Author's Note: Sorry for the horribly long delay. In between school and a million other things to do, I could never find a time to post. Therefore, I'm going to treat all my readers to at least 4 new chapters. Enjoy!
Chapter 10: Getting Lancelot Back
An hour later, Arthur led his knights, his lady, and Elena out of the castle and towards the western part of Camelot. The knights were stationed around the horse-drawn carriage, in which Arthur, Elena, and Guinevere assembled, conversing over a detailed map and marking out a plan to save Lancelot.
"Perhaps if we take this route, when I traveled to Camelot, I passed by Macchiato. I have heard word that the Saxons settled there, which is partially why I decided not to lodge there for the night. We have to consider all our alternatives, and this is the most likeliest one." Elena explained her suggestion.
Arthur nodded, "Yes, that sounds reasonable. We will stop there first and check. If not there, we will stop somewhere else. We will keep going until we have found Lancelot." Or what's left of him. Arthur thought sadly.
The ground was moving, and there was only one explanation for that. Lancelot opened his eyes to reveal a darkened night. Or at least, it seemed like night, although he had the feeling of having slept for hours.
Everything was moving. The Sarmatian shook his head in attempt to rid himself of his shaky and tired state. But once he did, he regretted it almost instantly. A cauterizing thrusting pain came to his head like pure agony. His head felt like splitting open in two, and it was all knight could do but cry aloud in shock. He bit down his lip hard, to suppress the tears. Moaning, Lancelot reached up his hand to touch his head, but stopped halfway. He couldn't move his hands. They were bound tightly to something behind him. Confused, he lifted his head gingerly to observe his surroundings. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. He had been captured.
Suddenly, the ground stopped moving and his world filled with bright light. Lancelot groaned and turned away from the sudden outbreak. "He's awake." Said a gruff voice. A Saxon voice, Lancelot knew.
"Better for him if he hadn't," another voice, this one more softer yet sinister-like, replied. "He's in for quite a ride." The voice laughed humorlessly. Lancelot dared to open his eyes and groaned again. This time however, it was not sorely on account of the blinding pain. He realized that he was lying in a baggage cart, and past the two burly figures standing above him, he could make out the silhouette of an entire Saxon army. The enemy had captured him
That night, they camped in a nearby village just ten miles from Macchiato. Arthur was inattentively polishing Lancelot twin blade when footsteps outside his tent alerted him.
"Who's there?" He asked roughly, reaching for his sword.
The flap fell back and a second later, Elena's head could be seen. "May I come inside for a moment, Arthur?"
"Yes. Do come in." He replied, lowering his weapon. She stooped down beside him and watched as the King return to his polishing. Sighing, the Lady of Wales reached for one of Lancelot's blades.
"It is a beautiful sword. I could have imagined this sword belonging with Lancelot." Elena said.
"It was a gift for him. His father gave it to him before he left Sarmatia fifteen years ago." Arthur pronounced.
"No, I don't believe so," Arthur gave her a bewildered look and opened his mouth to contradict, but Elena simply moved her hand across his lips to quiet him. "I have heard you. You said his father presented it for Lancelot, but that is not true. The sword always chooses the bearer, never the other way round. Why do you think Nimue gave you Excalibur? It is only because Excalibur wishes to belong to you. This is the same with Lancelot's blades. He fits them; they are his personality, his spirit, his everything. These blades represent who he is, and that is only because these blades chose him as their carrier."
Arthur did not know what to say. Looking down at Lancelot's blade, he could practically see Lancelot's face gleaming at him. The familiar brown curls, the proud and arrogant eyes, and the sneering smile he gave to his enemies. Arthur closed his eyes, whispering the knight's name.
"He lives." Elena whispered. Arthur snapped his eyes open and looked at her in uncertainty.
"How do you know? How do you know he is not dead, withered in the filthy hands of our Saxon enemies? How do you believe all this?"
"I do not know if he lives. I do not his condition at all. But I do know that whether or not he lives, he will always exist in here," She placed her hand over Arthur's pounding heart. "He lives in you. He lives in us all."
Arthur glanced at her in absolute wonder. He brushed his hand gently on Lancelot's blade, half-smiling. Then, he turned to Elena-- "How is it that you have faith in everything that most of us do not hold?"
