Sorry about the delay- I had writer's block for this one chapter. However, the rest of the story is nearly written so I'll update a lot quicker. Right, thanks to these lovely people: LJ Groundwater, Stahlfan125, Briel, Demus, ShatteredDesire, Shauna, GaBo0 (definitely Lancelot/Tristan!), RuByMoOn17, HikariChan, nienna unyarima, xStarryEyedx, Goody, KnightoftheRoundTable, bakachan17, Shalott32 and lucy-wibbles.

Chapter Four

Arthur stared into the feeble, flickering flames. He was nervous. It was understandable, really. There he was, camped four miles from an entire Saxon army, with only three other men. The fact that all of them were armed to the teeth did little to allay Arthur's nerves. They had lit a fire, which was foolish, but they were deep in woodland and the damp timber did little more than splutter and smoke.

The night was so dark that Arthur could scarcely make out the form of Bors sleeping, scarcely two yards away.

It wasn't really the nearness of the Saxon army and the imminent death that awaited them if found, that was worrying him. It wasn't even the fact that he had just sent Tristan on a mission that offered him little more that half odds of returning. No, the person that made Arthur's hands shake and his heart heavy was Lancelot. Arthur could barely bring himself to imagine the things that his friend must be going though. Beatings, brandings, manacles and white-hot pokers, whips and sticks, razor-edged knives...

When he returns he'll be a broken man, Arthur thought. He didn't pause to consider that Lancelot might be dead already or that Tristan might not succeed. Both of those thoughts were too dreadful to even contemplate.

Arthur shook his head and gripped his right hand round the hilt of his sword to still its shaking. Bors snored loudly from down at his feet and Galahad, lying between Bors and the feeble campfire, turned over in his sleep.

Gawain appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and knelt by Arthur. "He sleeps like a baby," he said, indicating Galahad with a nod of his head.

"Not on watch?" Arthur asked.

Gawain stretched his hands towards the fire. "Not asleep?" He chided gently before explaining himself. "The night is dark, the wind is loud. In all likelihood I'd miss any attackers and you lot would all be slaughtered while I stood on sentry duty, utterly oblivious."

Arthur gave a half-hearted smile. "You're quite right. It's much better for you to be slaughtered alongside us."

His words might have been in jest (Gawain did chuckle) but the underlying message was made clear by the man's glance at Galahad. If Galahad had to die, then Gawain would die with him. That was what friends were for.

A spark flew from the fire and landed on Arthur's hand, burning him. I should be with Lancelot. I should suffer as he suffers, Arthur realised.

He looked at Gawain. "I shall find no rest until this has ended: until Lancelot is safe..."

Gawain nodded and refrained from voicing his concern that Lancelot might not return. Tristan might not return. This mission might not be more than a fool's errand.

"You know what? I think the wind's calming; I'll go back on watch," he said suddenly. Maybe the wind was calming: more probably Gawain saw Arthur's need to be alone with his thoughts. He disappeared back into the night.

Tristan helped Lancelot down from the baggage cart, supporting the younger man as he stumbled. "Are you wounded?" he whispered.

"No." It might have been a lie but it was a necessary one as far as Lancelot was concerned. "Just weak," he added. He jumped as he spotted two Saxon guards sitting on the ground, ale flagons in hand, staring straight at them. "Tristan!"

"They're dead."

On second glance, the guards were indeed dead, their throats cut from ear to ear. It looked so neat. Tristan made killing into an art; every stroke of his curved sword was beautiful, each opponent killed quickly and cleanly.

Lancelot came out of his reverie when Tristan wrapped an arm round his waist and pulled him forwards. For a moment, Lancelot tensed at the contact, then he gratefully placed his right arm around Tristan soldiers. Somehow, Tristan guided him through the camp. It was such a dark night that Lancelot could make out nothing but campfires. He didn't know how he would have made it without Tristan supporting and steering him.

He peered at the men crowded round the campfires as they passed them but he saw neither Cynric nor any of the men who had raped him.

Suddenly and unceremoniously, Tristan shoved Lancelot to the ground. "Get down!" he hissed.

Lancelot lay on the frozen ground for several minutes. He tried to rub some life back into his numb hands but they had been bound behind his back for two days and didn't respond. His lower back ached dreadfully and his head was pounding again.

Eventually, Tristan returned and held out his hand for Lancelot. It was slippery with blood. "What happened?" Lancelot whispered.

