Authors notes: Thank you for all the reviews. Hope you enjoy this…
OO
Lancelot slowly came back to awareness and his senses instantly picked up that someone was sat next to him. Opening his eyes was hard as the darkness was so appealing, he didn't have to think about his life and the state of it. Sweet oblivion. He needed a drink or something to numb all this. Perhaps if it wasn't Arthur he could get the person to get him some ale… I bloody hope it is not Crassus.
He cracked his eyes open and saw Tristan carving something into a strip of leather.
"Four hours." The scout said without looking up from his work. Lancelot's head hurt and it hurt worse as he tried to figure out what Tristan had said.
"What?" he whispered hoarsely.
"You were unconscious for four hours. I'd thought I would pre-empt your inevitable question." Tristan's mouth curled in a slight smile.
Lancelot coughed harshly and moaned. Apparently his body had purged his system but he was still so weak and in pain. He felt hands grab at his shoulders and a cup placed at lips.
"Drink. Slowly." Tristan commanded softly. That's all I can bloody do Lancelot thought annoyed at his weakness.
Tristan laid him back down and he picked up the knife and leather again.
"Arthur?"
"Dealing with some Romans."
"Why are you here?"
"Didn't want to drink."
It became quiet again. Lancelot shifted slightly to try and move his limbs. He was getting sore, well sorer than he already was. Luckily his body was exhausted from those few words and he fell back asleep.
-
It was dark when he next awoke and Tristan was only visible in a shadowed form by the flickering of a candle.
"Got nothing better to do?" he croaked. Tristan shrugged.
"It's raining."
Lancelot smiled. Rain never bothered Tristan before…probably too many Romans about. He watched as the scout continued working the leather.
"What is it?" he asked after a few minutes. Granted he was happy that no one was asking how he felt but it was boring just lying there.
"Freedom."
The knight frowned in confusion but let the questioning drop. Tristan could never be forced to reveal anything until the time came that he wanted to. With a sigh he lifted his arm and contemplated the scar. It was too dark to see it properly but he could still trace the raised skin. Frustrated tears welled and he bit his lip hard to prevent a sound from emerging. He swallowed convulsively to try and dislodge the lump that had formed in his throat.
Overwhelming relief at the fact that Tristan was there swept through him. He would not ask questions, what was wrong? How did he feel? This emotion was replaced by anger at himself. He had cried or been on the verge of tears more times in the past few days than he had been for many many years, in fact since he had trained and even then he did it when he was alone.
"You don't have to stay here." He whispered at Tristan hoping that his weakness of mind was not transmitted through his voice.
"It is raining." The scout replied.
"Where are the others?"
"Drinking."
"So I drove them to drink?" he murmured and sighed again.
"They don't need encouragement."
A flash from the blade of Tristan's knife caught his attention. He watched closely as the scout scratched a design on the leathers surface. Lancelot found himself thinking that it was his skin and the scar. His fingers dug into his flesh until it bled. He needed the knife.
"Is there anything to eat?" he asked. Tristan froze.
"Not here." The scout didn't look at him but Lancelot knew Tristan realised what he was asking of him.
"I'm hungry."
Tristan placed the leather down on the table next to Lancelot's head carefully.
"Jols or Vanora will bring you something." He replied and he watched Lancelot's reaction. He knew the knight wanted his knife, Lancelot had been watching him too closely for it to be of only casual interest.
"Can you get me something?"
Tristan was torn. Lancelot's intention was clear to him and it was up to him to decide his fate. If it was him he wouldn't have waited so long but Lancelot was not like him. Arthur and the others would not be happy if he did as he was being requested but he was not here to please anyone and they clearly didn't understand either of them as they had been left alone. Arthur hadn't realised the depth of Lancelot's feelings, Arthur had misjudged the knight and he was the one who supposedly knew him the best. He didn't. Lancelot talked to him and Arthur talked back but if Arthur thought that meant he was close to Lancelot he was a fool. They all did what they had to do to survive, adapt their personality and hide their true face. Lancelot was right; the Romans cared little for them except how many and how quickly they could kill. When that is all that is expected of you after a while that is all that you give. Tristan would never return home and neither would Lancelot; it would taint their memories for nothing could ever be how they dreamed it would be and why ruin the one good they had left.
