Author's note: This is a disclaimer as well as an author's note, because I would like to say that none of the characters in this short story are my own. Not even the situation this happens in is my own. All I am doing here is prolonging Lancelot's death a little, because basically, I love him and was really upset his death didn't get more screentime in the movie (although I have to say that at least they didn't make his death a cliché, which would have been horrible). So here it comes, the tale of Lancelot's death (which might, on the other hand, be the cliché the movie left out), meaning the thoughts going through his mind while he dies, and what he experiences while he dies. I have two different versions of this story, and here comes the first. Warning: this doesn't exactly end like the movie does (and by movie, I mean the director's cut, since that's the only version I've seen).

The death of Lancelot

I

In the end, he got him. He got Cerdic's son, he got the enemy, and he protected Guinevere. But it was with an arrow through his chest. But he remained standing, he stood strong until the other fell to the ground and his life slipped from his grasp. Only then did he let himself show weakness, only then did he let them see him fall. First, he fell to his knees, supporting his weight with his sword. But that support could only last so long. A sword can only stand firmly in the ground for so long before it slides sideways, cutting through the ground in order to resurface a fallen blade. And so did Lancelot's blade. He fell to the side, landing hard on his left arm. He did not close his eyes. He wanted to see this battle through, even if he knew he would no longer fight in it. In the distance, his eyes met Guinevere's, and he saw her fighting her way towards him. Around him, the scenery started fading, but still he did not close his eyes. He focused on the warrior woman coming towards him, fighting fiercely to reach him in time. And he muttered.

"No, Guinevere. Keep fighting, don't worry about me..."

It was so faint a whisper he could hardly hear it himself, but right now, it was all the voice he could muster. He felt his horse nuzzling him in the back, pushing at him and trying to make his master stand again, but his master could not stand. His hand moved, if only barely, and the horse detected it. He came around him, to his front, and looked down at his dying master. Now, he nuzzled at the hand that had moved, and determined to say his goodbyes, Lancelot lifted his hand to stroke his horse one final time.

"Carry me with you home, my friend."

His hand fell once he had uttered the hoarse whispers, and he could not find the strength to lift it again. He prayed the horse would understand, even if it was just that; only a horse. For a moment he considered turning to Arthur's god, turning to him and asking him for mercy in the afterlife. And he did.

"Let me return to my home. I beg of you."

Arthur had once said his God could hear all, something Lancelot had much trouble believing, but now, he hoped it was so, for the God he spoke to would have to have excellent hearing if he was to hear his silent cry. His steed kneeled down beside him, now, and he chose to take that as a good omen. He had been destined to die here, he had known that the moment he turned back to support his leader and friend in this last battle. Perhaps he had done it for her, as well; this woman who was still fighting her way towards him. Perhaps he was even staying alive for her, now. She would not have had him, had he survived, but still he fought for her, and he died for her. For her and for Arthur, the man he knew she would have. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he could hear her cry in the distance. Slowly, his eyelids slid apart, and he saw her again; closer, this time.

"Guinevere..."

His whispers were useless, or at least so he thought, but it seemed like she heard him, for her fighting became even more fierce than it had been. She was closer now, almost close enough to touch... And then, he came out of nowhere. A man of at least twice Guinevere's side. Lancelot prayed and hoped it was one of their own when he first saw him, but it was not. It was a Saxon. Nothing but a plain warrior, he did not look distinguished at all, but yet he was the one to come out of nowhere and attack her. His blade cut her leg, and she fell to her knees, the pain evident in her beautiful features. Her own weapon was lost; she had dropped it as she fell, and she could not reach it. Lancelot employed all his strength, mustered all the power he could, and tried lifting himself. The strength did not suffice. He could not move. All he could do was watch as the other lifted his blade and aimed it for her. But he would not let her die.

It took all the strength he had gather to take his own sword and throw it towards her, as far as he could. He could only be grateful that she was as close as she was, for her hands barely reached it. But they did reached it, and she struck upwards just as the other man struck downwards. They both hit their aim. A muffled gasp was all he heard from Guinevere before she fell backwards, closer to him, and landed mere inches away from him. The sword slipped out of her hand, his sword, and he managed to stretch his arm those last few inches and take her hand in his. Her head turned towards him; she was still breathing. They were both still breathing.

"Lancelot..."

Her female whisper was like music in his ears, but a sombre music he would rather have died without ever knowing. His eyes met hers as they stared at each other, both knowing that this was their final moment on earth. Their final moment on earth, and they shared it.

"I'm here."

His voice would barely carry his whisper, but the sound of his voice reached Guinevere's ears just in time for her to see the life fading from his eyes. And she let go, she stopped struggling, and held on firmly to his hand. She knew of no better man to die beside. She closed her eyes, letting life pour out of her, knowing that she had died on the battlefields, that they had both died on the battlefields, and that they would be returning home. Home to freedom.