Tristan did not respond but instead dragged Lancelot forwards into a stumbling run. Each time Lancelot fell, he was hauled to his feet. They ran, half-crouching as they went, for several long minutes but they passed no more campfires and after a while they were in empty open ground. Finally, Lancelot could run no further, even with Tristan's hand in his, pulling him forward. "No more," he gasped.

Tristan didn't complain as he fell to the ground, his breath coming in harsh rasps, but instead crouched next to him. "You did well," he whispered. He produced a wine skin and a piece of tough bread, which Lancelot fell on like a dog. The bread may have been nearly frozen but it tasted good. The wine skin turned out to be filled with water.

"No wine?" Lancelot gasped.

Tristan laughed softly. "We must go."

It hurt to say it. It actually hurt more than anything he had yet suffered. "I can't," Lancelot said softly.

"You can," Tristan replied firmly. He once more pulled Lancelot to his feet, then frowned as he fell straight back to the ground.

Lancelot shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Tristan shrugged and swallowed a few mouthfulls of the water. Then, with a grunt, he managed to pick Lancelot up -his fellow knight was unconscious by now- and throw him across his left shoulder. He carried Lancelot to the horse that was tethered nearby. It wasn't difficult for a knight trained to wear heavy armour- all things considered, the unconscious knight was a surprisingly light burden.

Dawn broke over the hills, slowly and hesitantly. Arthur stood side-by-side with Gawain and waited. It was a cold dawn and the world had not yet turned from grey, when Arthur spoke.

"Do you hear it?"

There was a moment of uneasy silence in which Gawain strained to hear. "No," He whispered, shooting a worried look at his commander. "Are you sure you-"

"Just listen!" Arthur scolded and his voice sounded ridiculously loud at such a quiet hour of the day. Gawain, naturally enough, refrained from replying and listened intently. He heard nothing save the wind in the trees, an owl hooting softly, the crackling of twigs...

Gawain started, and then listened again. The crackling of twigs and the breathing of a horse. It was faint but audible.

"You hear it now, I suppose?" Arthur murmured. "Either it's Tristan or we're about to have a fight on our hands." His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

He could sense the rider coming closer; could picture the beast trotting forward, head stretched out low below the branches- but how many riders on its back? One or two?

Arthur glanced at Gawain. "Wake the others," he hissed. "Could be a fight."

Gawain disappeared and Arthur drew his sword as slowly as he could, in an effort to quieten the harsh noise of sword scraping against scabbard- steel scraping in the steel-grey light.

He waited for Gawain to return with Bors and Galahad before judging the moment to be right. "Password!" he hailed.

The voice that growled a reply was unmistakeable. "Audentis Fortunas Iuvat!"

Fortune favours the brave. Never was it truer, Arthur realised. "Show yourself!" he demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion.

There weren't words enough to describe his feelings as Tristan rode into the camp. And then what words could describe the dreadful jolt he felt when he saw Tristan's horse had only one rider?

"Lancelot?" he croaked, grabbing the horse's reins and pulling the unfortunate sweating beast into a skidding stop. And then he froze as he saw that there was another figure, slung in front of the saddle and lying as still as stone. "Heavenly Father, no," he murmured.

"He's not dead," said Tristan shortly.

There was relief then for Arthur and it was potent as a drug. His mouth split open into a huge smile and he embraced the man nearest to him: Galahad as it happened. Indeed, it was several seconds before the brightness of the moment was clouded with worry and a frown of concern crossed Arthur's face. He reached out for Lancelot and cautiously lifted the unconscious knight down into his arms.

"What is it?" he demanded. His voice was oddly high.

Tristan's, on the other hand, was a deep as ever. "Who knows?" he said, hauling himself out of the saddle. "Who knows?"

Looking at Lancelot, Arthur was shocked to see the bruising and swelling all across his face: the dried blood that still clung to the dark curls, falling across his forehead. Arthur had expected bruises, prayed for them, in fact. Dear God let there be no injury but bruises... Let him be black and blue but not crippled. Nothing he can't bear...

Nothing I can't bear...

Lancelot dreamt he was on a winged horse and flying through the sky above Britain. There were snow-topped mountains below and long snaking rivers. He had never noticed how green the country was before. Forests with more trees than soldiers in armies lay beneath the hooves of his winged horse and everything was bathed in a soft golden light.

"Worth fighting for is it?" asked somebody. Lancelot looked around, seeking the voice, but found the sky empty except for himself and his winged steed.

