Chapter 12: Arrivederci
"Stay still, Lancelot, or else I will not be able to bandage your wound." Elena instructed as the carriage rocked. The Sarmatian knight scowled, but held still. The medicine Elena had applied to his skin was stinging, but he tried to ignore the pain as she wrapped the bandages.
He focused instead on the people surrounding him. Arthur, Guinevere, and Elena he three people he loved most in Camelot were situated around him in a circle, watching as Elena applied the remedies to the injured knight. Guinevere was standing by assistance, waiting for instructions, and Arthur was evenly surveying the operation.
"Your wound is very deep. It will take a couple of weeks for it to fully heal. This means no engaging in battles, Lancelot." Guinevere gave him a severe look. Lancelot winced in pain.
"Why must this happen to me? You know you are taking away my most valued passion in life." He complained.
"Really? I always thought bedding women was your passion in life."
Lancelot smirked at his commander phrase. "Aye, Arthur. That is my greatest passion of all. Of course, I believe my interest in bedding women has finally come to a close, for I have found the perfect woman to whom I can bed with pleasurable simulation, and still manage to have a perfectly healthy conversation and a good fight." He gave Elena a teasing, coy laugh, which she returned in favor.
"Aye, Lancelot. I do believe your constant bedding has come to a sad close. We won't expect anyone besides Elena in there now, should we? How awfully unentertaining!" Arthur teased. Elena threw a playful punch and beamed awkwardly.
"Keep at it, and you'll find yourself never bedding a single woman in your entire life... both of you," she glared at Arthur and Lancelot, while Guinevere was muffling her laughter. "Including Guinevere and me."
Arthur and Lancelot gave her horrified looks and immediately shut up. Guinevere smiled broadly, nodding in Elena's clever plan. "I agree with you, Elena." She smiled and returned to tending Lancelot's wound.
Half an hour later, they arrived just ten miles out of Dochester. Night was falling, and Arthur decided that they camp for the night. While the fire crackled and everyone was singing, laughing, and telling embellished stories, Elena watched her friends from a great distance. The sun was falling just beyond the hilltop, and she sighed with mingled satisfaction and weariness of the day's events. She turned her head to survey the knights around the fire, smiling as her eyes fell on each one.
There was Arthur, a real man, someone who sacrificed himself to become a leader and earned the right to be called King. Amongst the knights, Arthur was the one who felt a sense of unfairness, a sense of responsibility to intervene and make the world a fair place.
The formidable Dagonet was a traditionalist with a strong code of honor. He clearly recognized that without Arthur as their leader, the Knights of the Round Table would be no better than a pack of wolves. He was a quiet observer of life, with a strong sense of place and time.
Then, there was Bors, a fierce fighter and the veteran of the knights. He reveled in getting his hands on an enemy and was talented with his knuckle-blades and axe. However, Elena plainly knew he was still a kindhearted father figure and loyal knight of the land.
The mysterious and deadly Tristan to Elena was a lone wolf, a scout with just his hawk for company. Killing is an art for him, and he was most likely to leave the battlefield strewn with the blood of those he mortally wounded and left to die a lingering, painful death. She knew the other knights found him a bit disturbing. After all, he was a solitary figure accompanied by eloquent words and a desire to fight.
Then came Gawain, a down-to-earth person whose home was the battlefield. If he died fighting, Elena knew, he wouldn't have a single regret. Galahad, on the other hand, was the youngest of the knights and the most enraged by his forced duty to Rome. He was driven by his dream of one day returning to his native homeland in Sarmatia. His memory of his homeland has driven him to the position he holds now. His sense of family was very different than that of older men, and he has nurtured his dream of home in order to survive all hell he had undergone.
And lastly, sitting at the right-hand side of Arthur, as usual, was Lancelot. Lancelot, she breathed, the most compelling of all knights. He was a grounded knight with his vision of how the world truly was. He was absolutely arrogant and cocky, but he was deeply passionate well. As though her thoughts were scattered into the flames and speckled onto the knights, Lancelot looked up and caught her eye. Immediately, he gave Arthur an apologetic send-off and stood up. His long strides caught up until he was about a foot away from Elena.
"What are you doing?" He questioned, smiling slightly.
"I am pondering over the Knights of the Roundtable. It just so happens I ended up on you when you looked up. How very coincidental!"
Lancelot smiled, "And what do you think about me?"
"Cocky, but compassionate." She answered simply. Lancelot was mildly disappointed by her lack of word choice, and was about to say something when she interrupted. "I see a man who knows where he belongs, what opportunities he has, what choices he is given. I see a man who can defend his country and his people, and be courageous enough to do it. I see a benevolent and insightful mind at work each moment of our lives, and I see a man who I love to an untouchable degree."
Lancelot relaxed. His stomach flipped, and he felt the instant takeover of nervous butterflies. He reached out a hand to touch her delicate face. "I have known you for two weeks. I don't know how you came to be Lady of Wales or what you did in your childhood. I don't know who your friends were or are, and I have no idea how you came to be who you are. But I do know the curves of your face. And I know every fleck of green and gold in your eyes. I know that these past two weeks have been the best weeks of my life." And he pressed a soft kiss onto her lips.
