A/N: Sorry this chapter took me so long. This was by far the most difficult chapter to write, and to top it off, real life really got in the way!

Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;
Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.

- William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Chapter 6 – Hell Hath No Fury

"Lancelot!"

No sooner had Lancelot entered the gate, when he saw Bors coming to greet him.

"Where the hell have you been?" Despite Bors's usual gruff tone, he was grinning at the sight of Lancelot having returned to the castle safe and sound.

"Just out for a stroll. Did you miss me?" Lancelot smirked.

"Not in the least!" Bors replied laughing.

It felt good to be back home after his time away. Three days was long enough, he mused. Still, he felt a shadow of guilt for having left at all, but it could not be helped. This was Lancelot's way of dealing with things; when times became overly stressful, he retreated into solitude. The other knights knew well of this, but Guinevere did not. Guinevere. He had missed her dearly over these past days. He hoped she had not been too distraught over his sudden disappearance. I will explain everything to her, as soon as possible.

Lancelot felt two eyes boring down on him and looked upward to the north side of the castle. Guinevere was standing on her balcony, staring down at him. He could not stop the smile that formed on his lips at the sight of his love. Her dark brown hair was floating around her shoulders, and her dress was the most glorious shade of green, like grass on a bright summer's morn. His dark eyes locked with hers, and the singing in his heart suddenly stopped. For there was no love lost in her gaze, no smile hidden in her eyes, no rejoicing at his return. Instead her eyes were frozen, like icicles dipping off the leaves on winter's coldest day; a chill that no warmth, no fire could melt.

She knows. She knows of my transgression. But hadn't he wanted her to learn of it? He had done nothing to hide the fact; indeed he had been as brash as possible when leaving the tavern with that girl.

And just as quickly as she had appeared, Guinevere vanished, having returned inside, and leaving poor Lancelot staring wantonly at her now empty balcony.

Bors had silently watched the lover's reunion. Though he thought very little of the whole affair, Lancelot was still his friend, his brother in arms.

"Come! Arthur is surely awaiting you most anxiously." Bors called to Lancelot.

Lancelot heeded his friend's words and rode to the stables in silence. After securing Beornwyn, he headed inside to greet Arthur and the other knights.

"Milady! Milady! Arthur requests your presence at once in the great hall. Sir Lancelot has returned!"

She would not go. She would not give him the pleasure; he who had claimed to love her, and yet had so vilely defiled that false love.

"Tell Arthur I am very weary and have retired for the evening." Guinevere addressed her maid.

"But milady? I do not understand…" Her maid responded with confusion, for Guinevere was not yet in her bed.

"I said tell him I cannot come!" She most harshly ordered the woman.

Her maid quickly nodded and rushed from the room to follow her lady's orders.

Lancelot followed Bors through the myriad of corridors that led to the great hall, where Arthur, Galahad and Gawain were awaiting his arrival.

Arthur smiled brightly at seeing his first knight, while Gawain and Galahad simply shook their heads, laughing as Lancelot strolled into the hall, acting as if he had not been missing for the past three days.

"Glad to see you are back brother," Arthur said warmly.

"What was it this time?" Gawain asked. "Did someone finally manage to best you with a sword?"

Lancelot laughed, for none of the knights had yet been able to defeat him sparring with a sword.

The door opened and Lancelot turned, hoping to see Guinevere coming to greet him; though from the cold stare he had received moments earlier, he knew it was but a fool's hope, a lover's hope. Instead, Guinevere's maid rushed over to Arthur and whispered something in his ear, to which Arthur simply nodded in reply.

Lancelot's heart sank with the realization that she would not even come to the hall. He did not need to hear the words to know that Guinevere had refused to grace them with her presence.

"You must be tired brother. Go and rest, we can talk tomorrow." Arthur advised him.

Lancelot could tell that Arthur very much wished to speak with him, but that would have to wait until the morning.

Lancelot simply nodded and left the men. On his way back to his chambers he passed by Guinevere's room, and paused outside her door for a moment.

His heart begged his hand to knock on the door; but he knew he could not. He had no right. He had ended their affair himself. Besides, she had probably retired for the evening. Lancelot could not help but shake his head at the pathetic excuses his mind was conjuring up. He knew she was not yet asleep, though he could not fault himself for pretending that she was. How could she not want to at least come to the hall? The silent look they had shared outside had said more than any spoken words ever could.

