Memories
As the sun rose, the mountains cast their shadows upon the wagons and caravans leading away from Hadrian's Wall. No longer did Roman soldiers march along the Wall, ready to raise the alarm in case of approaching Saxons. They were all gone, escorting the villagers to the nearest safe settlement. Gradually, the sun penetrated the mist, casting light on the droplets of morning dew that hung upon every blade of grass. Smoke rose from the abandoned campfires, enveloping itself within the morning mist.
Lancelot squinted into the sun and saw a lone figure on top of Badon Hill. Arthur. Why did he have to be so stubborn and stay where only certain death awaits him? Why would he not take the freedom that had been given to him? Why?
As the beating of the Saxon drums marked the approaching enemy, Lancelot's mare reared, anxious to join the fight. As he calmed her down, he knew what must be done. He looked around at him, at his brothers-in-arms, and saw that they agreed. They would fight one last battle. For Arthur. For each other. For honor and loyalty. As Lancelot got suited up, he looked around him. The sun burst through the mist and Lancelot closed his eyes, and then opened them, expecting to see the meadows of grass from home. Like that morning, and all mornings before, he was disappointed to be greeted with the sight of accursed stone and brick, shielding his eyes from the world beyond. Lancelot sighed and ran his callused hand through his curly hair. It was just another memory. Slowly and wearily, he dressed in his armor and lifted himself onto his horse. He breathed in the sweet morning air and looked around him. It was as if he was living in two separate worlds. On his left, was hell, filled with death and sorrow. On his right, was heaven, overflowing with freedom and joy. There were fields of grass, stretching from horizon to horizon and there was the never-ending sky. No boundaries whatsoever.
Lancelot galloped up Badon Hill, eager to join Arthur. As he turned around and looked at him, Lancelot knew that he had done the right thing. Arthur was one of the few reasons why Lancelot decided not to return home. He wanted to be there with him, in his time of need. Lancelot wanted to help him through one final task, so that he and his commander could return home…that Arthur could see his wish granted…of finally having peace.
The Saxons were ready all too early for Lancelot's liking. On top of the hill, Lancelot gripped his gold standard tightly, his palm slipping on the metal. He cursed himself. Why should he be nervous? This was like any other battle. Quietly, he uttered a short prayer to Arthur's god, telling Him that he would convert if He lets Lancelot live through this. He finished off his prayer just before Arthur signaled the attack. Yelling, Lancelot kicked his horse to a full gallop and raced towards the Saxons. With the wind in his face and the sun at his back, Lancelot was reminded of home and of his childhood when he would race horses with his father. They set no boundaries and would only retire once the sun had set. He could see his father's face of glee and hear his own voice urging his horse to go faster. Once more he heard the pant of his horse and his victorious cries as he beat his father once more. He saw the stars lighting up the night sky and felt the weight of his father's arm upon his shoulder as they returned to their home. The memory dimmed as Lancelot heard the ringing clash of steel upon steel. Bracing himself, he rode into the midst of the battle and jumped off his horse, drawing his sword as he jumped.
Lancelot was clearly the most skilled fighter in the legion. He danced a dance of death with his sword as his partner. He took no pleasure in killing, for he killed only in self defense. Lancelot wanted to return home, and in order to do so, he must survive all obstacles that came his way, no matter how large or dangerous it was. To some soldiers, the metal sound of steel upon armor was music, but not to Lancelot. Surrounded by swords being brought down upon one another he remembered those dark, cold winter nights at home. He and his family would sit around the fireplace, listening to his mother play the lyre. Such beautiful and melodic music from a crude instrument…only his mother was able to coax it out. She would strum the lyre and sing tales of their forefathers. Her voice was soft like lamb's wool and sweet like ripe bee's honey. The ringing of metal woke Lancelot to reality once more, just in time for him to swing up his blade to meet that of his Saxon foe. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and grunted as he maneuvered the blade to block the downswing of his opponent's. Then, he manipulated the movement of his sword so that it became a metal snake that kissed the Saxon's throat.
Stepping away from the limp body, Lancelot remembered the day he had said farewell to his childhood, the day he first killed a man. It came just months after he had left his home to complete his charge as a Roman soldier. He was only twelve years old; he was still just a boy. Lancelot remembered his mother's tears that coursed down her cheeks in steady rivers. He recalled the overly bright eyes of his sister as she struggled to keep her emotions contained. He heard his father's voice crack as he told Lancelot to hurry home. Lancelot remembered his eyes burning with unshed tears and biting down upon his trembling lower lip, lest he would say anything that would cause his family further pain over his leaving.
His memories blindsided Lancelot, and as he shook his head to relieve his mind of them, an arrow went though his armor, piercing his heart. He tasted blood in his mouth and heard agonized cries around him. Somehow, he found the inner strength to kill the bloody Saxon before he sank down to the grass. Darkness evaded him and his will to fight was gone. Lancelot gave up and surrendered his soul to the light that pushed the darkness back.
Arthur took Lancelot in his arms, feeling the coldness of the metal, of the blood matting his hair, and took in the sight of Lancelot's white, skin, marred by the redness of his blood. "Lancelot! No!" He sobbed, burying his face against Lancelot's limp body. "You have fought with me for more than half of your life. You were and always will be my most honorable and skilled knight. Not once have you ever done a single thing to betray Rome, your brothers-in-arms, or me."
Arthur lifted his head, and in a tear-stricken voice he whispered, "You are free now. Be at peace my brother. Watch over those who will make the journey after you."
Lancelot watched from above, and placed the ghostly remembrance of his hand on Arthur's armor. "Arthur, you are the most honorable of all Romans, and it was my privilege to fight along your side. May the gods watch over you and protect you my commander…my brother."
As Lancelot faded, he whispered the words he had longed to say for eternity. "I've been away for so long. I'm ready to go home." And, as Lancelot waned away with the warmth of the sun on his back, he remembered the love of his mother. Her affection for her children and husband was untouchable. No matter what he did, she always loved him and protected him no matter what. And now, he was returning home to her, his father, brother and sister. Now, he would protect them, watch over them. No more memories, no more thoughts, for in a little while, he will be home. And this time, to stay.