Thank you perberaidien, Camreyn, hornofgondor2, Drakcir, Gypsy Luv, catspaw, Corina, Afmin, KnightGuardian (more than one thank you, I think!), Demus, Alexa, Ivory Novelist and RiseAgainPhoenix. I took my time, guys (this is the understatement of the century!) and I'm sorry!

Warning: Mild disturbing content.

Chapter Fourteen

Jols stood on the battlements and gazed out across the frozen landscape. After a while, Edolie - the girl Galahad had rescued -joined him. Jols pretended not to notice as she began to shiver.

"You're Arthur's squire," she said, wrapping her frozen arms tighter round herself.

"I am."

"Do you think he'll ever give the order to leave?" she asked.

Jols shrugged. "I don't pretend to know what he's thinking… He's a great man, Arthur." He paused, swallowed. "He won't leave without Lancelot, I know that for sure."

Edolie felt a weight settle inside her stomach. Lancelot had been raped; he was broken and defeated. Would he be well enough to flee the fortress before the Saxons arrived? How long did they have, anyway?

By her side, Jols stirred. "D'you see that?" he asked, pointing to the crest of the nearest hill. "Do you think-"

"Men," Edolie said. "Are they-"

"Saxons."

Lancelot carefully extricated himself from Arthur's arms. "We should probably talk," he said. Then, "You might want to sit down."

"It's okay," Arthur said. "I know what happened to you." He gently guided Lancelot towards the bed, where they could sit, side by side. Brothers in arms.

Arthur rested his hand on Lancelot's shoulder and pretended not to notice how his friend trembled at the touch. "I know what happened with Tristan and I also know about the, the, um, rape and-"

"How do you know about that?" Lancelot interrupted.

"The others told me."

Lancelot swallowed. "The others?"

"Gawain and Galahad and-"

"Please don't say Bors." Lancelot looked at Arthur imploringly, anxiously. "He wouldn't understand."

"He does understand. They all understand," Arthur said. His voice was soft as snow. "They all figured out the one thing I should have known. And by God, Lancelot, I'll never forgive myself for not realising. Never. I can only say that I'm sorry and-"

"What have you got to be sorry about? Really, Arthur!" Lancelot protested. "It's hardly your fault I was raped!"

"Isn't it!" Arthur jumped to his feet, and gave a long weary sigh before he started shouting. "Christ! Of course I'm to blame! A commander is always to blame!" Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "I should have prevented it. I should…" He looked down at the ground for a moment. "I should never have left you that night," he said. "And I shouldn't have wasted precious time talking to you about Guinevere when I could have been talking about other things. Other people. The things that matter, don't you see?"

Lancelot shrugged his shoulders.

"And the thing is, Lancelot, I know you were pretending to be me. Why else would the Saxons take you?" Arthur asked, sinking back to the bed. "You were trying to save me: the ultimate sacrifice, your life for mine." He paused for a moment and gave a hopeless shake of his head. "You should never have felt obligated to protect me-"

"Please I-"

"No, Lancelot. Let me speak." Arthur took a deep breath. "If you thought it was your duty to protect me or to die for me then that's ridiculous because-"

"I did it because I loved you!" Lancelot cried. "I couldn't let you die!"

Arthur looked at him for a moment- a long, achingly slow moment. And then, meeting Lancelot's eyes, he cupped his friend's face between the palms of his hands. He trembled slightly and yet Lancelot actually appeared calm, merely blinking a couple of times as if surprised and then closing his eyes as he softly exhaled. His breath brushed across Arthur's face.

"I'd rather die a thousand deaths than lose you," Arthur murmured, his voice hoarse.

He might also have said 'I love you ' – certainly the words hovered on the edge of his tongue- yet he was interrupted.

"My Lord Arthur!" cried Jols, running into the room and stumbling on the uneven stone floor. "My Lord, the Saxons!"

"The Saxons?"

"Aye, sir! The scouts have appeared on the crest of North Hill!"