With a heavy sigh, Lancelot returned to his room. This was not exactly the homecoming he had been expecting. Well, what did you want? For her to come running into your arms? He pulled Guinevere's letter from the pocket of his cloak, and lay on the bed. He slowly read its contents one last time, before carefully placing the parchment into the very bottom of the steel chest that sat at the foot of his bed.

Her written words seemed merely a joke now, meant to torment him even further. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable dreams of her to fill his mind.

The next morning found Lancelot in the stables, gently brushing Beornwyn, while attempting to fathom how he would approach Guinevere. What was he to say to her? His heart knew what it wished to speak, though he feared his words would betray his true sentiment.

Suddenly the woman of his affection entered and moved to her own horse in the opposite stall. "Wish me luck"he whispered to his mare, and turned to approach Guinevere. She continued preparing her horse, tossing the saddle onto the white stallion, and made no notice of Lancelot's approaching footsteps. He stopped at the side of the stall, and rested his elbows on the wooden rail, watching her intently.

"Did you miss me?" he asked with his trademark smirk. Gods that was such a ridiculous thing to say!

She did not reply, in fact she did not even glance in his direction, and instead walked right past him to retrieve her bow and quiver.

I guess not, he silently mused. He would need to try another tactic.

"Where are you going? Would you like some company?"

Maybe she did not want to talk here in the stables, but someplace far away from the castle? Guinevere acted as if he had not uttered a word. She moved right past him once again, and though he longed to reach out and touch her, Lancelot kept his hand by his side. He silently observed as she strapped her quiver and bow onto the pommel of the saddle and promptly swung atop the snow white beast, her gaze never once moving in Lancelot's direction.

Bors chose this most opportune moment to enter the stables, and disrupt the very one-sided conversation poor Lancelot seemed to be having with himself.

"Where you two going?" Bors assumed they were meaning to leave together, for Guinevere had already mounted her horse, and Lancelot had moved to saddle his as well.

"I am going to practice with my bow. Alone." She spoke the last word quite harshly. Though her eyes did not waiver from Bors, her words were obviously not directed at him.

Bors looked over to see Lancelot frowning, his displeasure clearly written all over his face.

"Well, how long will you be gone for?" Bors asked her, more for Lancelot's sake than his own.

Guinevere's lips formed into an overly saccharine smile, "Don't worry. I will be back in time to see you and the men returning with your chosen whores for the evening."

And without another word, Guinevere galloped from the stables, leaving the two men staring wide-eyed after her.

"Always the same one for me, thank you!" Bors humorously shouted in Guinevere's wake.

"Well Lance, you have really done it now, haven't you?" Bors could not help himself from chuckling despite his friend's apparent foul mood.

This conversation had not gone at all how Lancelot had wished. Her words had hit him with such a force, far worse that if she had merely slapped him across the face. He would have actually preferred that she had struck him, at least that would have been some kind of emotional reaction from her, as opposed to the complete and total indifference she had displayed towards him.

"Oh let me be!" Lancelot stormed off back inside the castle, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.

"Didn't I tell you," Bors regarded the horses. "Trouble those two are."

Lancelot spent the rest of the day in his chambers, trying to figure out how on earth he would ever get back into Guinevere's good graces. Maybe he should simply give her some time, and wait for her to come to him? No! Lancelot could not just sit idly by, waiting for her anger to subside. It was not in his nature; patience was not one of Lancelot's virtues. He was as passionate and impetuous as she, which is what worried him all the more. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. The phrase was older than time, though in this moment Lancelot believed the expression had been coined specifically for Guinevere.

Despite musing the day away, Lancelot was unable to reckon a clear way of dealing with the situation. He would simply need to wait for an opportune moment to present itself; and until then he hoped his heart would be able to contain its overwhelming anguish.

At dinnertime, Lancelot entered the great hall – everyone was there, everyone except Guinevere that is. He took his seat to Arthur's left, where he anxiously awaited Guinevere's arrival.

