i. The bite on my cheek is no tattoo either
Lancelot dreams of running free, alone and carefree without blood on his hands, back to his home on the steppes. He dreams of a land that stretches endless to the sky, empty and cold and ready to be filled with the ghosts of his past. Arthur tells him of Rome, beautiful and glittering, slowly rotting from the inside, and Lancelot cannot see what he sees in such a place.
"I dream of my home before battle." He tells Arthur late at night, tongue loosened by poorly-fermented wine and the stench of death all around them. "If I die, I want to die with that in my mind, not this rotten excuse for a land. I want to be free to roam and wander where my horse goes, not be chained by one man's command in a far away country…." He drifts off, staring into the bottom of the wineskin, not knowing how to make Arthur understand.
Across from him Arthur shifts, the cot under them creaking slightly. "Someday we will be free." He says softly, green eyes glinting in the light of the fire. Unconsciously Lancelot reaches for the talisman his sister gave him a decade before, rubbing his fingers across the worn charm. Arthur stills his hand with his own, plucking the rabbit's foot from his hand. "And you will not need this anymore."
Lancelot wants to believe him, but finds he cannot, though he spends hours contemplating Arthur's words. He settles for hiding the charm in his tunic, out of Arthur's sight, and ceases speaking of it to him, instead throws Arthur's talk of God back at him. It is not just a charm anymore; it is his way across the vast mass of nothingness that separates him from the steppes and his freedom, his beacon through the darkness of the long journey back to his home.
ii. It's where the tickle-feather took root
Guinevere dreams of a day when there will be nothing but the land and her people. In her dreams there is silence save for the whisper of the wind in the trees, the caress of the land on her feet as she pads through the cloak of night. She dreams in shades of blue and gray, the woad of her waking hours staining even her sleep.
"Barbaric practice." Lancelot sneers at her one day, seated across from her in front of her wagon, chewing a piece of dried meat. His eyes glint like a wild animal, reminding her of a cornered fox she caught as a child. She traces her fingers across the tattoo on her arm, swirls of blue across her skin marking her as one of the forest-dwellers, always silent and listening to the voice of her people deep in the heart of the land.
The moonlight is cold against her skin, and she moves closer to the fire to warm herself, baring her teeth in something akin to a grin. "Perhaps. But I at least don't need a hare's foot to remind me of what will one day be my destiny."
Lancelot gives her a wolfish grin, leaving his eyes cold and hard in the dim light. "We all need something to remind ourselves of that."
Guinevere looks away into the darkness outside their camp and ignores the understanding in his voice. He knows nothing of freedom, slave he is to another's dogma. He will never truly understand the protection the feel of the woad gives her, anchoring her to her home. Without that she is merely human, unable to protect what is rightfully hers. She will paint herself and fight for her country, her land, her freedom, and none shall tame her.
iii. So don't make small potatoes of it
Arthur dreams of a day when everything shall be the way it was meant to be. War will cease to exist and his men will scatter to the winds, back to where their homes lie, and he shall follow, the call of Rome and God strong. He dreams of a time when no one will have to rely on luck and charms to change their destiny, when God will be a fact rather than a belief, and he will be clean and purged of his sins.
"All people, regardless of race or religion deserve to be equal." He tells Lancelot and Guinevere, seated between them on the edge of camp. Behind them his men sing of home and battles won and lost, and Arthur wants nothing more than for them to be free to do as they please. He reaches out a hand to each, tethering them and supporting them, one hand on Lancelot's knee and the other's on Guinevere's.
"So long as they bow before the empire that is Rome." Lancelot says bitterly, tired and sick of fighting.
"And distance themselves from everything but the taste of greed." Guinevere continues, staring out towards Hadrian's Wall with an unreadable expression.
Arthur sits straight between them, the tie that binds the three of them, the only person Lancelot and Guinevere will ever love selflessly and without thought. "Some day we will be nothing more than people." He sighs, and draws them closer to him. "And there will be no more charms or superstitions, for we will make our own destiny and shape our own freedom."
"And for now?" Lancelot asks, unconsciously reaching for the rabbit's foot beneath his clothing. Guinevere digs her toes into the soil before her, nods, feels the itch of woad dry on her skin
Arthur smiles. "For now-- we have our promise of freedom."
And he does not understand Lancelot's need for the feel of his sister's charm, nor Guinevere's habit of adorning herself with woad, but he does not need to. They will believe what they believe, and so shall he, and one day they will fight side by side for the chance to one day truly understand each other. They are his talisman, and for that he does not begrudge them theirs.