Arthur frowned. "The scouts? Only the scouts? But then surely the rest of the army is not far behind..." He glanced at Lancelot and took a deep breath, suddenly afraid. "You would not come away with Tristan," he said. "But - perhaps -you might come away with me?"

"Not to Rome," Lancelot said, sadly, in the voice of someone who knows their dreams are about to be shattered.

"Not Rome then…We can go to Sarmatia. You can show me where you grew up and-" Arthur gave a wild grin. "-Everything!"

"Arthur that's- I'd love-" Lancelot took Arthur's hand and held it for a few seconds. "I'd like nothing more," he said truthfully.

And with those words, Arthur turned back to Jols and, still grinning, he said "Make ready to leave the fort!"

"Yes, sir!"

The knight writhed on the floor, twitching in mortal agony and all the while the dragon advanced, slowly and surely, with its teeth bared into a snarl.

The knight's fingers scrabbled around on the stone floor in a desperate search for his sword. Time and time again he fingers closed on air until - at last - they closed around the hilt of his sword.

Bors watched the games of his two favourite children with an indulgent smile.

"You cannot kill me," said the younger of the two boys.

"I am not afraid!" cried the other. In a sudden movement he raised the stick he clutched in his hand and pressed it against his younger brother's throat. "Die, dragon!"

Galahad entered the room quietly, his boots scarcely making a sound as he moved up behind Bors. He cleared his throat and scarcely glanced at the children. "Have you seen Edolie?" he asked.

Bors turned. "What? That blonde girl you found?"

"Yes, have you seen her?" A note of worry had crept into Galahad's voice.

"Nah." Bors gave a emphatic shake of his big head. "Not seen her since early this morning, mate."

The Saxons made camp with quick ruthless efficiency.

Cynric sat apart from the men, chewing thoughtfully on some dried meat. He gazed up at the fortress and wondered if Arthur was in there and if so how could he be killed?

A sudden commotion drew Cynric's attention away from the fort. His lieutenant, Aglaeca, was dragging apetite blonde girl towards him.

"Who's the girl?" Cynric growled.

"Some wench that approached the scouts. Came running towards them, she did, pleading mercy because there are only six soldiers left in the fort and she don't seem to think they'll ever leave." Aglaeca leered. "I thought you might want to question her…"

He forced Edolie onto her knees before Cynric. She crouched in the frozen dirt, shivering with something other than cold. Bent forward, she pulled her thin cloak so tight about her that the knobs of her spine showed beneath the fabric.

"Well?" Cynric demanded. His gaze could burn through metal or freeze blood. It was too strong, too hard, far too angry. "He's there is he?"

"Aye," said Edolie. "Arthur's there and Lancelot."

At Cynric's temple, a nerve twitched. Lancelot. Now that was a name to remember. "I don't believe you," Cynric said.

Edolie whimpered, actually whimpered. Her teeth bit down onto her lower lip, which was white with pressure and then red with a droplet of blood. "Please, my Lord, I wouldn't lie… I couldn't… I respect you and…"

"Silence." Cynric had bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. The nerve twitched on. "No need to fear, love," he said. "We're real nice men round here." Aglaeca started laughing. A crowd had gathered.

"Hold out your hand, my love, and I'll kiss it."

Edolie obeyed, extending a small hand that trembled. Cynric took it in his own hand and - true to his word - he kissed it. A ring of saliva glistened on the back.

"See? I'm not such a monster, am I?"

"No, my Lord," Edolie whispered. She stopped whimpering andfelt a blissful second of relief before she realised that Cynric hadn't yet relinquished her hand. "My Lord?" She tried to pull her hand back and the crowd of men watched as she struggled.

"Should I let her go?" Cynric asked.

The crowd cheered, wanting blood, scenting it like hounds on a deer trail.

Cynric looked down at the frightened girl. "I despise your beauty," he hissed as he clamped his hand around hers until he heard the snapping of bones, one after the other.