"What I am actually saying is that we need to be willing to let our intuition guide us, and then be willing to follow that guidance directly and fearlessly. Faith is, at one and the same time, absolutely necessary and altogether impossible, but if you live a life without faith in something, that is too narrow a space to live."
"That is all but true, my lady. I do put the finest line of my faith in knowing that Lancelot is still alive, still waiting for us to fetch him. And I will draw this faith to him so that he knows we are on our way."
"Arthur, if you think we can save him, we can. Faith is necessary to victory. But for now, I shall let you rest. It has been a long and tiresome trip. Guinevere shouldn't be long, we will look over the maps tomorrow."
"Thank you Elena." Arthur said, as she was about to open the flap.
"You are very welcome." She smiled and left. Arthur continued to stare down at Lancelot blades, unaware of Guinevere standing in the crevice of his flap. She watched her husband examining his best friend's weapons, tears shallow in his eyes. Gliding next to him, she kissed his cheek softly and drew back. Arthur slowly turned his head to meet her, unrecognizing his own wife and uncaring if it was an enemy.
"Guinevere," his lips felt so dry as he uttered her name. The Woad warrior ran her hand down his face, hushing him.
"I know you mourn for him. I do too." She whispered.
"He is not dead yet, Guinevere. I don't believe he is." Arthur spoke with all honesty. Guinevere gazed at him sorrowfully.
"We all like to believe that too, Arthur. But the chances of Lancelot surviving are very slim. You know that. We all do. Why are you trying to base everything on lost hope?"
"I like to believe that we are following destiny. And destiny has not given me a sign to prove that Lancelot is dead. Therefore, I will not stop looking until I have found him." Arthur avowed. Guinevere sighed heavily.
"If that is what drives you, then I will follow." She declared, her lips finding their way to Arthur . Abandoning Lancelot's blades and the flickering candlelight burning in their tent, Arthur lowered Guinevere onto their bed and focused himself completely kissing and being kissed by her.
Meanwhile, Elena wandered to the outskirts of their campsite, shrouded in the shadow of a tree. She tightened the cloak around her shoulders, the ends of her robes flapping against her legs.
"Elena?" An uncertain voice was calling from behind. She turned, seeing the full moon flash a ray of light upon the intruder of her thoughts-- Galahad. Of all the remaining platonic knights, she liked him the best. There was an undeniable, secure sense about the youngest Sarmatian knight that she could not quite figure out. Something about him was so existent and true that she failed to believe such men lived.
"Galahad," she greeted, smiling. "What are you doing out here so late? You should be resting."
"And you?" he countered, in the way she expected him to do so. "Am I supposed to assume you are nocturnal or standing guard?" Elena cast a small smile towards the knight quip.
"None whatsoever. I am simply recollecting."
"About Lancelot?" Galahad asked quietly.
She nodded and sighed. "Sometimes I blame this entirely on me. After all, I was right next to him when he was kidnapped. I should have stirred. I should have felt an intruder in the room, but no, I kept sleeping into the night and now here is my consequence."
"Elena, I beg of you never to hold yourself responsible. You were asleep; you didn't know there was an intruder in the room. You did not know that Lancelot was taken until the morning hours, and if you did happen to wake when he was about to be taken, I know you would have done something. You would have done anything to ensure his safety, now wouldn't you?" She nodded briefly, her head cast downwards.
"Then, that is all. We are not going to accuse anyone of this wrongful deed except the Saxons who took him. Our main purpose right now is to find Lancelot. With that, nothing else stands in the way and nothing else matters. All right Elena? Promise me you will not lay the blame on yourself. If you did, I would never forgive myself."
"I promise Galahad." She whispered. The Sarmatian knight drew her into a tight embrace, and she collapsed into his arms, her head onto his shoulder, and her arms around his neck. She shed silent tears that fell into the knight's shirt, but didn't care. She was modestly grateful for his sympathetic words and his compassionate state.
"My mother once said 'sometimes when we are generous in small, barely detectable ways, it can change someone else life forever', Galahad, you are that 'we'. You are the treasure of kindness. You know how to give it without hesitation, how to lose it without regret, and how to acquire it without meanness. Compassion is the basis of all morality. You are the center of that morality, and the only definition of that compassion."