Lancelot rode on and the soft golden light began to turn red. Sunset. Darkness following daylight. Danger following hope. There were terrors in the night and Lancelot spurred his flying horse to the west, hoping to catch the last rays of sunlight. He didn't get far, though, because smoke began to fill his lungs. He coughed and glanced down to see one of Britain's forests being consumed by fire.

"As I consumed you," said another voice. It sounded like Cynric's.

Lancelot spurred his winged horse on even faster, desperate to escape the disembodied voice, but the beast screamed and reared. Its hooves were on fire. Lancelot realised this, even as he fell from its back.

Down, down. The world became hotter and hotter. Down. Down. Lancelot fell into the burning forest.

He awoke suddenly but didn't open his eyes. He could hear the crackling of a fire very close by and the left-hand side of his body was almost painfully hot.

The heat was quickly forgotten when he heard Arthur and Tristan talking, just metres away.

"Can you be tracked?" Arthur's voice, strong and filled with concern.

Tristan took a long while to reply. "I could track me," he said eventually.

Lancelot smiled and knew he should be feeling pain but the truth was there was none. He was too hot perhaps, or too joyful at being saved. His entire body ached but it was not pain as such, just soreness.

"We must leave in an hour," said Arthur.

"Lancelot will ride with me." Tristan had always had the habit of answering unspoken questions.

"Yes."

Lancelot kept his eyes closed for a while and listened to the two voices. Tristan's was the voice of an enigma; deep, soft, seldom enough heard compared with the querulous tones of the other knights. But there was something else to Tristan's voice that Lancelot had never before noticed: it was the voice of hope. It was the voice that had been light in the darkness: the voice of a saviour, an angel.

And then there was Arthur. He was a commander who didn't command bur rather asked. His voice was deep too but gentler than Tristan's and there was raw emotion in his words that Tristan could never convey.

"How did you find him?" asked Arthur.

"Under guard." There were implications in those two words: the Guards were dead, murdered. The other knights said that Tristan enjoyed killing for killing's sake: not the euphoria of battle but the actual cold, deadly art of it. How could Tristan be an angel and a killer? It didn't make sense.

But then again, what did?

"No, no." Lancelot couldn't see and yet he knew Arthur would be shaking his head- maybe even rubbing his left temple as he always did when trying to phrase a difficult question or instruction. "I mean in what condition was he?"

"Well, he looks beaten up to me. Half-killed in fact."

"Christ in heaven, man!" Arthur snapped. Lancelot almost opened his eyes. He had never before heard his commander blaspheme- or indeed raise his voice in real anger to any of his fellow knights. "What have they done to him?" Arthur continued in a quieter tone.

"I am a scout, not a seer," said Tristan. He didn't really sound angry. He never did.

But maybe something was troubling Tristan because a few minutes later Lancelot heard the distant sound of Tristan speaking with -or rather being questioned by- Bors. He hadn't even heard the scout leave. Still, it was not the best time to be reflecting on the silence of Tristan's movements. For one thing, the fire was almost burning him. He opened his eyes and found himself in the middle of a small camp.

Arthur was sitting nearby on a boulder with his head cradled in his hands.

"Are you trying to burn me alive?" Lancelot demanded loudly. He struggled to sit upright, groaning as the first stab of real pain reached him.

"LANCELOT?!" Arthur was there, by his side, in seconds. "You are alive," he said, clutching Lancelot's hand.

"Just about..." The pain was growing by the second: pain from his head wound and pain from the other wound too. The unmentionable wound.

"I thought you were dead... When I saw Tristan with this body... I felt like the- no, no."

"What?"

Arthur coloured for a moment. "Like the entire world had suddenly turned cold," he said quietly.

Lancelot gave a lopsided smile and then gasped sharply as a spasm of pain travelled through his body. "I didn't know you cared," he teased, trying to make light of both the pain and the serious turn of conversation.

The teasing, however, was spoilt when he saw the glimmer of a tear in the corner of Arthur's eye. "I'm sorry," he murmured, trying not to grimace with pain. He squeezed his friend's hand instead. "Sorry."

"You know I care," said Arthur. "You must know I care." The tear perched precariously at the corner of his eye and then, achingly slowly, it dislodged itself and landed on the hand that Arthur still clutched.

"I know," Lancelot half-whispered.

'Arthur's whore' said a voice in his head. He ignored it.

Tbc...