Pulling apart, Elena squeezed his arm. "I think it is best if you go get some rest. I almost lost you, Lancelot, and I don't want that to happen again. Please go and relax."
"Alright, but if you promise to come within an hour's time. I do not wish to spend all night waiting for you. After all, I have already spent a good deal of time without you besides me when I fall asleep. Did you know when Cynric kidnapped me very night before I fell asleep; I whispered your name into the darkness? I whispered your name so that in fear I died that night, the last thing that parted from my lips was your sweet name, the name of the woman I have come to love so very much."
Tears came to Elena's eyes when she heard of that. She kissed his temple very gently, a prism of tears enveloping her. "Lancelot, I never want to lose you again. I can't afford that."
"I can't either." he kissed her hand, looking affectionately into her hazel eyes. "Adieu, my dear. Until later, sweet tears of goodbye." He woefully released her hand, starting for their shared tent.
"Lancelot." Elena blurted out.
"Yes?" The knight asked, turning away, hands in his pocket, so handsomely charming as his dark curls unraveled across his forehead, his top collar button loosed and his mysterious, fond look.
"Arrivederci." She grinned, waving farewell.
"And? What do I say in return?" The Sarmatian asked, cocking his eyebrow in eager question.
"Au revoir." She answered, in a tone of unforced simplicity.
"Alright. Au revoir, Elena."
She returned to their tent in an hour's time, as she had promised him. He was lying down on the soft matting, hands folded under his head, staring up at the top of the tent. A small smile stretched on his lips as he heard the tent door rustling and a set of familiar, quiet footsteps entered.
"Quite the time, my lady." He whispered softly as he heard Elena settle down on the mat beside him. He could almost see a visible smile noticeable in the dark, and at once, her arms were around him.
"I did not want you to wait, Lancelot." Her voice came out in its musical tone. The knight settled himself comfortably into an embrace, and then kissed the top of her forehead before she drifted off to sleep. Lancelot tried to close his eyes, but every time he did, vivid images of Cynric and Cedric came to his mind wild images of his abduction and the burning anguish and torture he had undergone came back to haunt him.
Lancelot at once drew his pullover and stepped out of the tent. The cool night air caught him by surprise, and he shivered from the breezy winds. He walked forward a few steps and studied the skies overhead for solace. He became so absorbed that he failed to notice another set of footsteps approaching his way.
"Lancelot, whatever are you doing out here?" A sweet, softened voice asked. The knight turned and met face-to-face with Guinevere. He scanned her up and down in staggered approval. She was wearing a gown made of the sheerest and lightest materials. It was the color of celadon-green, a color that matched her pale skin and fiery eyes. Lancelot recollected the first time he had seen her dressed in a flowing gown, of similar material to what she was wearing now. And he remembered his conspicuous attitude towards her--- the furthest affection he had felt for any women up to that point of his life.
"Good evening, Guinevere. I could not render myself to slumber, so instead, I decided to splurge my leisure in the study of the skies. But may I ask the same question to you, my dear lady? What are you doing out?"
The Queen smiled faintly. "You are always been inquiring me of my business affairs. Not that I mind of course. It is the same with me. I could not sleep. I do not understand why in particular tonight, but I will question my faith. It just so happens to be a coincidence that you are here as well."
Lancelot nodded in agreement, "Yes, quite so, Guinevere." The two fell in silence for a couple of minutes, before Guinevere drew a question.
"Lancelot, when will you ask Elena in her hand for marriage?" The question startled the young knight; for this was the last thing he had been expecting her to ask. He shrugged in his superior means of response.
"Why, do you think she will have me?"
Guinevere laughed. "Ha! As if she would not. Lancelot, I am a woman. I understand women. I can see Elena's expectant desire in marrying you. And I believe I can see the same in you."
"I cannot lie to you, Guinevere, for I have been thinking of this proposal for days now at end. I constantly wonder what it would be like to have her as my wife, and nothing has come across my feelings more than an infinite, multihued pool of delight and ecstasy. However, I have known her for only such a short period of time. How can I allow myself to wed a woman in such a period of time without a deep knowledge of her?"
"Lancelot," Guinevere replied in her tone of disappointment, "Love is not the knowledge and profound acquaintance of someone. No, it is rather a permanently self-enlarging experience. Tell me something Lancelot. How much do you love Elena?"
"How much? What do you mean by that? There isn't a definite measurement for love. I love Elena unconditionally. I do not expect anything in return for my love. I am simply giving it."
Silence sliced their conversation. Guinevere left one delicate hand on his shoulder and smiled fondly. "That answer, Lancelot, is one I never expected to hear from anyone. Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved. You have convinced yourself. No, more so, you know you are loved. And you love too," she stopped herself, and gazed at him dimly through her flecked eyes. "So, will you marry her?"
