"Where You Go, We Go (With Daggers Come to Our Bed)" Part 3. The Beginning
Summary, character list and previous chapters are here.
Part 3. The BeginningWherein Lancelot's story comes full circle.
He rode heavenwards. That was what it felt like.
The heart - his hardened by time and people heart - was steadily melting with every smooth step of his galloping steed. The grass was disappearing beneath the pounding hooves, fast and glorifying, Camelot.
He rode heavenwards, and he was afraid.
Reining in his bay horse, he came to a stop on the top of the hill just outside the borders of the Pendragon’s Kingdom. Grass stretched out before him, in springtime bloom. Lush and covered in morning dew.
He spotted the nearby woods, his hands imperceptibly tightening on the reins. The horse shook its head, nervously pawing at the ground with its front leg.
Lancelot patted it soothingly, his eyes still piercing the black-green foliage, assessing, always assessing and cataloguing the possible dangers.
Years had taught him well.
Yet there was nothing he could discern from his spying spot, so he spurred the stallion down the hill, down from where he had a chance of glancing the castle walls.
Down from where he could spot his heaven.
Trotting to the edge of the trees, he took a quick glance around before dismounting. Patting the bay’s neck, he edged his way into the covers of the trees.
Dark and damp, and so very dark. His step was cautious, careful in a reverent way and his boots were already sinking into the moistened ground.
It was dark and whispering of danger, and he knew no matter how good and trained his eyes were, if someone - or something - wanted to hide here, the chances of him discovering it were slim to none.
He sighed to himself. King Ban was counting on him, trusting him.
He trusted him, Lancelot, enough to place his knights and his life in Lancelot’s hands. To spot the danger before the company rode down.
His longing for Camelot growing, now that it had been allowed to rise from its dormant state in the corner of his lonely heart, fully delegated to it (even thoughts of Gwen were forbidden entry into that murky territory) he cast his eyes into the shadows coiling beneath the majestic trees, wondering if it was nature or magic, or if there ever was any distinction between the two entities or if it were Men - small and lost, without understanding - who persisted in imposing boundaries on the Undividable. Whatever the nature of the gathering darkness, it seemed to pose no immediate threat to the approaching party. Lancelot tightened the reins and halted the bay’s progress, then turned around to canter back to report to king Ban (he balked, still, at calling him his, at claiming possession even while he yielded to Ban his own loyalty).
They camped when the night fell and rose with the dawn. The king estimated that they should arrive before dusk that day and they made ready to ride out again, to fair Camelot and the young King who sat within her walls, with the kind-hearted Queen by his side and surrounded by the bravest of knights, the kind that bred stories and tales that spread far, far away.
Once upon a time.
Legends say that all in King Arthur’s eyes are equal, that courage and loyalty serve him like old friends, as he serves them. But what do legends know?
Once upon a time, Lancelot had arrived to Camelot with a heart swelling with hope. He dared not believe in it, yet he yearned... And succumbing to the temptation of dreams come true, he turned to be a disappointment; he had proved to himself, even as king Uther was knighting him, that he was not worthy.
Was he now? He had passed many trials, fought many beasts, both mythical and man-originated. And yet he had also lost a half of his heart, his wonder and belief. What use did Arthur have of bitter, world-weary, battered knights?
Knights sworn to another, no less, even if at heart - or perhaps especially then, because what use is a double-edged loyalty to anyone? Unfaithful to one are unfaithful to all - they remained his?
He bent low over the horse’s mane, happy for the wind that blew all thought and matter out of his head, thankful for its cooling hand upon his heated brow and sweat-soaked hair, appreciative for the idyllic sounds and smells it carried. They rode over the grassy plains, entered a terrain yellowed from wheat that grew there and passed through, their horses drawing increasingly heavy pants of air; their nostrils had begun to foam when at last, from beyond the green veil of the trees’ crowns, they glimpsed the castle’s fortifications, the high walls glinting in the afternoon’s heavy sun. They had ridden hard and made good time. The men and beasts were weary, yet they rallied and fastened their pace, riding with heads held high, the horses’ hooves beating a thunder rhythm upon the earthy path that soon turned to cobblestone and then to smooth marble floor of the castle front yard, stampeding horses descending on the city.
