Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my own characters. Anything/anyone you do not recognize belongs to me. I may use lines and/or quotes from other sources, which are not my own, later on in the story. I'm not quite sure though-so I'm being un-specific. Those (if I do choose to use them) also do not in anyway belong to me.

A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Still not the battle…but I actually kind of like this chapter.

p.s. I'm sorry?

Choices

Chapter 15: Curse and Blessing, All at Once

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It was early. So early, in fact, that the sun had not yet risen. The world was bathed in the strange, grey half light that comes just before sun rise. Lena loved this time, when the world was quiet. She felt like a ghost as she wandered through the halls of Hadrian's Wall. Or maybe like the only human being on earth—the thought was a little bit lonely, but beautiful nonetheless. Today would be full of heat and blood and chaos. The image of the battle to come was somehow grotesque in comparison to the simple, calm loveliness of this moment.

Lena breathed the cool air deeply as she walked, running one had over the wall to her left. She made sure to be quiet as she made her way down the hall. These were the knight's quarters and she did not wish to wake them. They would need the rest for today, even if they did not yet know they would partake in the battle. Lena stopped as her hand made contact with one of the large wooden doors. Just the door she was looking for. She knew the knight inside was already awake, and probably well aware of her presence outside his door. Lena wasn't exactly sure what she was going to say, but she knew that the sight had lead her here for a reason—it had told her that this was the right door, the right room—Lena was certain it would make sure she had something to say when the time came. She knocked hesitantly and held her breath. No sounds came from the room but a moment later the door swung open.

Tristan stood before her shirtless and armed with the curved blade Lena recalled from her vision. He didn't look particularly surprised to she her, which Lena had grown somewhat accustomed to, being that he never looked much of anything in the way of surprised…ever. Tristan gave the girl a once over before speaking. "Lancelot's room is three doors down." Lena gaped for a moment, and then realized that he was already closing the door. She stuck an arm out and stopped it from closing any further.

"I was looking for you." She stated somewhat curtly. "May I come in?" Tristan said nothing, but opened the door fully once more. Lena entered and heard him close the door again behind her. She stood with her back to him, and felt his eyes on her. Lena scanned his room quickly. It was neat…and empty aside from a few necessities. A pang of sadness shot through her at the sight of it and her heart went out to Tristan. There was something about the room that so reminded her of the man…something dark and incredibly lonely.

Lena shook her head and turned to face the knight. He was watching her intently, and though he didn't show it, she was sure he was at least somewhat puzzled by her presence in his room so early in the morning. "I need to speak with you." Tristan gave a slight nod and then motioned to a chair that sat facing his bed. Lena took the chair and Tristan sat on the edge of his bed.

Lena was silent for a moment before starting. "I—I know that you and the knights are leaving this morning, and that you've decided not to stay and fight—and it's not that I'm here to try and dissuade you or change your mind or anything of the sort—I'm just afraid that what I have to say may not make any sense because of this." Lena paused and searched Tristan's face, hoping for some small sign that he understood what she was going on about. She found none and struggled with what to say next. Lena's eyes darted around the room and landed finally on the sword still in Tristan's hand. Tristan noticed the change in her immediately.

She sat much taller, much prouder, and her eyes faded—turned a ghostly color of grey that almost made her irises disappear completely. Her voice, when she spoke, lost all its usual meekness—it became strong, commanding, and otherworldly almost. "Tristan," she began, staring at him pointedly all the while. "He is not yours to kill." At this Tristan was blatantly confused, though still he managed to show no sign of it. "I warn you now, so listen well, Knight, and you shall be spared. Do not cross his path. Fate has shown great mercy in cautioning you—do not discount it." Lena's eyes were beginning to return to they're normal shade of green as she continued. "His life belongs to Arthur. Stay away."