Tristan fingered his knife and twirled it in his hand watching the play of light across its surface. Raising his eyes he met the brown of Lancelot's and handed him the knife.
"I shall go and see what Vanora has."
"Thank you." Tristan held Lancelot's gaze and saw the gratitude within them. As the scout rose he picked up the piece of leather and handed it to the knight. Lancelot grasped it and for a brief moment their hand's touched. Again their eyes met.
"You are not tainted or weak. You are Lancelot a knight of Sarmatia and no one will ever change that. I hope you find the peace you seek."
Tristan was out of the room before Lancelot could even begin to form a reply. Gripping the knife securely he struggled into a sitting position. He took two deep breaths and held the knife over the scar. Just as he pressed down he saw the design on Tristan's gift. A horse and hawk with the Sarmatian word for freedom. The leather was just the right shape and width to be secured around his wrist covering the scar. For a moment he released the pressure on the knife and then dropped it onto the floor listening to the clank as it echoed through the room.
"Coward" he whispered bitterly and the tears flowed unimpeded.
When Tristan returned to the room twenty minutes later with a plate of food he saw Lancelot was facing the wall, his knife on the floor. From the irregular rising and falling of Lancelot's back he could tell the knight was not dead or even sleeping. For most people at that moment they would have been overwhelmed with joy but not Tristan. He regretted giving Lancelot the gift. It probably only postponed the knight's decision, Lancelot would find another way, another time, another reason. The issue had not been resolved here. Christianity said that the taking of ones own life was a sin and Arthur would have struggled with the fact had Lancelot done it. Maybe Lancelot was thinking of Arthur, a man who found guilt in almost every action he undertook. However, this was probably not the case in this circumstance and Lancelot had not been thinking about anyone else but himself. Tristan could think up all sorts of scenarios in an attempt to explain what had happened in this room but none would be the right one. This was known to Lancelot alone. Maybe the knight had not wanted to die and when faced with the decision he baulked but that would imply cowardice and fear of death something which he knew Lancelot could not be accused of. Maybe it was the manner of the death, in a dark room all alone when Sarmatian knights were taught to want a glorious death on the field of battle. Perhaps that is what Lancelot wanted and would try and achieve.
With a shrug of his shoulders he sat back down, picked up the knife, wiped off the thin sliver of blood showing how close Lancelot had come and began peeling an apple. Whatever the reason it was not for him to dwell on.
The door banged open to admit the rest of their comrades obviously a bit worse for wear shattering the sombre, depressive mood.
"LANCELOT!" Bors roared. "We brought ale and dice. Fancy a game."
Tristan watched as Lancelot seemed to take a deep breath and he turned his ever ready smirk plastered across his features.
"Looking to lose are we?" he said cockily as he drew himself up looking almost like the old Lancelot but when Tristan caught his eyes he saw the barely concealed angst and shame which the others were either too drunk or unaware of to notice. Lancelot spoke the truth when he said no one knew him and only because Tristan watched could he see a fraction of the man that Lancelot was. As the knights settled down to play, laughing uproariously at something Lancelot had said, Tristan rose to his feet and placed his knife on the table. Lancelot saw the move and looked straight at him. He was still laughing but his eyes swirled with too many emotions for Tristan to name. They held the gaze for a few brief seconds. Then as if making a secret pact they nodded. They would not utter a word as to what happened in this room this night.
Tristan left shutting the door behind him and saw Arthur stood outside. Arthur looked exhausted but scanned him with a deep penetrating gaze and at that moment Tristan realised that Arthur knew everything. The Roman sighed, closed his eyes, took one last look at the closed door from where raucous sounds continued to emerge and turned away. He strode away into the night leaving Tristan with nothing to do but do the same.
OO