They reined in to a halt in a synchronic wave, each pair of knights passing the stillness like an honour onto the pair riding behind them, and it spread like a rapid gossip until all men and beasts resembled still statues, with the former sat upon the latter’s noble backs. Waiting and watching as the king of Camelot greeted the king of Benwick.
Finally, they dismounted; the unified front they had been presenting until that point broke under the pressure of exhaustion, the long ride obliterating pride and appearances. Even the inevitable chaos that snuck into their ranks had a distinct tired air to it; there was no squabbling or teasing present, every man, knights, prince and king, lost in their own ruminations.
Lancelot loosened the girth on the saddle and distractedly patted the bay’s neck. It was a loyal creature, and he found comfort in its unassuming presence that patiently stood beside him while the grandeur walls of the past - despite the frequent sieges and calamities that befell Camelot, nothing had changed in its outward appearance - closed in on his from all sides. It was like being struck head-first with a heavy brick. There was no escape now, he thought even as he heard the gates falling shut behind his back.
He released his equine companion to a stablehand that had come to fetch the animal and darted a furtive look around, wondering if he would spot any familiar faces−
Only to meet the King’s eye, fixed with an intense, displeased look on him.
Will the History truly never cease repeating? For all his past that had hardened him, here Lancelot was, once again an unsure supplicant before his better’s disapproving, assessing gaze.
Where was Merlin, the ever-friendly face? Where was Guinevere, the calm reassurance against his own inadequacies raising their ugly head in this face of judgement?
Where was Lancelot, a knight and warrior in his own right?
Longing, once released, took supreme reign over every crevice of his ravaged heart.
***
What had happened with Arthur on the evening after the welcoming feast was irreversible the moment it happened. Lancelot had been surprised that the King had decided to search for him but when he bid him to enter his room, when he saw the wildness and determination shining in his liege’s (always and forever - what is there to reclaim?) eyes, he had a dawning premonition that whatever proceeded would have colossal consequences. Yet who was he to refuse Arthur anything? He longed to serve him, become his knight once again, wipe the dark blemish that rested upon his name.
Arthur knew his infamy, and yet he had come to search for him. This is when the decision had been made.
Therefore the kiss that Arthur hungrily poured into his mouth, a statement of intent and claim, was welcomed with freely opened arms and eyes shut to un-see the fate they had just incurred. The gloomy vision refused to be dispelled.
Arthur hadn’t exactly run that night, but it had been a close thing; not that Lancelot knew about that, since he stubbornly refused to crack an eyelid, pretending for a moment longer.
Now even that was futile; not only had their act been irreversible, it was also irreparable. Walking beside Gwen, kind, beautiful, his beloved Gwen, kneeling periodically to pick wildflowers for her, their simplicity emphasising the beauty of her dark tresses, he could feel the guilt eating away at him, creating a chasm between him and the woman he loved.
For the second time in his personal history, Camelot had brought him both joy and pain. He feared that this time riding away towards imagined future brave deeds would not be an option he could take.
***
It was more than a tumble of limbs; he agonised about Gwen when he was lying beside Arthur, he mourned for Arthur when Gwen slumbered, cradled like a precious gem between his arms. He had splintered them apart and filled them with himself; he was the guilty party, so where was his punishment?
When and under what colour would it present itself? He wished for a long sword, a knightly death. He feared his friends’ - his family’s - faces when they would inevitably find out about the other angle of this triangle.
Man and wife. And Lancelot.
Yet he could no more deny the pleasure he felt in their company than he could order his body to stop taking breath; their warmth drew him in, cajoled him to stay a little bit longer.
He always did.
Whether it was a breathy moan of Gwen or a brilliant smile of Arthur didn’t matter; he could refuse neither, drew his own pleasure from their happiness. If only the fallout could burden him alone, and spare them; if they could still be, as they had been in-between knowing him; remain unchanged and undefeated by this hurdle in their relationship; he would be glad, then, to lay his life at their feet, serving them even as he drew his final breaths.
“Merlin should be back soon, I think,” said Gwen, her smile brightening. Merlin, who brought joy to friends. Merlin, whose absence spread a new wave of melancholy through Lancelot at Gwen’s words so that he staggered, grieved. Even with Gwen strolling at his side, the noises of the city alive from dawn to dusk coming from near distance, he felt suddenly bereft. Merlin, who was his first friend in Camelot. Merlin, whom he could never see again.
