Author's note: This is the second version of my little rewrite of Lancelot's death, and again I would like to point out that these characters do not belong to me, neither does the situation that goes on in this story. This version is a little more like the movie-version, but again, there are differences, due to my obsessive love for Lancelot (not to mention the actor who plays him). I hope you like it (and the other version), and I hope you feel like leaving me a review after you've read it!

The death of Lancelot

II

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.

"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. The difference between them was that she hit her aim. The man fell, staring at the young woman before him in disbelief, before his eyes rolled back into his skull, and he died. Quickly, Guinevere turned around, back to Lancelot, just in time to see the life fading from his eyes. Carefully, she put his sword down beside him.

"Lancelot."

She took his hand, held it firmly in hers, and brought the other to his face, resting it on his cheek. His skin was cold, cold like only dead men's skin can be. She could not prevent the tears from slipping from her eyes. She hadn't reached him in time to say her goodbyes, she hadn't reached her in time to thank him. But he had died knowing that she was safe. She had seen that in his eyes that moment their eyes had met, the moment before he passed away. He had saved her twice in one battle, he had risked his life for her, he had fallen for her, and while he was down, he had saved her once again.

"Lancelot."

She repeated his name, almost hoping that his eyes would open again, as they had when she was running towards him and cried out his name. But his eyes did not open. He was gone, there was no bringing him back.

"Thank you."

This time, she whispered to him. Her gratitude was only for him, no one else deserved it. Perhaps he even heard it from whatever heaven he was now in. She closed her eyes for a moment, as the battle came to an end around her, and she imagined that he was returning home, to where seas of grass stretched longer than you could ride, and the sky was bigger than you could imagine, just as he had told her. In death he would find his freedom.

"No!"

Arthur's voice brought her to open her eyes, and she saw him falling to his knees beside his closest friend.

"It was my life to be taken! Not this! Never this!"

He cried out to the sky, called out to the God he had followed so eagerly in life, much to Lancelot's discontent. And she watched him, forcing herself to silence the words her mind was screaming at him. Lancelot would not have it. She knew it was true, she knew Lancelot would not have let Arthur die, even if he knew one of them had to fall. Lancelot had not given his life for her alone, he had given it for Arthur, he had given it for Arthur's cause. She would not say it, she would not even keep thinking it. It was not what he would have wanted her to do. Let him mourn, she thought to herself, looking down at the dead body before her, and you will have time to do the same.