Lena took a great breath then began to cough violently. She braced herself against her knees as she shook. After a moment or two the cough subsided and she looked up to Tristan once again. Her eyes, he observed, were completely normal again, and overall Lena herself looked a bit confused and shaken. She stood abruptly and looked to the Knight hopefully. Still sputtering a little with the cough she began to speak. "I—you, you will understand," Lena held her sleeve to her mouth as she coughed once more. The Woad started to look uneasy on her feet so Tristan stood and moved closer, ready to support her, but Lena held out a shaky hand to stop him. "No, no I'm fine; I'll be all right, just—just listen! You must remember what I've said! I—I know I sound mad, but please, please promise me that you will remember it, and heed it Tristan, you must heed it." The girl looked increasingly weak as she backed away towards the door. "Please." Lena turned away to open the door, leaning heavily on it as she did so. She turned back once before closing the door. The Knight made no indication that he had anything to say at all. "You," a look similar to, but less severe than the one that had taken her over as she spoke of fate again crossed Lena's young face, "you will understand all too soon of what I speak." And then the Woad began to cough again—Tristan could hear her still as she made her way down the hall, long after she had closed his door, leaving him alone in the middle of his room.

The Knight stood in silence, as usual, and stared at the doorway where Lena had just been. He wasn't sure what had just happened, or what any of it had meant, but he understood that he should remember it…and heed it as well, apparently. As he heard her coughing down the hallway, Tristan felt an outpouring of concern so sincere that he came as close to externally expressing it as he could have. It was something about her weakness and selflessness combined with the strength and force of her convictions—a strange clash of innocence and youth with experience and undeserved age, that made him feel for her as though she were some sickly sister of his. He sighed very softly when he could no longer hear her rattling away. When in her presence, Tristan found that it felt something like standing in front of a dying child. One look at her face and you could tell— Lena was a dying child. Strange, that just days ago he had thought of her as a danger—he had even held her against a tree in the middle of the forest threatening to choke her…Now all he could see was her overwhelming weariness.

The Knight stood thoughtfully a moment longer. Yes, he would heed her warning— as long as he could.

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Lena continued to stumble back to the infirmary. She would wait there until Guinevere came, which would be soon no doubt, and then together they would join up with their fellow Woads. As she thought things through, Lena had to pause and lean against a wall until she could catch her breath. Once she resumed her clumsy trudge back to the infirmary the cough began anew and she was forced to stop yet another time. The warning she had given to Tristan had required more of her than Lena had anticipated. The Sight in itself was draining enough, but to remain entirely conscious and aware—to speak and see the world around her while taking in so many things from the other world, from the future, and of fate—was nearly impossible, especially in her weakened state.

Lena rested her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. She did not understand why the Sight had lead her to Tristan, or what her warning had to do with the short bald Saxon whose life she could take in exchange for the three men. Lancelot and Balor could both obviously be saved by the Saxon's death, but in her vision, Tristan had fought a different man entirely. All Lena knew was that she had followed the Sight, and that it had lead her to Tristan, and then to the warning she had given—she could only assume that it had set in motion a plan that would involve the short bald Saxon, the long haired Saxon, the three men, and herself.

What she, more than anything else, could not understand, was what any of it had to do with her mother. She had looked so frail and sickly and small in the large bed Lena had seen her in during the vision. Perhaps it was something from the past? Could it have been some memory that had accidentally worked its way into her vision? But, as far as she knew, the Sight never did anything accidental…and Lena had never seen her mother look so ill, not until she died at least, and even then, their home had never been anything like the room the Sight had shown her. Lena stopped herself from thinking any further on the subject. It would not do to dwell, and the Sight would make sure things fell into place…she hoped.

Lena realized she had barely made any progress since leaving Tristan's room and found herself wishing she had accepted his help. She resumed her feeble hobble, and was struck with a fresh round of coughing, this time louder and more intense. The Woad doubled over and attempted to muffle the noise with her hands, but found very little success. She had wanted to come and go quietly, without disturbing anyone but Tristan, and now it seemed she'd wake the entire Wall within several minutes time.

Or perhaps it was simply a matter of seconds, she thought bitterly, seeing the door to her right open. Being that she was still entirely bent over, all that greeted her were a pair of feet. Lena turned herself upright as quickly as she could and found herself face to face with a bare-chested, sleepy looking Lancelot.

"Lancelot's room is three doors down."

One. Two. Three. The Woad counted just to make sure before being suddenly overcome by faintness. She had straightened herself out too quickly, and now all the blood was rushing from her head. That, in combination with the fact that the Sight had already weakened her and made her quite unstable, made for a bad reaction. "I can't stand—" Lena confessed as she stumbled back a step.

