The funeral for Dagonet was brief and sentimental. Lancelot stood off to the side for he didn't want anyone to see him cry. The gentle breeze of the wind tugged at his curls and blew the blue-grey smoke into his eyes, clouding his vision. He could vaguely make out the figures of his comrades…and there, on the side, a nymph-like figure. Turning away, he gazed off into the distance. A sea of grass greeted him, and Lancelot was lost in his thoughts of yesterday.
Lancelot and the others mourned the death of Dagonet, their brother, the heart and soul of the Sarmatian group. Receiving their papers of freedom was bittersweet. They were now free to go, but going home without Dag seemed like a farce. It just didn't seem right. It wasn't right. Lancelot had so many thought jumbled inside his head. There was Dag, the papers, and yet something else plagued his mind and muddied his thoughts. It interrupted his grief with confusion and denial. He was not sure how, but his sense seemed to be enslaved by her mere existence.
The wind blew again. Guinevere's precious scent wafted under his nose as she appeared before him. Lancelot looked up in surprise, where had the others gone? He realized it was twilight, and that the service had been over for hours. He felt her slender fingers intertwine with his hair, combing through his unruly curls. Her preternatural eyes burned into his own, and her willful, yet sorrowful voice spoke lullabies in his ear. Guinevere's arms were around him, comforting his shaking, cold body. Lancelot held her close, sensing, rather than feeling, her moist, red lips pressed to his heart, breathing into it life and longing and death and desire.
"How can this be?" he thought. "How is it possible that such a girl could make my heart beat faster and slower the same time?"
Guinevere pulled away from the embrace and looked Lancelot in the eyes. She had tears running down her cheek, for even though she hardly knew Dag…she knew that he was loved by those around him, and seeing them in pain hurt her more than words could say. Lancelot ran his hand up her neck and traced the curve of her jaw and followed the path to her cheek. He wiped away her tears with his thumb, and dropped his thumb to her lips, and back down to her hand.
She grasped it tightly and they walked along a path to just be with each other. Lancelot like that…there was no need for unintended promises, or words of awkwardness. They fit together like his swords and his scabbards.
The night was cool and the breeze was gentle. Stars festooned the dark velvet sky and the smell of honeysuckle and lavender was subtle. Lancelot and Guinevere had climbed to a hill overlooking everything, and yet, they had only eyes for each other. As they held each other, Lancelot turned his head and started to speak to Guinevere.
"No," she whispered, as she placed her fingers over his lips. Lancelot raised his eyebrows in surprise and shut his mouth, then opened it again. "Lancelot, I know what you are going to say, and the answer is…" she took a deep breath and smiled at him. "The answer is that I love you too."
As he looked at her, his heart felt as if it would burst with happiness. He bent his head and kissed Guinevere tenderly. She broke the kiss soon afterwards, and hugged him fiercely. Just feeling the weight of her in his arms meant the sun and moon to him. Lancelot wished that somehow, he could make time stop, so that they could stay like that forever.
"I love you Guinevere," he whispered. "With all that is in me, I love you."