He would not understand this betrayal. Even worse, they would force him into a position of picking sides. He’d pick Arthur, obviously, but to burden him, this man who is a friend first and foremost, who is loyal so quickly, and to make him choose and forsake his friends? How could they do that? And continue doing that?
Lancelot didn’t know the answer to that. He and Gwen sat down in a shade of trees, a safe and proper distance between their knees, her purple dress pooling in a creased mass of fabric against the stain of grass, his dark leggings stretched parallel to her bent legs.
They talked about the past, a far safer topic than future.
Sometimes, he secluded himself away to count the times he’d been in Gwen’s bed and add them to the times he’d been in Arthur’s. He tried to make the arithmetic oblige and tell him if between all those times, they still slept together.
Other times, he spent whole days immersed in training, winning bouts against other knights, both Camelot’ and Benwick’s finest bowing before his strength, born from desperation and guilt.
He sparred with Arthur frequently and then forgot about anything but the younger man’s blade, skilled and ferocious, because Arthur gave no quarter when he was training. Another thing that remained unaltered, passed by a flow of time.
He won eight times out of ten, resulting in a sweaty, tired knight and a disgruntled King. Later Lancelot would smile, all teeth bared in humour, while he and Arthur wrestled like little children, a game played by all boys employed by two grown men, with bare arms locking around each other while they played at battle.
***Merlin’s eyes gazed unblinking at him, looking disconcerting from behind the bars. The events had come full circle, then. Here they were again, Lancelot imprisoned and Merlin trying to help him.
“What about Gwen? If I escape, won’t the attention focus on her instead?”
“It is now focused on her. She’s the queen; you, my friend, are just a lowly knight. This is how courts work; the bigger fall is always more spectacular to watch.”
Lancelot snorted, “Since when have you become a politician?”
“Since my bull-headed friends need me to be one, apparently.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. Please go; I’ll try to free Gwen too, you should go away together. I don’t think Arthur will guard you closely. He doesn’t want to see either of you go to death.”
So in the end, Arthur would remain behind, standing alone.
The End
Part 3. The BeginningWherein Lancelot's story comes full circle.
He rode heavenwards. That was what it felt like.
The heart - his hardened by time and people heart - was steadily melting with every smooth step of his galloping steed. The grass was disappearing beneath the pounding hooves, fast and glorifying, Camelot.
He rode heavenwards, and he was afraid.
Reining in his bay horse, he came to a stop on the top of the hill just outside the borders of the Pendragon’s Kingdom. Grass stretched out before him, in springtime bloom. Lush and covered in morning dew.
He spotted the nearby woods, his hands imperceptibly tightening on the reins. The horse shook its head, nervously pawing at the ground with its front leg.
Lancelot patted it soothingly, his eyes still piercing the black-green foliage, assessing, always assessing and cataloguing the possible dangers.
Years had taught him well.
Yet there was nothing he could discern from his spying spot, so he spurred the stallion down the hill, down from where he had a chance of glancing the castle walls.
Down from where he could spot his heaven.
Trotting to the edge of the trees, he took a quick glance around before dismounting. Patting the bay’s neck, he edged his way into the covers of the trees.
Dark and damp, and so very dark. His step was cautious, careful in a reverent way and his boots were already sinking into the moistened ground.
It was dark and whispering of danger, and he knew no matter how good and trained his eyes were, if someone - or something - wanted to hide here, the chances of him discovering it were slim to none.
He sighed to himself. King Ban was counting on him, trusting him.
He trusted him, Lancelot, enough to place his knights and his life in Lancelot’s hands. To spot the danger before the company rode down.
His longing for Camelot growing, now that it had been allowed to rise from its dormant state in the corner of his lonely heart, fully delegated to it (even thoughts of Gwen were forbidden entry into that murky territory) he cast his eyes into the shadows coiling beneath the majestic trees, wondering if it was nature or magic, or if there ever was any distinction between the two entities or if it were Men - small and lost, without understanding - who persisted in imposing boundaries on the Undividable. Whatever the nature of the gathering darkness, it seemed to pose no immediate threat to the approaching party. Lancelot tightened the reins and halted the bay’s progress, then turned around to canter back to report to king Ban (he balked, still, at calling him his, at claiming possession even while he yielded to Ban his own loyalty).