The men conversed of the norm, joking and poking fun at one another, especially at Lancelot. For he was overdue for the punishment for having gone missing for three days. If anything, the ribbing at least allowed the dark knight to laugh for a moment or two, and masked the uneasiness festering in his gut.

Suddenly the door opened and Guinevere glided into the room, a faint smile painted on her lips. Lancelot felt his heart racing at the sight of her, but he quickly realized her smile was not for him, for her eyes were fixed upon Arthur. She took her seat on Arthur's right side and smiled warmly at her soon to be husband. Lancelot could not stop himself from staring most openly at her, waiting for their eyes to meet; for he knew that she would surely realize his feelings, if she would only look at him. But she would not. She would not even gaze in his direction. Instead Guinevere completely ignored him, as if he were not even present at the table.

If any of the other knights noticed the way she snubbed him, they did not let on. Though it was evident to almost everyone, that something was amiss. The tension in the air was palpable, and Lancelot's dark eyes were soon to bore a hole into the future queen. Finally Bors broke the silence by clearing his throat loudly.

"So Lancelot, care to tell us where you have been these past days?"

"No, I do not care to," he replied, turning to Bors.

"Oh come now! We all want to hear of your adventures Lance," Galahad prompted him.

Lancelot glanced over to Guinevere again, to see if she seemed curious as well. But her expression was so neutral, so apathetic to the whole situation; it seemed she could not care less where he had been.

Lancelot caught Bors glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and took the hint. For if he continued staring so obviously at her all night, Arthur would be sure to take notice in time.

With a sigh, Lancelot began to recount his adventures in no great detail, for he knew they would not let up in questioning him until he had at least told them something. He made no mention of Merlin, nor of the robbery and thieves he had slain, and he surely gave no hint as to the actual reason he had fled. Instead Lancelot focused entirely on the events that had occurred in the small village. Every so often he would glance at Guinevere from the corner of his eye, but her apathy was unwavering, and her gaze never once moved to her former lover.

Her indifference was insufferable and dinner was not over soon enough for Lancelot's liking. He took a large ceramic jug of wine from the table and rose quickly from his seat, muttering something about retiring early for the evening. As he left, he did not even bother to glance at Guinevere again, for he already knew her expression would be unchanged, and that she would not raise her deep brown eyes to meet his.

"Talking to the dead?"

After dinner, Lancelot had gone to the small graveyard near the castle, and had proceeded to drain almost the entire jug of wine. He had thought nobody would bother him here, and the somber mood of the place matched his current disposition perfectly.

"Aye, they don't talk back."

Bors disregarded the obvious hint that Lancelot wished to be left alone, and instead sat down beside his fellow knight.

"That thing empty?" Bors asked, and Lancelot passed him the nearly empty jug, which Bors proceeded to make completely empty with one long draught.

"Cheer up man!" Bors put his arm around his friend.

Lancelot did not reply, and continued gazing into the grass, lost in his thoughts.

Bors nudged Lancelot and nodded his head at all the surrounding graves, "They're all dead. And here we are, alive. We are the lone survivors, and look at you. They died so we could live, and all I've seen you do lately Lancelot is mope about, like you're half-dead yourself. You bring shame to them, to all of them. And because of what? A woman? A woman you know you can never have. She's Arthur's Lancelot. You need to forget about her."

"Oh leave me alone!" He roughly shrugged Bors's arm off his shoulder.

"No, Lancelot. I won't leave you alone. You need some sense knocked into you! I've been quiet for far too long about this." Bors grabbed him by the arm and turned the dark knight to face him.

Lancelot was fuming; he didn't want to talk to Bors about this. He didn't want to talk to anyone about this.

"Don't you think I know? I know she's Arthur's! I know she will never be mine!" Lancelot shouted back everything he already knew, though the truth seemed so much the more undeniable when he actually said it aloud.

"Then forget about her! You are wasting all this time, sulking and running off for days. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lancelot screamed, "I can't forget about her! I ..." and he felt stinging in the back of his eyes. He bit back the tears that were threatening to spill and hung his dark head low into his chest.

"I know. I know you love her," Bors said sympathetically.

They sat silently for a few moments, until Lancelot regained his composure.

"She won't talk to me. She won't even look at me," he said softly, staring into the grass.

