold watch at the stables every night. Two of us have been here each night, ready to leave, with our horses ready as well," Galahad explained, amused by the perplexed look on the dark knight's face. "I guess Arthur knows you better than you know yourself," he chuckled while mounting his horse.
Lancelot swiftly mounted as well.
Galahad kicked his horse in her flanks briefly to follow Lancelot and his black stallion out of the stables. "How do you intend to get out?" he asked curiously.
"The old way," Lancelot answered, speaking up for the first time. After living in the fortress for more than ten years, he knew all ins and outs better than most.
Galahad followed quietly.
Soon they were outside the walls of the fortress. Lancelot kept them in the shadow of the walls for as long as possible, before he urged his horse on to more speed, galloping away from the fortress at a slow pace to keep the sounds of the hooves to a minimum, although they were barely visible in the hazy light that the moon provided.
Galahad caught up with Lancelot easily. They rode together, side by side, in silence at first. When they were far enough from the wall, Galahad turned sideways to glance at Lancelot. The other man looked weary and drawn, but with a determined look on his face. "Where are we going?" he asked in a low voice.
"To pay a visit to the Woads," came the calm reply.
"What?"
Lancelot repeated his answer. "To pay a visit to the Woads."
"I heard you the first time!" Galahad replied in exasperation.
Lancelot spurred his horse on to full speed, galloping off, away from the younger knight.
"Lancelot!"
Galahad shook his head and went after the dark knight.