They camped when the night fell and rose with the dawn. The king estimated that they should arrive before dusk that day and they made ready to ride out again, to fair Camelot and the young King who sat within her walls, with the kind-hearted Queen by his side and surrounded by the bravest of knights, the kind that bred stories and tales that spread far, far away.
Once upon a time.
Legends say that all in King Arthur’s eyes are equal, that courage and loyalty serve him like old friends, as he serves them. But what do legends know?
Once upon a time, Lancelot had arrived to Camelot with a heart swelling with hope. He dared not believe in it, yet he yearned... And succumbing to the temptation of dreams come true, he turned to be a disappointment; he had proved to himself, even as king Uther was knighting him, that he was not worthy.
Was he now? He had passed many trials, fought many beasts, both mythical and man-originated. And yet he had also lost a half of his heart, his wonder and belief. What use did Arthur have of bitter, world-weary, battered knights?
Knights sworn to another, no less, even if at heart - or perhaps especially then, because what use is a double-edged loyalty to anyone? Unfaithful to one are unfaithful to all - they remained his?
He bent low over the horse’s mane, happy for the wind that blew all thought and matter out of his head, thankful for its cooling hand upon his heated brow and sweat-soaked hair, appreciative for the idyllic sounds and smells it carried. They rode over the grassy plains, entered a terrain yellowed from wheat that grew there and passed through, their horses drawing increasingly heavy pants of air; their nostrils had begun to foam when at last, from beyond the green veil of the trees’ crowns, they glimpsed the castle’s fortifications, the high walls glinting in the afternoon’s heavy sun. They had ridden hard and made good time. The men and beasts were weary, yet they rallied and fastened their pace, riding with heads held high, the horses’ hooves beating a thunder rhythm upon the earthy path that soon turned to cobblestone and then to smooth marble floor of the castle front yard, stampeding horses descending on the city.
They reined in to a halt in a synchronic wave, each pair of knights passing the stillness like an honour onto the pair riding behind them, and it spread like a rapid gossip until all men and beasts resembled still statues, with the former sat upon the latter’s noble backs. Waiting and watching as the king of Camelot greeted the king of Benwick.
Finally, they dismounted; the unified front they had been presenting until that point broke under the pressure of exhaustion, the long ride obliterating pride and appearances. Even the inevitable chaos that snuck into their ranks had a distinct tired air to it; there was no squabbling or teasing present, every man, knights, prince and king, lost in their own ruminations.
Lancelot loosened the girth on the saddle and distractedly patted the bay’s neck. It was a loyal creature, and he found comfort in its unassuming presence that patiently stood beside him while the grandeur walls of the past - despite the frequent sieges and calamities that befell Camelot, nothing had changed in its outward appearance - closed in on his from all sides. It was like being struck head-first with a heavy brick. There was no escape now, he thought even as he heard the gates falling shut behind his back.
He released his equine companion to a stablehand that had come to fetch the animal and darted a furtive look around, wondering if he would spot any familiar faces−
Only to meet the King’s eye, fixed with an intense, displeased look on him.
Will the History truly never cease repeating? For all his past that had hardened him, here Lancelot was, once again an unsure supplicant before his better’s disapproving, assessing gaze.
Where was Merlin, the ever-friendly face? Where was Guinevere, the calm reassurance against his own inadequacies raising their ugly head in this face of judgement?
Where was Lancelot, a knight and warrior in his own right?
Longing, once released, took supreme reign over every crevice of his ravaged heart.
***
What had happened with Arthur on the evening after the welcoming feast was irreversible the moment it happened. Lancelot had been surprised that the King had decided to search for him but when he bid him to enter his room, when he saw the wildness and determination shining in his liege’s (always and forever - what is there to reclaim?) eyes, he had a dawning premonition that whatever proceeded would have colossal consequences. Yet who was he to refuse Arthur anything? He longed to serve him, become his knight once again, wipe the dark blemish that rested upon his name.
Arthur knew his infamy, and yet he had come to search for him. This is when the decision had been made.