"She went out looking for you, you know? On the second night. I tried to stop her, but she went anyways."

Lancelot regarded Bors with a curious look. He was overjoyed to know that she had gone in search of him; it was such a small comfort to hear of this, but he was unable to dwell on the fact for too long. There still remained a final question that needed answering, if he was to piece together the full puzzle of the events that had occurred during his disappearance.

"Bors, do you know how she found out, about the woman?"

"Well, umm," Bors was clearly stumbling for words.

"Bors," Lancelot asked sternly, "How did she find out?"

"Well, it might have slipped," Bors replied noncommittally.

"What do you mean it might have slipped? Might have slipped from whom?" Lancelot was getting quite angry now.

"The other night, Galahad had too much ale and ..."

"I'll kill him!" Lancelot jumped to his feet, ready to go after the young knight.

"No you won't!" Bors grabbed him by the legs and pulled him back down to the ground.

"Lance, it's your own damn fault anyhow. Besides, I think you wanted her to find out. You made a big enough show of leaving with that wench."

Lancelot sighed. He knew Bors was right. He had wanted Guinevere to find out; it wasn't Galahad's fault he had told her. It was his own damn fault. How the hell am I going to fix this? Perhaps he should not be so patient in waiting for the most favorable time to speak with her? For each encounter they had only exacerbated the situation. Though it was quite doubtful that she would listen to anything he would say given her current state of mind. No, he decided, the best option was to simply wait for now, until her fury calmed enough so that they might have a rational discussion. Lancelot was not about to give up just yet.

"What ever happened to that girl? I haven't seen her around the tavern since you left." Bors asked, rousing Lancelot from his musings.

Lancelot shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea," and he honestly didn't really care where she was. His guilt was overwhelming for having taken the woman to his bed. But Lancelot did not feel any guilt for having slain her father; perhaps he should have, but he did not. The man was a thief, and his sentence was well deserved. He did not tell Bors of her father's fate; he did not feel like retelling that particular day's events.

Lancelot grabbed the jug from the ground, and finding it empty he make a gallant attempt of standing, but immediately found himself back on the ground.

Bors laughed at Lancelot's drunkenness, "Come on now, I'll walk you back," and helped his friend up.

The two knights staggered back into the castle, holding each other up for support. As the two men turned the corridor, Lancelot suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, causing Bors to stumble.

"Guinevere!"

She was standing outside her door, staring at the pair with such a look of disgust on her face.

"Found my whore for the evening," Bors laughed loudly, with a nod towards Lancelot.

Lancelot elbowed him hard in the side for the comment.

Guinevere regarded Bors, her eyes never falling upon her former lover, "You won't even feel him I'm sure, despite the rumors of his immense prowess," and promptly headed inside her chambers before either of the men could reply.

Lancelot had a look of horror upon his face and Bors could not stop the laugh that erupted from his throat.

"I better make a note never to cross that woman! She really has it in for you hasn't she?" Bors chuckled.

"Oh go to hell!" Lancelot shouted and made way for his own chambers, suddenly feeling all the more sober than a few moments ago.

The goddess of fortune was smiling upon him, for the one salvation of the day was that slumber quickly overtook him. Though perhaps it was not such a fortuitous blessing, for his dreams that eve were far worse than the day's events.

"Lancelot! What are you doing out of bed?" He found himself in the corridor outside his room, and she was rushing down the hall chiding him.

"Guinevere, what ..."

"You are still weak from your injury," she began pushing him into his room, "you should not be out of bed."

"Guinevere, I have been completely healed now for the past two months." he uttered in confusion as she completed her task of forcing him back into his chambers.

She turned to leave, and he called out to her, "Guinevere, where are you going?"

She turned back to him with a smile on her face, and motioned for him to come closer. He obliged, and she whispered as if she was telling him her most deepest darkest secret, "I am going out." There was something not right in the way she smiled at him. Her eyes were sparkling, but not in the way they always sparkled for him. The way in which she was regarding him was all wrong. She did not gaze at him as her lover, but merely as a friend. He was completely dumbfounded, for even when they were in the company of others, he could always find her hidden love for him nestled deeply in her dark brown eyes.