The knight flushed red in the pale moonlight, thankful and relieved that she could not see the bright color in his face. He laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "I expect to pass through this world but once, any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow person, let me do it now, let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again. Elena, for me to help you tonight, it was only because you needed me. And if you ever need me again, just call and I will come. Now, I think it best if you went to sleep. After all, life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep."
Elena smiled, loosing the fastening of her cloak. "And what of you?"
"Why, I have duties now, Elena! I must stay up for the watch." Galahad laughed, stationing himself to the back of the woods. Elena took off her cloak and wrapped it around Galahad's shoulders. He looked bewildered for a moment and was about to pass the cloak off, but Elena shook her head and fastened the button around his neck.
"No, keep it. It chilly tonight, and I do not wish you to catch a cold, especially since your wound has not fully healed yet." She looked up into his eyes and sighed. "Be careful Galahad."
"I will," he assured her. "Now, go and sleep. Good night, Elena."
"Good night." She whispered and started for her tent. Halfway there, on a sudden impulse, she turned around and ran to the Sarmatian. Startled, Galahad opened his mouth and asked, "What--?" But she merely cut off his words, pulling his head closer to hers and kissed him on the cheek. Her breath came out in small rings of the cool night breeze, as she remained motionless, staring up at him through darkened eyes.
"Thank you Galahad, for everything. Of all the knights that could have came up to me tonight and whispered their reassurances to me, I'm entirely thankful that you came." She whispered into the darkness. Then, with one last glance, she turned around and walked back to her tent, leaving Galahad in a long-waited daze.
"All ready?" Arthur asked his companions as they saddled up for the continuation of their search of Lancelot. His knights nodded in return and began their ride out of Macchiato.
"We should be heading towards Dochester if we take this route. I would have thought the Saxons resided in Macchiato, but apparently, they've moved out. I suspect they know we are trailing them. Dochester is the closest village to Macchiato, even if it is a day's ride ahead," Elena scanned the maps. "I have heard that Dochester has their reputation as a station ground for invasions. In the last month, Saxons have invaded that area frequently. Dochester is low in the valley, and right besides a river. It is an ideal place for many to settle, and for wanderers to look for food. Perhaps the Saxons will be there."
"It sounds most reasonable." Arthur agreed, "We will try there next. If Lancelot is still not within sight, we will go to the next village. I'll have Tristan scout ahead first."
For the next hour, all that was overheard was the clip clopping of the horses and the occasional creaking of the carriage wheel. Elena sensed something forbidden as they entered a patch of woods. She gripped the seat tightly and looked out the window. Knights around the carriage rode tall, but beyond them, the trees cast their dark shadows ominously.
"Arthur, it does not feel safe here. Tell the others that we must move quickly." Elena instructed. Arthur did so.
"What do you feel?" Guinevere asked, worried.
"Something dark and heavy." She whispered. Just as the words slipped out of her mouth, the horse next to her neighed loudly, interrupting the once, calm silence. Elena immediately drew the curtain out of her way and watched as the horse recoiled in fright, nearly throwing off its rider, Galahad. He tried to quiet the horse down, but it seemed only to aggravate him more and more. Then, out of nowhere, an arrow hurtled through the air and sliced its way between Galahad's horse and the carriage. Elena promptly grabbed her bow, securing an arrow to it. She stuck her head out of the window and searched the trees, her dark eyes focused on nothing but the surroundings. The knights immediately drew out their weapons, and Arthur and Guinevere jumped out of the carriage.
"SEIZE THEM!" A harsh voice rang out. Arrows shot from all directions. In alacrity, the knights walloped their swords in a battle cry. However, the Saxons surrounded them in the midst of a cluster of trees. Their arrows were fastened and ready, should anyone dare take one step. Arthur looked around him in vain. They were trapped. There was no way of escaping the enemies. Guinevere clung to him as she figured out their doom. Arthur wasn't one to give up though. He gripped Excalibur tightly in his grasp and turned to the nearest Saxon. Whack! The next second, the Saxon fell clumsily to the ground, a pool of blood surrounding his head.