Therefore the kiss that Arthur hungrily poured into his mouth, a statement of intent and claim, was welcomed with freely opened arms and eyes shut to un-see the fate they had just incurred. The gloomy vision refused to be dispelled.
Arthur hadn’t exactly run that night, but it had been a close thing; not that Lancelot knew about that, since he stubbornly refused to crack an eyelid, pretending for a moment longer.
Now even that was futile; not only had their act been irreversible, it was also irreparable. Walking beside Gwen, kind, beautiful, his beloved Gwen, kneeling periodically to pick wildflowers for her, their simplicity emphasising the beauty of her dark tresses, he could feel the guilt eating away at him, creating a chasm between him and the woman he loved.
For the second time in his personal history, Camelot had brought him both joy and pain. He feared that this time riding away towards imagined future brave deeds would not be an option he could take.
***
It was more than a tumble of limbs; he agonised about Gwen when he was lying beside Arthur, he mourned for Arthur when Gwen slumbered, cradled like a precious gem between his arms. He had splintered them apart and filled them with himself; he was the guilty party, so where was his punishment?
When and under what colour would it present itself? He wished for a long sword, a knightly death. He feared his friends’ - his family’s - faces when they would inevitably find out about the other angle of this triangle.
Man and wife. And Lancelot.
Yet he could no more deny the pleasure he felt in their company than he could order his body to stop taking breath; their warmth drew him in, cajoled him to stay a little bit longer.
He always did.
Whether it was a breathy moan of Gwen or a brilliant smile of Arthur didn’t matter; he could refuse neither, drew his own pleasure from their happiness. If only the fallout could burden him alone, and spare them; if they could still be, as they had been in-between knowing him; remain unchanged and undefeated by this hurdle in their relationship; he would be glad, then, to lay his life at their feet, serving them even as he drew his final breaths.
“Merlin should be back soon, I think,” said Gwen, her smile brightening. Merlin, who brought joy to friends. Merlin, whose absence spread a new wave of melancholy through Lancelot at Gwen’s words so that he staggered, grieved. Even with Gwen strolling at his side, the noises of the city alive from dawn to dusk coming from near distance, he felt suddenly bereft. Merlin, who was his first friend in Camelot. Merlin, whom he could never see again.
He would not understand this betrayal. Even worse, they would force him into a position of picking sides. He’d pick Arthur, obviously, but to burden him, this man who is a friend first and foremost, who is loyal so quickly, and to make him choose and forsake his friends? How could they do that? And continue doing that?
Lancelot didn’t know the answer to that. He and Gwen sat down in a shade of trees, a safe and proper distance between their knees, her purple dress pooling in a creased mass of fabric against the stain of grass, his dark leggings stretched parallel to her bent legs.
They talked about the past, a far safer topic than future.
Sometimes, he secluded himself away to count the times he’d been in Gwen’s bed and add them to the times he’d been in Arthur’s. He tried to make the arithmetic oblige and tell him if between all those times, they still slept together.
Other times, he spent whole days immersed in training, winning bouts against other knights, both Camelot’ and Benwick’s finest bowing before his strength, born from desperation and guilt.
He sparred with Arthur frequently and then forgot about anything but the younger man’s blade, skilled and ferocious, because Arthur gave no quarter when he was training. Another thing that remained unaltered, passed by a flow of time.
He won eight times out of ten, resulting in a sweaty, tired knight and a disgruntled King. Later Lancelot would smile, all teeth bared in humour, while he and Arthur wrestled like little children, a game played by all boys employed by two grown men, with bare arms locking around each other while they played at battle.
***Merlin’s eyes gazed unblinking at him, looking disconcerting from behind the bars. The events had come full circle, then. Here they were again, Lancelot imprisoned and Merlin trying to help him.
“What about Gwen? If I escape, won’t the attention focus on her instead?”
“It is now focused on her. She’s the queen; you, my friend, are just a lowly knight. This is how courts work; the bigger fall is always more spectacular to watch.”
Lancelot snorted, “Since when have you become a politician?”
“Since my bull-headed friends need me to be one, apparently.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. Please go; I’ll try to free Gwen too, you should go away together. I don’t think Arthur will guard you closely. He doesn’t want to see either of you go to death.”
So in the end, Arthur would remain behind, standing alone.
The End