"Guinevere ..." but before he could utter another word she was gone, having shut the door behind her.

What in damnation is going on? He ran from his room and spied her turning the corner of the corridor. He chased after her as she made her way outside the castle. He silently followed, and soon realized where the path she took would lead to. If she heard him pursuing, she gave no indication and continued on her way until reaching her destination - the waterfall.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he did not hear the footsteps behind him. And the next instant, felt a burning sharpness in his back. He cried out in pain and tried to turn to face his attacker, but his legs would not move and instead he crumpled to the ground screaming in agony. His assailant was hovering over him, and the dark knight raised his eyes, but all he could see was a black cloak covering a hidden face. Where was Guinevere? Why had not she rushed to his side at his cries of pain? Every nerve of his body was radiating with flames and he could do nothing but lie helplessly on the ground.

He heard laughter in the distance, and with all the strength he had left, turned his head in the direction of the voices. His eyes had trouble focusing, but just before the blackness finally overtook him, he saw Guinevere holding Arthur's hand as they made their way into the cave.

Lancelot eyes jerked open, suddenly waking from his nightmare and he sat up with a bolt. His sheets were tangled around him, and his chest with covered in a thick sheen of cold sweat. His heart was racing in his chest, and he tried to slow his labored breathing. Only a nightmare, it was only a nightmare, he attempted to calm his ragged nerves. But what a nightmare indeed! Lancelot instinctively moved his hand around his back, just to ensure there was not a dagger lodged into his flesh. He knew not what was worse; the way Guinevere regarded him as nothing more than a friend, or seeing her and Arthur's clandestine meeting at their cave.

A most sickening thought entered his mind, Gods! Has she brought Arthur to the cave! No, no. She would never do such a thing. Lancelot ran his hand through his dark curls, I'm just paranoid, he told himself. It was just a nightmare. Guinevere would never bring Arthur to our cave. Laying his head back on the pillow, Lancelot prayed to whatever god would heed him, for a dreamless sleep.

Lancelot had not been avoiding Arthur, well not consciously at least. His thoughts had been so wholly occupied with Guinevere, that it had completely slipped his mind that his best friend had wished to speak with him the day before. So when the dark knight heard knocking on his door at midday, he was perhaps more surprised that he should have been to find Arthur standing in the doorway.

"How is everything Lancelot?" Arthur asked warmly.

"Fine Arthur," he replied with a smile.

"Good." Arthur's tone suddenly turned somber, "I was meaning to speak with you yesterday but did not have the chance to."

Lancelot felt his stomach tighten with dread, for Arthur's gaze suddenly turned deadly serious. Gods, does he know something? Lancelot's throat suddenly became as dry as the desert, and he waited most uneasily for Arthur to continue.

"May I ask what prompted your hasty departure Lancelot?"

Lancelot knew not how to answer. He loathed lying to his best friend, though it seemed of late all he had been doing was deceive the man.

"I just needed some time away, you know how I get," he smiled a sheepish grin.

"Indeed, though it has been quite some time since you have left in such a manner. And in the past, when you returned, we would always laugh together at whatever foolish motivation had prompted you to disappear."

Such was Arthur's way of saying so much with so few words. He spoke just enough to make his thoughts understood, and Lancelot understood quite well what his friend was thinking. It was all so true; this time was very dissimilar, for this time, upon Lancelot's arrival, he did not seek out Arthur, they did not joke together over his imprudence, and he did not tell him his true reason for having left in the first place. But what could Lancelot say – that he had left due to his burning love of Arthur's soon to be bride?

"Guinevere said a very strange thing to me when you were gone."

"What was that Arthur?" his voice betrayed his anxiety and the words came croaking out of Lancelot's throat.

Dammit man, pull yourself together!

"She was quite convinced that you had run off with a woman," Arthur let out a small chuckle at the notion. "I explained to her that I found that highly unlikely, and did not seem the sort of thing you would do Lancelot," Arthur turned to look directly at his friend and waited for him to respond.

Arthur's eyes betrayed no emotion, and Lancelot was having great difficulty in reading him, for his friend's tone was as passively neutral as his gaze.

Is he challenging me? Why would he be challenging me?

