Chapter 3: Befriending the Shadows
Gawain had not questioned Lancelot earlier that morning and he had maintained his silent observation throughout the day, when Arthur's door remained shut and locked. He had not shared, not even with Galahad, what had transpired in the stables or what he was witnessing at dinner.
Arthur made a late and inconspicuous entrance, his face showing no sign of repose. Gawain squinted, confused further, as Lancelot's incisive looks at Arthur were ignored. Neither man made an effort to communicate with the other; Arthur sat in the farthest available seat from his knight. Gawain had seen enough.
"What's going on between you two?" he muttered, sitting down in front of Lancelot who merely lifted his eyes over the brim of the glass he was attempting to drain. Empty, the mug clattered to the table.
"I haven't the slightest inkling of what you mean, dear Gawain," Lancelot cajoled in that voice that could fool so many into believing he was already drunk. Gawain knew better.
"Is this just another disagreement over his God and your devilish paganism?" Gawain returned. "Because if it is, let me be the first to say, the two of you need a new reason to toss disgusted glances at one another…" Lancelot's sardonic countenance fell. There was a long silence as both Samatian's noticed Arthur leaving the room far earlier than was usual.
Gawain looked expectantly back at the dark haired knight. "Well?"
"Do not worry about it, Gawain. I'm sure in a few days he'll get over this spout of stubbornness…
"You certainly never do."
"Well then, let's hope he is more mature than I."
"I was starting to think you didn't know the meaning of that word…"
"Look—Galahad looks lonely, Gawain, you're neglecting him," Lancelot cooed sarcastically, motioning towards Bors' crowd of children and fan fare, as the giant knight spun one of his famous yarns. Gawain shoved Lancelot playfully, chuckling, and indeed, went to join Galahad. He was satisfied, at least momentarily, that all would heal between commander and knight.
Lancelot, in this case, was the one who knew better. The thought sinking his heart was that not even 72 hours ago, Arthur had been a different man. He thought of his lonely ride home, his vow to wait for Arthur, his promise to himself that Arthur would confide in him always. Never before had Arthur kept something from him. Why now, when the knights had but a few months left in their service, to start?
The ale was smooth and disarming and Lancelot poured far more than he normally would down his throat. "Not even for God…" he said to himself, before bursting into a fit of laughter. There were a few stragglers left in the Great Hall, but none sober enough to pay him any heed. He out-drank them all and then drank to congratulate himself.
After getting lost a few times, Lancelot tripped into a hallway that looked a little more familiar. "Gawain…" he called out in a sing-song tone, "Galahad is waiting for you!" The knight shook with laughter. "Ooh, shhh, shhh, Gawain must be getting his beauty sleep! Otherwise how could he grow those beauteous blonde curls…" This time, he had toppled to the floor in his hysteria.
Suddenly, the darkened hallway was graced with an obnoxiously bring light. Lancelot goofily covered his eyes with one arm, yelling at the sun to come back later. He sat against the wall opposite Arthur's door. The Roman had frozen, perplexed and fearful of confrontation at first. His voice trailed in his knight's name…
"Arthur? Where are you? Are you hiding?" Lancelot said, moving his head from side to side, arm still pinned against his eyes.
"Move your arm, Lancelot…"
"Oh! Well, there you are Arthur!" Arthur had to smile at his knight's exuberance. "I was wondering, Arthur, do you happen to know which one of these is mine?" Lancelot asked, waving his arms in all directions, trying to motion at the wooden doors. Had he been more capable of perception, the knight would have noticed the letter Arthur clutched in his left hand and some of the armor he was strapped in to.
"Yes, Lancelot, I know which room is yours…come, get up." Arthur was no longer smiling; I've driven him to this…I've hurt him…
"I am UP!" Lancelot cried, pouting. Arthur chuckled softly, bending down, hauling him to his feet. Once in his room, Arthur built a fire and made sure Lancelot knew which of the three beds he was seeing was his. Lancelot flopped down to sleep, reopening his eyes as Arthur pulled a few wraps around him. The room still had a chill.
"Are your clothes always so shiny?" Lancelot asked.
"No, Lancelot…now sleep," the Roman whispered. Sleep well and remember nothing of this terrible ordeal in the morning. Arthur ran a hand through the wild mop of curls on his knight's head.
"Forgive me, Lancelot. Be free. I will suffer any horror and brave every pain for the rest of my days with ease…as long as I know you are free…"