"Me? You can't stand me?" Lancelot asked, looking mildly horrified. This was not the way he'd hoped to begin a conversation with Lena.

"No, I can't STAND." She clarified earnestly. The Woad's knees went, and before Lancelot had time to hear the end of the sentence she had already collided with the floor. Her eyes met with Lancelot's and the dull pain the ebbed through her from the jolt of the cold, hard floor reminded her of having avoided exactly this pain, just days ago, when the Knight had caught her. Dear Gods, she wished he could have caught her again, just to be close to him.

Lancelot seemed frozen until Lena began to cough again, not as badly as before but still quite impressively. "You should return to the infirmary." He stated, kneeling beside her.

Lena took a rattling breath. "I was trying to." Lancelot looked her over. Her face was pale and flushed, her palms pressed hard against the floor, and her breathing labored. There was something he had to be able to do or say. He didn't know how to speak to her—Gods; he'd forgotten how to speak at all! Words, words—he knew what they were, he had known once what they were. Couldn't he think of any words, any at all? He found none, so instead of speaking, he did all her could think to do. He put an arm around Lena's back, and the other beneath her knees, lifted her, and then carried her like a bride.

Lena looked surprised momentarily, and for a second Lancelot was afraid she would protest and insist he let her be, but she settled into his arms comfortably. She fit well in his arms, he realized; there was no jabbing or poking. She molded to him against his skin, and the pleasant weight of her small body made Lancelot feel steady and warm.

Lena herself felt pleasantly warm in his arms. Warm and thankful. Lancelot may have found her monstrous, but at least he was a good enough man to help her. He was strong in all the ways Lena was not, and for a moment, the Woad found solace in his strength, and in his nearness. If only for that one moment, while Lena could feel both physically and mentally close to the Knight, she could pretend that she had a chance at loving him as a normal person could. This heat, this closeness, this comfort, and this strange falling sensation in the pit of her stomach could be real, could be like love should be.

But then, as quickly as it had come, it was over, and Lena was lying on a cot in the infirmary, Lancelot standing above her. The Woad looked a little better, and her coughing had all but disappeared, though she still looked considerably put out. "You're not well." Lancelot began. "I'll go find Etta."

"No!" Lena protested more vehemently than was necessary. "I—there is nothing she can do to help me." It was true, but Lena knew that more than anything else she simply wanted Lancelot beside her a little longer.

The Knight gave a confused look. "Why? She was treating you before, was she not?"

"Yes." Lena nodded and looked away uncomfortably. "But this was brought on by the Sight—it sometimes—you see it can be demanding in a physical sense, especially when one is not in full health—I, forgive me. I shouldn't speak of such things with you." She finished abruptly, not wishing to scare him away again with talk of her gifts.

"No." Lancelot stated forcefully as he sat himself on the side of her cot. "You can speak of it. Whenever you like you can speak of it, and I promise I will listen."

Lena furrowed her brow. "And what an empty promise!" She stated disbelievingly. "You ran away, you quiet literally ran from me when last in that situation, Lancelot." The worst part of what she was saying, Lancelot realized miserably, was not in what she was actually speaking of—he knew all that already—but it was in the way she said it. Disheartened, defeated, and passive— those were the words that came to mind at the sound of her hopeless voice. She was not even angry. It would have been better if she had shown some kind of emotion other than complete resignation.

"Lena," The Knight began. "I swear I did not run from you then." Lena looked away from him and Lancelot reached out and placed a palm to the side of her face carefully. "I am not afraid of you." He said truthfully. "I could not face you, because I was ashamed of my own actions towards you." Lena looked back to him and found only sincerity in his face. "I'm sorry." The Knight finished and felt a huge weight lift; he had wanted to apologize like this from the moment that he had first offended her.

"Thank you—it is nice to hear." Lena said, closing her eyes slowly. "I have become very tired waiting to hear it said by someone." Lancelot looked down on Lena and found himself thinking that if she had been blessed enough to avoid this curse, to stay healthy and young—she would have been uncommonly beautiful. The girl was already beautiful, more beautiful than anyone Lancelot could remember having seen in his life, but her weakness and frailty were so obvious, and had become so much more obvious in just this last day.