"Arthur, you know I would never do such a thing." He responded with conviction.

"No you would not, would you." What should have been a declaration instead sounded more of a question to Lancelot's ears.

Lancelot felt it, as Arthur surely did as well. It was as if they were both standing on opposing sides of Hadrian's Wall; the strain in their friendship was becoming quite apparent to both men. Yet Lancelot saw no way of repairing this, for as long as he loved Guinevere, he would always be hiding something from his friend. And Lancelot needed no soothsayer to tell him, that he would love this woman until the end of his days. No matter what happened, Guinevere had complete command over his heart, and there was nothing he could do to change this; nor would he ever want to. Surely there were days he wished he had never met her, but such is the lament of an unrequited lover. For he would not trade a single moment they had shared together. And such was his agony, for the sweet moments were soon to end forever; that is, if they had not already ceased altogether.

Lancelot watched as Arthur left, for neither man had anything further to say. That had to have been one of the most awkward conversations Lancelot had ever had. Arthur had almost caught them once before, which had put enough fear into the pair to make a much more concerted effort in concealing their secret affair.

He was sick of being in bed all the time. He felt like an invalid, and though he was not yet fully healed, he could not stand another second being so confined. Sitting up, he ignored the burning pain in his chest and moved his legs to rest his feet on the floor. He attempted to stand, and cried out from the sharp pain that radiated through his torso. She came running from the bathing room at the sound of his cry.

"Lancelot! What are you doing out of bed. You are still weak." She chided him.

"Guinevere if I lay in this infernal bed for one moment longer, I will scream."

She shook her head, "Fine. Let me help you at least."

She reached around his waist to help steady him as he slowly got to his feet. She released her hold to let him stand on his own, but his fatigue caused his knees to buckle and he grabbed her tightly to help steady himself. Her arms instinctively moved around his waist until they were locked in a sweet embrace.

"Are you alright? Are you in pain?" She soothingly stroked his back as she softly whispered into his ear.

"I am fine now," he murmured.

Her body was flush against his, and her heart was beating against his chest as feverishly as his own. This is wrong, he thought, but why does it feel so right? It was but a moment they were locked in each others arms, though it felt an eternity.

She heard the door opening and her fear caused her to release her grasp on Lancelot, who without her support almost fell to the ground. Arthur quickly stopped his friend's descent and steadied him, before he reached the floor.

"Are you alright Lancelot?" He worriedly asked.

"Why did you not call me, if you needed assistance?" he harshly addressed Guinevere.

Guinevere could barely look at Arthur, and felt the blood rushing to her cheeks in shame.

"I ..." she stammered.

"This is my fault Arthur, I could not bear another second being confined to bed. I asked Guinevere to assist me in standing." Lancelot quickly interjected, saving her from her floundering attempt at a reply.

Arthur sighed, "Please, next time call me if you have any need."

They had been most fortunate then, for if Guinevere had not released her arms in time, neither would have been able to properly explain their affectionate embrace. But everything was so much more complicated now, and Lancelot feared Arthur would soon begin to suspect, that is, if he did not suspect already. Lancelot decided he would let Guinevere be for now; he would not pursue her; he would not attempt to catch her gaze any longer; he would do nothing to cause any questions from Arthur or anyone else. Though his heart would break in doing so, Lancelot knew he had no choice in the matter.

Days slowly passed into weeks, and Lancelot began to suspect that Guinevere would never speak to him again in her lifetime. A few times he found her in the stables, sparring with the wooden dummy. But as soon as he entered, she would abruptly leave without a word. Despite his promise to himself, he began watching her from afar, but she again caught him staring and soon she could not even be found in the stables. Dinner was the same routine, day in and day out - she smiled warmly at Arthur and completely disregarded Lancelot as if he were an unseen phantom.

He had never in his life met a woman so stubborn, so fiery - so much like himself. Three weeks past by without her ever uttering a word to him. Three long and dreadful weeks. His heart was broken, beyond repair he feared. He tried his hardest not to think of her, but how could he not think of the woman who owned his heart so completely? How could he not think of the only woman he had ever loved in his life? To not think of her, was to be without air in his lungs, to be without blood in his veins.

