The campsite was surrounded by trees frosted with snow. The frozen ground crunched with each step that Guinevere took. Above her in the sky, the moon glowed like a beacon to the weary travelers. Night had descended upon them quickly and the knights were tired. Murmurs from them and the villagers were hushed and the smell of stew wafted through the air.
Guinevere looked at the scene before her. She saw Bors bent over a bubbling pot. Arthur was talking to one of the villagers. Tristan was sharpening his sword by the fire. Gawain and Galahad were talking softly. Dagonet was tending to Lucan and Lancelot…Lancelot was watching her by the tree. His dark eyes followed her every movement. Each breath she took, each step she made, did not go unnoticed. Guinevere walked over to the edge of camp, to where the trees were the thickest. As she looked out into the darkness, she felt a sense of loneliness. The wind whispered through the trees and teased her hair from their bounds. As tendrils of hair whipped around her face, she heard the far away cries of her people, their cries for help. Goosebumps rose on her skin and her heart wrenched inside of her. Tears glistened in her eyes as she continued to hear the voices of her people, wailing in despair.
Guinevere started when she felt a hand upon her shoulder. She turned around, finding herself looking into the laughing eyes of Lancelot.
"I hope I didn't startle you. Here, eat this. It'll make you feel better." He handed a steaming bowl of stew to Guinevere. "Well, maybe not feel better, it might make you sick. It's Bors' special stew."
Guinevere made no move to take the bowl from Lancelot. Her eyes were skeptical as she eyed what may very well be her last meal. Lancelot noticed her hesitation, so he dipped his finger in the stew to show her it's alright to eat. He brought his finger up to his mouth and tasted it. Immediately, Lancelot started to choke and he tried to spit out the taste. Tears ran down from his eyes and his skin became a splotchy red as he attempted to clear his mouth of Bors' poison. Guinevere started to smile, amused at Lancelot's over-exaggerated antics.
When Lancelot was well enough to speak, he spoke carelessly saying, "Men were not made to cook. We were made to fight and to love, no more than that."
Hearing this, Guinevere slightly frowns and she narrows her eyes. "Woad men cooked. We lived off the land. Everyone worked equally," she paused "…everyone fought equally." She looked off into the distance, thinking once more of her people.
Lancelot became serious. He took her arm and held it gently until Guinevere looked into his eyes once more. "Why do you always seem like you heart is torn in two?"
"Seems?" Guinevere looks at him with glassy eyes, brimming with unshed tears. The moonlight that broke through the trees accentuated their mortal, yet mystic beauty. "Seems?" Once more, Guinevere looked down onto the ground, then back up again. "...Lancelot, my heart is torn. My people are being murdered. There are more corpses than graves. Children cry and starve for both mother and father are lost. Parents bury their children, a practice so foreign and wrong that even the strongest soul cannot recover. I cannot do anything to help them, or stop this massacre."
Guinevere's voice broke and the tears she was trying to hold off flooded down her cheeks. Lancelot pulled her to his chest and held her there until her sobs subsided. He pulled back and bent his head to look at her. "Guinevere, look at me. Look at me." He lifted up her chin with two fingers. "Your heart need not be so burdened with grief. You must not punish yourself. Guinevere, you have been tortured not only physically, but emotionally as well. You have suffered as well, don't think that you haven't." Lancelot whispered, "Come, it's time you were sleeping."
He led Guinevere back over to the middle of the campsite and watched her go to sleep silently. Her chest heaved now and then with a muffled sob. Lancelot kept watch over her until she was silent. Then, with his swords in hand, he drifted off to sleep.