The knights, seeing their commander, followed his action in suit. Elena however, knew they could not keep up like this. They were definitely outnumbered and no matter how strong or how much energy the knights possessed, they would all soon tire out quickly and lose the battle. She crept out of the carriage unnoticed, and climbed the nearest tree. Scaling to a steady branch, she drew her bow out and fired. Her arrow landed in the heart of a Saxon, who was about to kill off Bors. She continued her task each time she saw a Saxon becoming a threat to one of the knights. However, the amount of arrows she held was growing smaller, and soon she would have no weapon at all, save her sword.
"Audrey," she whispered, closing her eyes and willing for the only hope she could think of to come. She waited, motionless, watching the battle below her, freeing her spirit out of her body, becoming as one with the earth. Within minutes, a phoenix rose out of the amulet she wore.
"Go Audrey. Go." She ordered and the phoenix gave her one teary-eyed glance before diving for the battle below. Everyone stopped, despite themselves, to stare at the solitary bird, its beautiful gold and red plumage attracting everyone's unnecessary attention. Audrey dove above them, in the slowest and most graceful of motions, and with a final songbird cry, his beak collided with the earth, sending a brilliant shaft of luminous light.
Everyone was blinded by this sudden outburst, but Arthur and his knights were clever enough to stay down low. The Saxons were tossed and churned in the violent light, thrown out of the woods and knocked unconscious until not a single Saxon was in sight. Elena climbed down the tree and landed boldly, wandering to her companions.
Arthur was the first to get up. He looked at Elena, then where the phoenix was last seen. The remaining ashes were spreading out of the cinnamon twigs and towards the north, a swirl of smoke climbing its way out of the woods. He watched in fascination as a beam of petite lights forced their way out of the ashes and in turn, a new, young phoenix was rising. The new phoenix embalmed the ashes of immorality and before long; he was singing a stirring song and preening his feathers. The other knights watched as Audrey made his way across the battlefield to Elena, whose outstretched arm welcomed him. She patted him fondly, avoiding the curious glances of her companions.
"Thank you, Audrey. And, have some rest." The phoenix nodded in understanding and flew up above her head at a forty-five degree angle. She closed her eyes and waited. Audrey soared fiercely into the amulet and disappeared; the only evidence of a phoenix ever present was the final signal he sent--a single red feather floating carelessly to the ground. Elena stood perfectly still, unmoved by anything, not even the powerful force of a bird flying back to her necklace. Arthur picked up the feather and examined it. The others gathered round, confounded and amazed.
"Wh-h-hat?" was all Dagonet could say. He stared, unconvinced that he was a witness to such a spectacle, at Elena and the feather of her bird. The feather of a mythological, ancient bird.
"Audrey is a phoenix. He came to me at a desperate time, a time where we all needed a miracle. Even the smallest of miracles mattered. You know I am presently the Lady of Wales. Well, long before I was, Wales was a small village of trouble. Years and years of traditions had been traced back to a thousand years or more to consider the chief leader of the village, the firstborn, always male. However, when I was born, that's when things went wrong. My grandfather was bound by tradition to pick a male leader. He did not see me as the natural heir, and I struggled to prove myself. During this time, we were in danger. Invasions and revolutions were common everyday, and many people were searching to move out. They wanted to leave Wales. There is a legend in this village that once, our ancestor called out for help during a violent flood and a phoenix came to him. The phoenix shed one single tear, and the village was saved. When I was eleven, our village started to flood too.
My grandfather believed it was the apocalypse of our village coming to an end. I cried out for help too. I prayed to our ancestors for their guidance, and Audrey came to us. He shed a single tear and the village was saved. I almost drowned in that flood, but at that time, I wasn't scared to die. I loved my grandfather more than anyone in the world, but I needed to fight him and a thousand years of tradition to fulfill my destiny." Elena ended her story, fingering her phoenix amulet.
Galahad crossed to her side. "Elena, I'm constantly amazed by you. Every time I think that there can be anything else that will amaze me anymore, you swoop in and reach a new level of amazement."
She blushed slightly and lowered her glance to her scabbard. Nearby, she heard a Saxon stirring and an idea rushed to her head. She promptly arrived at his side, the blade of her sword glinting in the forest's dancing light. At once, she pressed the blade to the Saxon's throat. "Where is he?"
