We don't bother sticking around. This is Roman business, and we are no longer Romans. No, that's not quite right, we were never Romans, but their business no longer concerns us. Arthur won't hide anything from us should we need to know, and arguing with the Romans is useless. We're supposed to be free today, but the air does not hold salvation. Something is amiss, and we can only wait to see what Fate will bring us. Drink flows freely between us. Even with trouble on the horizon, we will be celebrating tonight. Throwing dice at the table, I try to ignore the putrid smell of death that follows me even here. How many have I killed in fifteen years beneath a Roman flag? I'm not sure which of those questions is worse, but I fear it is the latter. At Bors' urging 'Nora sings, and memories of home swell to push such horrid thoughts aside. Her softly melodic tune allowing a breath of a place we no longer know to caress our tired bodies and weary souls. Even this light respite can not last however.

I think I am the first to notice him standing there, but I say nothing. He doesn't meet my eye, and I know it is bad. I see the pain in his expression as he turns to walk away, wishing to give us at least this moment of peace; but he is stopped before he can escape by Galahad's incessant cries of "Arthur!" which are soon joined by Gawain's "you're not completely Roman yet, are you?" as he comes over, flask in hand, and offers it to him. Bors chimes in with his usual greeting; but I am wary. I can see his pain as he addresses us. "We must leave on a final mission for Rome, before our freedom can be granted." My heart sinks at those words, and for a moment everything inside of me is frozen. I will never see my home again, I know this now.

The celebration is over. The knights argue with their beloved commander. I just watch. What can I say? The Romans have broken their word, but we have the word of Arthur, and that will have to be enough. The others storm off leaving behind only Arthur and myself. There are no words between us now however, just a long silence as I stare into his tragically brown eyes. He's dieing inside, just as we are. I know it, though he tries to hide it. Finally, he gives up and simply brushes past me and heads for the stable. I should stop him. Should comfort him as I have so many times before, but I simply let him go.

I have nothing to say to him. He is my best friend, my brother, and my commander. We have fought side by side for fifteen ears. I could not abandon him even if I wanted to. There is nothing to say, but for some reason I follow him to the stable. I expect him to be packing, but am not overly surprised to find him otherwise disposed. On his knees, with his back to the door, he doesn't see me. He's praying, like he always is. That fool. Can he not see that it is absolutely pointless?

"Why do you always talk to god and not me?" I try to keep the jealousy out of my voice, and find it rather easy with all the hate and anger that presently colors it. Even the pain at this betrayal is hidden beneath the resentment. Good. I'm allowed to be angry. He'll expect angry.

"My faith is what protects me Lancelot, why do you challenge this? He hasn't stood and I don't stop my eyes from running over him. For fifteen years I have ridden at his side, and never had he looked as vulnerable as he did now. I would pity him, but I'm too busy pitying myself. A smirk pulls bitterly at my lips.

"I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees." I retort, trying to keep the sneer out of my voice. He is Arthur after all. He seems surprised for barely a second, before countering. So certain in this god of his, he won't listen to anything I might say against God, or the church. He never has. I don't bother challenging this anymore. It has no purpose. But this mission is suicide. He knows it as well as I, or he wouldn't be here now. None of us should be here now. To try and get past the Woads in the north is insanity, surely he realizes that. It is their land there, wild and unremorseful. Does he truly believe we can make it? How many Saxons? We don't even know what we're up against. It's suicide. I walk across the stable; he has yet to answer me. Barely a foot from him now, but he still hasn't moved. My eyes run over his armor-clad torso, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder how it would feel to follow the same line with my hands.

"Tell me, do you believe in this mission?" if he would just say yes, then perhaps I could have some peace. To know that I was marching into certain death for the man I love, rather than the country I abhor. But he will not grant me that.

"These people need our help" he answers evenly.

I wonder what he is thinking, but he's shut me out as he never has before. I can't take it anymore. To be so close and to feel nothing…

"I don't care about your charge; and I don't give a damn about Roman, Britain, or this island. If you desire to spent eternity in this place, Arthur, then so be it, but suicide can not be chosen for another!"

"And yet you choose death for this family!"

"No, I chose life and freedom for myself and the men!" My hands knot into fists as they pound against the wood of the nearest stall. I want to hit him; to his something. But I settle instead for throwing myself down onto the bench. The wood creaks angrily beneath me in protest, and the horse behind me snorts. I can't look at him, I might kill him just now, but he gives me no choice as he lays his hands on my shoulders. I feel the weight of those hands, hands that I have dreamed of feeling against my flesh for years; but I can take no comfort from them. Nor from the heat of the body that stands behind me. I only barely manage to not lean into him. Doesn't he see how hopeless of a cause this is?

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat?" His voice is stronger than he is. He doesn't think I can hear the tremble in it. I don't let him know that I can. He is my king, my love, and I will not shatter that image for him. Still, I say nothing. "Outnumbered and outflanked, but still we triumph. With you at my side Lancelot, we can do it again!" He doesn't say it, but I can hear the please, the begging in that tone that I not leave him. Oh, that I could. I don't want to hear the barely restrained plea in his voice. I don't want to see him like this. As scared as the rest of us and trying so hard not to show it. Just once I wish he'd shed the armor and just be another man. Perhaps then I could reach him, but he never will. I'm not sure he can. He isn't just another man; he's Arturius, the great Arthur Castus. He isn't just another man.

I stand and turn to face him. However much I don't want to, I can't not. His hands remain at my shoulders. "Lancelot, we are knights, what other purpose do we serve if not this?" I can hear the plea in his voice again. The desperate need to believe in his cause; to know that he is right. But I am not sure I can provide that reassurance. This isn't our fight for god's sakes! Taking his face into my hands, I lay my hands across his tanned cheeks, my thumbs brushing either cheekbone once, before stilling. His eyes meet mine, and I can not look away. I long to hold him, to press my lips to his and end his suffering, but I can not.

"Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist. Never." He crumbles slightly, I see the light fading in his eyes and it kills me to go on, but I must. "There will always be a battlefield" his jaw tenses and silence reigns for a long moment before I release him and step away from his strong arms. My back to him, I close my eyes. They're brimming with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here, not before my beloved Arturius. I mean to walk away, and yet I am still standing here, listening to the pounding of my heart. What drives me to speak, I don't know, but I hear the words and know they are my own. "I will die in battle. Of that I am certain. Hopefully, a battle of my choosing. But, if it be this one, grant me a favor. Don't bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong east wind." I don't hear him step forward, but again I feel him right behind me. And again I must force myself to remain standing, rather then press against his hard chest. Oh, to be in those arms… A strong hand is placed on my shoulder, and I feel him squeeze lightly. I don't dare turn towards him, not as a tear slides down my cheek. I have to get out of there. I can't breathe. I don't wait for any other response. I simply pull away from him, and silently leave him to his prayers. But as I walk away, I can feel those beautiful brown eyes boring into my back. Oh, if only you knew, my beloved Arthur, what you do to me.

My bed has never been so lonely, nor so cold, as it is this night as I lay beneath the heavy furs and dream of a tragically hardened face, and unyielding brown eyes.