Edolie gasped and snatched her hand back to stare wide-eyed at the crooked, broken fingers.

"Have her, lads!" Cynric barked. "She's yours!"

Edolie shrieked.

Arthur was like a man possessed. Lancelot trailed after him, struggling to keep up as Arthur sped along corridors, with his heavy-shod boots thumping against stone.

"Arthur! Arthur, I understand the need for haste and everything but-" Lancelot trailed off mid-sentence as he realised Arthur wasn't paying him the slightest bit of attention. "Bloody Roman," Lancelot panted. He abandoned his pursuit and bent over double, fighting to gain his breath and to ignore the throbbing in his ribs.

He heard heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

"Lancey!" Bors was upon him in a second. "How are you, mate?"

Lancelot straightened up and gingerly brushed a hand across his ribs. "Bit sore," he said noncommittally.

Bors knows what happened to me, he suddenly realised. He stood stock-still, frozen in Bors' presence.

Awkwardness in a person.

"Aye. Well-" Bors' words were cut off by the sharp blaring sound of a trumpet. The traditional call to arms. "Surely not-"

War.

Battle.

Retreat?

"We're abandoning the fortress," Lancelot explained.

An unmistakeable look of panic flashed across Bors' face.

"What's wrong?" asked Lancelot, concerned.

"Well, it's just… I haven't yet finished the wine! Or the ale, for that matter! Can't leave it for the Saxons… They don't appreciate…" Bors trailed off as Lancelot began to walk away from him. "Hey! Hey! Lancey!"

Lancelot turned. "There are worse things that can happen at the hands of the Saxons," he said, with a slight frown.

"I know." Bors gave a tragic, theatrical sigh. "But all that ale…"

It took one hour to clear the fortress. There were only the five knights and Jols and Vanora and the bastards: the latter were all crammed into a wagon.

A worried expression was fixed to Galahad's face. Edolie had not appeared. "Where do you think she is?" Galahad asked Gawain.

"Don't be worrying about her, mate. She'll have run off after that stable hand- the one that left a couple of days back…" Gawain chuckled. "He was better looking than you." Leaning out of his saddle, Gawain reached to clasp his friend's shoulder. "Less pretty, more manly…" he explained.

"Bastard," Galahad growled. He didn't mean it, though. Sometimes there is nothing so comforting as a friend's teasing.

Arthur cleared his throat. Silence decended."This is it, Knights of the Round Table!" His horse pranced beneath him, tail trailing behind like a pennant. "It's time to go."

Bors shook his head, clearly shocked that they were actually leaving. "Well bugger me!" he exclaimed.

Lancelot smiled suddenly, bright like sunshine and gleaming copper. "Thanks for the offer but, well, I'd rather not…"

The knights stared at one another and then back at Lancelot, who was barely suppressing laughter at his own joke. Still, it was Bors who succumbed first and soon all of the knights were laughing.

"It's good to have you back, mate!"

"Yeah, I almost missed the old Lancelot. Almost!"

Lancelot smiled at his fellow knights. They all looked happy and Arthur the happiest of all. Half crying, half laughing through his tears, the Commander smiled back at Lancelot.

They rode out of the fortress, cantering across the fields to the South of the Wall, scouting ahead of the wagon.

And then there was Tristan, swimming before Lancelot's eyes like a vision. Gods, Lancelot thought, am I crying as well?

"Tristan!" Arthur called out, surprise evident in his tone. "I thought you had gone!"

"I wish to speak with you, Arthur," Tristan said. He bowed. "My Lord, I have come to ask for your help."

And then Tristan's eyes fixed on Lancelot. "And I would speak with you as well," he said; his voice was deep and yet not quite steady.

"Tristan, I never meant-" Lancelot's own voice trailed into nothingness. What could he say with the eyes of the knights and Jols and Vanora all fixed on him?

And Arthur's gaze as well, soft and worried, with a look that was etched onto his soul.

I might have loved you, Tristan.

If not for Arthur…

Tbc…