The Saxon looked up at her murderously. He spat-- "I don't know who you mean and I do not care."
Arthur stood above the Saxon and withdrew his sword. The hint of the blade was directed to the Saxon's face. "You know very well who we mean. Where is Lancelot?"
"I do not know a Lancelot. And nothing will make me betray the word of my commander." The Saxon said insolently.
"Oh really? How about if I cut off your fingers one by one, then submit you there a round of ultimate torture where you die very slowly, and very painfully? Would you like that instead?" Arthur suggested, in the plainest tone of casualness.
The Saxon was silent. He obviously did not want that to happen. He stared at the King, then at Elena and the other knights who surrounded him. His brain trickled with uneasiness. He would be defying Cynric, but he did not wish to die now. Finally, he looked up into the eyes of his enemies--- "Twenty miles from here is a village, Dochester. They have stationed there for tonight. We would have gone farther, but Cynric knew you would be coming for that useless captured knight, and he wanted you all slain so it'll be easier to capture Camelot, and to find the real Arthur. He knows that knight is not Arthur, some other man, goes by Lancelot. Cynric has not killed Lancelot yet, only driven him for information and tortured him. I don't expect that knight to live another day. You might be too late."
Elena scowled at the Saxon's smiling tone and knocked him unconscious with the side of her sword. She glanced up to see Arthur looking back at her. She read him immediately. They had to go and find Lancelot before it was too late. Before he died...
The thing about being captured and tortured was that after awhile, you cease to feel anything. The pain and numbness has left your body and everything feels empty and alone. This is exactly what Lancelot felt right now, after days being bound, tormented, and narrowly killed in the hands of the deadliest enemies.
When the Saxon commander, Cynric, had first summoned him, believing he was Arthur, and seeing the face of a nameless knight, Lancelot could see the throbbing vein the Saxon temple. Pure, dangerous anger radiated from him like nothing else. It was the sort of rage and resentment Lancelot had never faced before, until now.
However, it was during this that Lancelot felt a moment of glorifying triumph, triumph that made all the pain and humiliation and his eventual death worthwhile. He had not been the one Cynric wanted. Cynric had wanted his best friend, the Roman commander, and the British commander. He had wanted Arthur, a man who Lancelot would die of, and die for. The noblest cause to die for is to die for your friends. And this was exactly how Lancelot knew he would die. He had always wanted to die in battle, in a battle of his choosing of course, but this, he believed after a long while, was a much better way of dying. Of knowing that he was dying for the one of the more dignified causes gave him a new light in his temporary world of darkness.
And through his new light, his memories kept coming back to Elena. Every time he thought of her, his throat swelled and tears trickled down his cheek. He knew Elena so well already, knew how she looked when she woke up, how she sounded when she was tired, happy, afraid, worried, angry; how she smelled, usually of the lively scent of fruit and flowers. He had memorized every detail about her, from her glossy locks to her soft hazel speckled eyes to the way her lip curled into the brightest smiles.
He missed her the most. Out of everything he missed, everything he craved and longed for, he wanted her. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, caress her fingers and stroke her hair. He wanted her as close to him as possible, but that was entirely impossible. Where he was now, he had no clue, and for all he knew, she was a thousand miles away. His love for her, his longing for his Elena, was the difficult realization that something other than himself was real in his captured world. For him, loving another human being had always been the most difficult of all his tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. But, with Elena, it was nothing too difficult. Perhaps it was because trying to love all those other women was nothing but a childish infatuation or a glimpse of vanity. With Elena, it was pure, selfless love.
He knew love wasn't a decision. It was a feeling. If he could decide whom he could love, it would be much simpler, yet much less magical. Elena was this magic; a complicated kind of magic that he dared to involve with and yet he feared if he did not, his world would not have been so wonderful and so colorful. Without Elena, everything he knew would never have existed and he would have never known what love was like. What love represented or felt like, even what it looked like.
"Elena..." He muttered as he felt sleep start to overcome his other senses. He always tried to imagine what would come first in the night sleep, pain, or Cynric? Usually, it was none of these. But tonight, as he lay, his thoughts occupied by Elena, his eyelids drooped effortlessly and he slid silently into a world of nothingness.