"I'm sorry." He blurted out, spurred on by his recent thoughts.

Lena laughed a little bit confusedly. "You already said that, Lancelot. I really am not angry."

"No." He said, leaning closer to her, looking to her pleadingly. "I am so sorry that this is your life. That you must be so burdened and old, and that you must see the things you see, the horrors that Guinevere told us of. Lena," He said, bringing his other hand to her soft, dark hair. "This pain should not be yours. You should have so much more th—"

The Knight was silenced when Lena brought her pale, cool hand to rest on his own. When she spoke there was a heartbreaking calm and peace about her voice that made Lancelot want to hold her. "It is not your fault." She said simply, earnestly. "And, Lancelot, my life has not been so horrible." Lena stated. She sat herself up so that they were more or less level, and continued to hold his hand. "I have seen wonderful things because of this curse, Lancelot. I have seen times and places that no human could dream of. I have seen this world, this whole world at its worst and at its finest, and I tell you, friend, it is a beautiful thing." Lena took a shaky breath and smiled. "I have visited every place on this earth that is or has been or will be—there are things I know of that I do not even understand, but I have seen them, Lancelot. I have lived through so many eyes and times and places and things— I've seen the land and the sky and the sea. I have known all the joys and pains of life." Lena looked down for a moment and continued. "It is much to know—too much for anyone person I suppose, and if the choice were mine I do not think that I would want this wisdom, but I have it and from it I have great power. It's true," Lena stated. "I have seen tragedy and death and crime and hate—I have seen man push itself to the brink of destruction more than once, but each time I have had the fortune to see it redeem itself again." Lancelot noticed how Lena's eyes were sparkling in a way he had never before seen. "It is a burden, knowing the horrors of life—but the wisdom that that knowledge has given me has served to let me understand fully life's beauties as well. Do not pity me Lancelot, do not feel sorry—I am not sure that the beauty of my life validates its tragedy, but I know that I have lived more fully, and learned more from life than any man could ask to. And, yes, I will die young, I will die soon—and perhaps that is unfair, but I will not die empty." Lena released Lancelot's hand and he moved it to her cheek. "I have seen horrible things, Lancelot, but I have seen goodness that only Gods can speak of."

Lancelot had no words to respond with. He had no voice, no power, no sense. He did the only thing that felt right—the only thing he could think to do. He leaned in, still holding the Woad's face in his hands. He could feel her breath against him, could feel it mingling with his own in the small space between them. Lena's hands were on his arms, his shoulders his chest—her skin against his felt like fire flooding through his veins. He was close to her, and he wanted to be closer, he wanted to hold her against him as tightly as he could, tighter, and closer. Their lips were centimeters away, her soft and perfect lips were so close he could taste her, smell her—now he wanted to feel her. Lancelot moved in, ready to devour her, ready to be devoured.

"Lena." A familiar voice came from the doorway and the pair turned toward it, startled. Both Lancelot and Lena rose abruptly to face Guinevere, who stood watching, uncomfortably and somewhat disapprovingly, at the end of the room. "It's time." She stated before turning and waiting outside of the door.

When Lancelot's eyes once again found Lena's he realized hers were no longer filled with the hungry heat of the moment before. She was all business now. "I—Goodbye, Lancelot." She turned away and started to leave before changing her mind and spinning back. Two hands on his shoulders, and on tiptoe, Lena was able to reach up and place a kiss on his cheek. "Be careful." She whispered, her lips barely brushing the side of his face as she did so. She could tell he was furrowing his brow at her words. Why did he need to be careful? Lena was the one heading off to battle.

Lena's heart was ready to burst as she began to walk away, but before she could Lancelot had wrapped two arms around her and was holding her tightly against him. They stood still for a moment before the Knight placed a kiss on her forehead and released her. Lena smiled sadly before backing out of the room completely and walking away with Guinevere.

I love you, I love you, I love you, Lancelot's heart called out desperately.

Walking down the hallway, Lena clutched her chest. "What's wrong?" Guinevere asked with concern.

Lena took a deep breath and gave a discrete but genuine smile. "Nothing. Nothing is wrong."

I love you, I love you, I love you, her heart called back to him.

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Please forgive me! And also review! Sorry guys—I love you!

Blue