"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear" - Ambrose Redmoon
He had always, deep down, wondered how hot fire really was. How the searing, burning, flames could destroy so much, in so little time. And yet it was strange about fire, it could be used as perhaps the most dangerous weapon, and yet, it was also a source of light when it was dark, and warmth when it was cold.
But now it was neither pitch black, or cold out, and Lancelot had no wish to feel the heat of the fire. But he had backed into a trap, as he noticed now, when it was too late. And it seemed to him that he had two choices: throw himself head first into the battle raging before him, or back into the fire that would consume him.
He did not particularly find either choice appealing, for both would almost surely result in his death.
But Lancelot could not see any other options left to him, at least none that a sane man would take.
And then it dawned on him that Arthur and whoever the man was were inside the burning house, and his heart skipped a beat.
Gods, what was he supposed to do now?
He had never (ever!) in his life been in such a situation. Except...
Five years earlier.
Summer's heat covering the land like wool blanket.
Lighting striking the dry grasses.
A single spark.
One flash.
And suddenly the village (his village!) was playing host to the merciless blazes of the orange flames licking hungrily at the huts.
No!
He would not (could not!) think about that now. He would loose whatever wits, whatever courage he had managed to muster.
But he took a step back too far, and the flames seared his ankle. Crying out in anguish, Lancelot blinked hard so as to keep the tears from falling.
Screaming.
The cries of a small child.
His mother.
His sister.
In their hut. The same hut that had just caught fire.
People running past him, in slow motion it seemed. Smoke distorting his vision, the crackling of the fire like the evil laughter of death.
"NO!" Cried the eight year old Lancelot trying to get to his house, but being pushed back every second by a fleeing villager.
Fire.
So much fire.
But he would not think about that now! He had to keep his cool, and try to think of what to do.
Had it only been a minute since Arthur had left him? Surely it could not have been more. Why wasn't he dead?
Because, a voice in his head told him, you know what to do.
Nobody was coming after him anymore.
But how had that happened?
Moments ago they had been charging him full speed, weapons drawn, and ready! He himself was still holding the two daggers out before him!
And then he realized that it didn't matter anymore. That all that mattered was back beyond the flames of the town, and inside the burning house behind him.
Suddenly another option was opened to him, and Lancelot found it more difficult than the last, even. He could flee, escape, and run back to the other Sarmatians. On the way perhaps he could alert an officer, and besides, the battle would not last forever he could-
(abandon Arthur...)
-see if Tristan knew what to do. Galahad would be fine. He would be!
But than that would mean leaving Arthur to certain death. He couldn't do that, could he? But he hardly knew this Roman-
(leave another to die...)
-And he was just that, a Roman! What had the Romans ever done to Lancelot but kill members of his family, take him away from his home-
(already did it once...)
-And brought him here!
But he knew that he would never do that. He could never abandon someone who had meant only help to him, to certain death. Never.
And then the memories came back.
He was eight. Eight years old.
Not fast enough.
Not strong enough.
And it was so smoky. It hurt his throat, stung his nose. He couldn't see. Couldn't see anything but black, gray smoke.
He had tried (he had!) to get to his mother, to his sister. He had run as fast as he could and had gotten to the hut, but the door was locked (it was!) and the small hole to open it was engulfed in flames.
"I can't open it!" He had screamed. "Help!"
But nobody had helped him.
And then tears had distorted his vision even more than the smoke had and he did not see, only felt, a strong hand lift him. He was aware that he was being carried away, aware that he was crying and kicking to be put down.
"NO!" Lancelot shouted at himself. Stop thinking about that.
And without another glance at the battle he turned sharply on his heels and ran for the door of the house. The flames licked at his heels, but he dodged them, hurdling over the blazes.
He yanked open the singed door, and instantly his vision left him, stolen by the thick gray smoke. His chest was attacked by sharp and painful coughs, the smoke angrily enveloping him.
"ARTHUR!" He managed to choke. But no one answered so he kept walking. Hand stretched before him, as if to ward off flames.
"Lancelot?" Came a small voice, somewhere, somewhere in the house. He barely heard it, but Lancelot tried to follow it, squinting.
"Arthur?" He answered, coughing harder.
"Over here!" Arthur cried, and Lancelot could hear him coughing too. And then something was in front of him and Lancelot felt himself fall.
He could hardly see anything at all. He couldn't breath, couldn't hear, and couldn't smell, all he could do was blindly crawl. Crawl towards Arthur. Crawl towards his commander.
He knew that it was getting to him. The fire. It was like his own battle. He, Lancelot, versus the fire. And it was going to win if he didn't get to Arthur, and get out soon.
"Arthur! Where are you?" He cried out desperately. And he heard a sound to his right and followed it, hoping against hope that-
(he was carried away...)
-He wasn't too late.
"Lancelot!" Said Arthur, as they finally got to each other. Lancelot coughed, he couldn't stop, and took Arthur's hand to pull in too his feet.
"We need to get out of here!" Lancelot choked between coughs.
"He's not here!" Cried Arthur, distressed. "I looked and I looked, but I can't find him! I can't find him!"
"He's probably outside!" Lancelot answered, trying to be like Tristan, and stay calm.
And Lancelot was relieved when Arthur nodded (or, at least, Lancelot thought he did, but it was near impossible to see through the smoke.
Together they ducked down, and ran towards the exit. Towards the air, uncontaminated with the clutches and stink of fire.
Lancelot had pleaded (begged!) the men to go back and free his sister and mother.
Tears fell down his face like waterfalls.
He had left them to die!
He was nearly a man, his father had said.
A man didn't abandon his family!
So Lancelot had wept. He didn't know what else to do.
And so it was by some miracle that he felt his mother's arms around him. Some miracle that his baby sister was placed beside him. Some miracle that his father somehow enveloped all of them in one giant hug, calling Lancelot so brave.
Calling him brave.
He had tried to tell his parents that no (no!) he was not that brave, that he had let them carry him to safety. While his own family was left at the mercy of the fire. But they did not hear him.
Guilt, he had found out, was perhaps more powerful than fire. For it was not extinguished when the rain began to fall.
Or when the tears did.
"We're out!" Arthur exclaimed, shaking Lancelot from his memory. "We're free!"
And they were.
It seemed even, that the battle outside was slowly dieing down. That maybe, finally, perhaps the night would be over soon.
And that his life as knight would finally start.
But then Lancelot looked back, hearing the crash and realizing that the roof of the house had fallen in, and he realized that really, his old life had ended. The memories ended. They surely didn't matter now?
His new life had begun.
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A/N: Thank you so much to the reviewers! I wish I could thank you all individually, but I really have to go now! New chapter up tomorrow! More dialogue in that one, and I'll post the thanks from last chapter then.
Anni