And the dreams, oh if he could only stop himself from dreaming he gladly would have. Every night the dreams reminded him of what he had lost, what he would never have again. In his dreams she loved him as before, in his dreams she was his and his alone, in his dreams they were so blissfully happy together. Occasionally the dreams would turn sour, and he would have other terrifying nightmares causing him to wake in a cold sweat. His fear got the best of him on those nights; his fear that she no longer loved him. Though his heart would never let him believe this, it was a logical response to the way in which she was now treating him.

The torment! Would he ever be free of her? If there were some spell to cure him of his love, he would gladly drink whatever vile potion was thrust upon him. So many charms to induce love, yet there seemed to be a lack of those to reverse its effects. He was cursed; she would never leave his thoughts, nor his dreams. For she dwelt in his heart, and lest he cut it right out of his chest, she would haunt him forever.

I suppose it is good practice, he thought. For after the wedding their affair would have ended all the same, although he had never imagined that their friendship would have ceased as well. But what he wouldn't give for her to simply gaze upon him, to see the love shining in her eyes, to share a quiet smile with her, that special smile that she gave to him alone.

With each day his agony grew until finally the dreaded day was upon them. Tomorrow was the wedding day. It is too late now, he thought. For tomorrow she will be forever lost to me. Maybe it was better this way, maybe it would make things easier. He was lying to himself of course, and the fact that she would not even look at him caused such an ache in his heart, an ache he feared would never leave him.

Three weeks. How was he to endure a lifetime without her in his arms, if he could not even bear three simple weeks?

The room was dark, not even a single candle was lit to give any illumination. But the moon was full in the night sky, and gave just enough light to see by. His fever had all but subsided, and though he was still weak, he was making a wonderful recovery. His caretaker had fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed. The way the moon rays lit her face gave her an angelic glow. He lay in the bed, her bed, and watched her sleeping so peacefully, curled up with her head nestled in her shoulder. He wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek, but he dare not wake her. Her eyes slowly opened, as if she had felt his gaze upon her.

"I must have fallen asleep," she smiled at him.

He did not reply, but simply continued admiring her loveliness.

She rose to leave for the chambers she now used as her own, while he occupied hers.

"Don't go," he softly called, though he hadn't meant it to come off as such a plea.

Without further prompting, she sat on the bed next to him, "The chair does not make a comfortable bed."

He did not speak, but moved over just the slightest, and pulled back the corner of the thin sheet covering his body. She understood the invitation, and accepted without hesitation.

She lay wrapped in his arms for hours that night, her head resting on his chest, listening to his heart beating with love for her. He stroked her dark hair as they whispered to each other in the darkness. His eyes were threatening to close, but he forced himself to stay awake for as long as he could, savoring the feel of her warm body against his.

But this night, Lancelot's bed was cold and his arms were empty; and no rest would come for him. For this night, he lay in his bed alone, listening to the pounding sheets of rain that fell from the dark sky. The god of rain could not have chosen a more fitting time to summon his heavenly liquid than on this very eve, thought Lancelot.

Slipping out of the castle, Lancelot welcomed the cool drops that showered him. He walked slowly despite the heavy downpour. Soon his dark curls were plastered to his forehead, his grey cloak was now black and quite heavy from the harsh rainfall, and each step sloshed thick mud onto his black leather boots. One could barely see a foot ahead, but Lancelot would have found the way even in blindness, for his heart pushed him along the familiar path, until he arrived at his destination.

He had not been here since his three-day disappearance, but on the eve of tomorrow's fateful day, he wished to be no where else in the world. This place was as close to her as he would ever be now, this place that held countless memories of the many nights they had shared together. Their special, secret place; where she could love him without fear or shame; where all their guilty pleasures could be realized; where their hearts and souls were free to join together in that eternal lover's dance.

As Lancelot skirted around the crashing waterfall, he noticed that the mouth of the cave was illuminated by a fire lit inside. Somebody was here, in his cave. Lancelot quickly entered, and his heart almost lept right out of his chest, for there she was, his one and only love, sitting on the ground staring intently into the fire.

A/N: Don't shoot! I know I'm driving you all crazy with these cliffhangers! Well at least I say who it is in the cave this time. ;) I hope to have the next chapter up very soon.