Lone Mission

Chapter One: Orders

"Open the gate—now!"

The call rang clearly in the thawing April air. It woke Lancelot from his dreamless sleep, eyes snapping open as though he had overslept and was now late for some important event. But the sun was not breaking through his thin curtains, nor was any other sign of daylight. The fireplace on the far end of his quarters still glowed brightly and he knew from the heaviness of his eyelids that he had not been asleep very long.

"Alert the next watch to be prepared for his return," a different voice demanded.

Lancelot pushed himself up by his arms, landing both feet on the wooden floor with a single, quaking thud. He searched the length of Hadrian's Wall with his eyes before turning to the gates. The commotion had already settled but the darkness could not shroud the lone figure thundering away from the Wall. In the pale quarter-moon light, Arthur Castus' white horse gleamed. Even as he reached the tree line, a white dash could be seen in between the thick foliage and brambles. Arthur was riding alone.

Confused and curious, Lancelot swung his breastplate over his shoulder and hurried down the torch-lit hallway. He nearly woke his brother knights to inquire about Arthur's strange mission, but left them to their snoring. If they knew anything of this, surely the Roman's first knight would have been informed as well.

The air of the stable was stale and chilling to Lancelot's lungs as he hurried to saddle his bay stallion. As sleep continued to file its cobwebs away, the unusualness of the situation crept into Lancelot's ears, dusting his mind with trepidation.

"Never leave one another alone. None of us—" he always glared at Lancelot—"none of us are invincible. Fight as you live: in brotherhood…" Their commander had always said.

Arthur wasn't particularly taken with hypocrisy.

Lancelot spurred his horse through the gate, bolting across the lightly fogged plain towards the still, black forest. The breeze was still in winter's clutch, but there was in it a fragrance of lilac and jasmine—hints of the spring. The fog thickened considerably as the trees engulfed the team, forcing Lancelot to slow the horse to a restless trot. Brambles picked at his bare hands and cheeks; he waved uselessly in front of him, unable to see where he reached. Eventually, the stallion's sides did not push so forcefully outward on Lancelot's legs and the knight could hone his ears in on clues his eyes were restricted from.

He knew Arthur couldn't have gained too much ground on him due to the fog and the tangled wood. The wind was leaving the fog in dense pockets, occasionally giving him clear visibility. Lancelot thought of calling out to the Roman but quickly abandoned the idea. He had heard a faint stumbling ahead and the clop of a horses' hooves on the mossy floor that was not his own. Lancelot sat frozen atop his halted steed—listening, listening. The fog hugged him again as he slid silently off of his mount. He knew, as every one of his senses pulsed, that just before him stood Arthur, who was as unmoving as a statue. Lancelot couldn't suppress a coy grin at the boyish situation—a grin that didn't fade, even when his horse snorted loudly and the hidden figure used the disturbance as his moment, unsheathing a sword and running forward all in an instant so fast that even in the fog Lancelot caught a glimpse of Excalibur's supernatural glow as the blade stopped centimeters from his throat.

"Arthur…it's me…" Lancelot said with a nervous half-laugh. There was no response for a moment but he could vaguely make out the familiar features of the Roman. Cautiously—hesitantly—the blade moved away from his unprotected skin.

"I know," the captain answered, his voice low and thick. Lancelot's smile vanished. But before he could say a word or gather a thought—

"Please go back to the wall."

"Where are you going?" Lancelot questioned, deliberately ignoring Arthur. He saw Arthur lower his eyes to the side, followed by his head, not answering. The Roman turned around, taking a step back to his horse.

"Arthur—" Lancelot blurted, grabbing hold of his arm gently, forcing him to look back. The knight's forehead crinkled when he could finally see Arthur clearly.

"Your face, Arthur…" he mumbled, lifting a few fingers up to touch his cheekbone. The brambles had cut him deeply; the wound bled sluggishly down the warrior's face.

Arthur pulled away, turned away, whimpering this time, "Please go back to the wall…" Lancelot moved to stand in his path.

"No, not until you tell me where you're going." Arthur's eyes were suddenly threatening; Lancelot refused to move. There was a drawn-out silence, weighing down upon Lancelot impart due to the damp and impart due to his friend's dull complexion. Arthur's eyes softened and took on a look of defeat that jabbed a needle into Lancelot's chest. He did not stop Arthur when he walked around him, mounting his horse.

"Please go back to—"

"Not until--"

"Don't make me order you, Lancelot! You know I--"Arthur's voice rose sharply and then crumbled in chokehold.

"You know I can't bear it…" The Roman whispered: words Lancelot was sure he was not meant to hear.

Stunned stiff, Lancelot blinked uselessly as Arthur was enveloped by the fog. He stood there long after any sound of the retreating horse could be distinguished from the wind and nocturnal creatures of the forest.

When he finally returned to Hadrian's Wall, dawn was not even on the brink of birth.