Lancelot turned to face the tent he occupied with Elena. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her figure lying curled up in her charming way, a faint smile upon her sweet lips, and his name whispered on her lips. He turned to Guinevere with meaningful determination. "Perhaps."
The answer did not suit Guinevere all too well. She sighed heavily, shook her head, and started walking back to her tent. Lancelot stopped her halfway. "What? What is it?"
Exasperated, Guinevere threw up her hands in hopelessness. "Lancelot, there is a woman who loves you, and will love you with her wasted heart for God knows how long. And you e just standing here, not doing a thing about it and pretending that it not true. But it is true; Lancelot, and you better do something before it's too late. Because once it is too late, then you can't do anything but regret for the rest of your life what you should have done in the beginning."
He stared at her incredulously. "Are you finished now?"
"Yes." She replied in her cool, indifferent manner.
"I'm sorry." She looked at him, stunned, then blinked. In a moment, his arms were outstretched, offering an apologetic embrace. Her features softened immediately and she freed herself into his arms. He could feel her trembling body safe in his support, smell the fragrant scent that was so familiarly hers, and hear the sighs from inside. Something enveloped them together that Lancelot could not explain, but for all the world, he did not give a single care as he stood wrapped in Guinevere's embrace.
Guinevere slowly released her securely, wrapped arms away from Lancelot back and stared up vaguely into his eyes. She gave him a tight-lipped smile but it vanished quickly as Lancelot fought all his negative impulses and kissed her, very gently, very softly on the lips. She fell back, staggered for a moment, staring at Lancelot through a half-glazed glance. He bit down on his lip, fighting his conscience and his inclination of Elena, staring at Guinevere, the first woman he had loved when he first laid eyes on her back at Marius' dungeon, with the impression of loving affection.
She stared back at him, fighting her own ethics, glancing back at the tent and the world she occupied with Arthur, and then at the tent Lancelot shared with Elena. He seemed a hundred miles away now, as she stared at these two tents. She loved Arthur very much, couldn't imagine a life without him beside her. But as she stood before Lancelot, the fearless knight she had met a million hours ago, she couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and attraction to him. She remembered when she had first met these knights, how her eye had gone immediately to Lancelot. It wasn't Arthur that she had seen first, but instead, it was Lancelot. Not knowing where she stood, between her husband and her fondness, she felt completely caged. Of course, there was Elena, Guinevere's dearest friend, who understood her in ways men could not. Elena was so compassionate, so respectful, and amiable to be around, Guinevere couldn't visualize hurting her friend in the most horrific, most shocking, most scandalous way that one friend could inflict pain upon another.
"Lancelot, we cannot do this. It is impossible." She pleaded.
"Why not? Why can't we?" He asked, in the softest voice he could manage. Guinevere closed her eyes to block off the sound of his sweet tender voice and focus instead on the dangerous consequences of such a possible relationship developing.
"I can't imagine hurting Arthur or Elena like this. Never like this. This is the worst way to hurt them both. And I know you wouldn't want to do that either. You love Elena, and you love Arthur. Let us not cause pain on our dear friends, our loved ones, Lancelot. Let us pretend this never happened between us." She explained, half-arguing with herself.
Lancelot nodded in understanding, frustrated. He was aware of their situation and how perilous such a relationship could end up. However, his desires overcame his sense of conscience and he sighed angrily. "Why can't the world stop for one moment so that we can be together and we do not have to think about the consequences? Guinevere, I love you. I have loved you since the moment I laid my eyes on you at Marius' dungeon. Let me tell you something, Guinevere. I was the first one to see you, not Arthur. And if I had not let Arthur in first, it would have been me you wedded instead. It would have been me you shared that tent with, and your entire life." He stated in complete sincerity.
"Perhaps...but if it wasn't for that fated incident in which my lord had come to me first, then I perceive thee that you would not have met the love of your life." She replied coolly. Lancelot's arms hung limply at his side as he realized the truth behind her words. "I know you love me. I love you too, but it is a different form of love. The love I have for you works in an entirely separate way than the love I have for my husband and the love you possess for Elena."
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his curly locks. "You are right, my lady. I do not know what came over me. Perhaps it is a consequence of my illness. Please forgive me, Guinevere. I never wanted to hurt Elena, nor Arthur. My heinous acts are to be reprimanded."
Guinevere heard the graveness gnawing at his heart. She rubbed his forearm gently and replied- "No, your noble acts are not to be reprimanded. Your sense of love overcame your sense of reason, but I will not chastise you for that. No, love cannot be chastised. I do forgive you, my valiant knight, and hitherto, I pray you to beseech your most loyal Elena. Adieu, my knight and till tomorrow shall we meet." With that, she turned and walked away, her robes fluttering behind her madly as she hurried to her husband's arms.
Lancelot nodded silently to himself, berating himself for being so foolishly heartened to have an intimate involvement with the fair Guinevere, when he knew perfectly well where his heart laid. He turned towards the tent he shared with that person who held his heart, his dearest love, and his affection all this time.