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Forbidden Love	By : ezridax19 Category: G through L > King Arthur Views: 1814 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter
3 – Run Away

Every
curve of her body molded into his muscular frame. The sweet taste of
his breath, the gentle stroking of his hands. Moaning into his neck,
his fingers roamed over her soft flesh, sending shock waves along
every nerve of her body. This was heaven for her.

“Do
you know how much I love you?” He whispered into her ear
causing a shiver to course the length of her spine.

Pulling
back to stare into his eyes, she answered him with a coy smile on her
lips, “No, I do not.”

“Then
let me show you.” He gave a devilish grin and he proceeded to
...

Guinevere
was abruptly roused from her slumber by someone being altogether too
noisy in her chambers. Opening one sleepy eye, she spied the culprit
- her maid, clamorously darting about the room. There was almost
nothing worse than being awoken from a pleasant dream before it's
conclusion, she thought irritably. Closing her eyes, she turned her
back to the infernal woman, wishing to fall asleep once again and
continue her delightful dreaming. The slow pulsing between her legs
ached for release and she longed for her phantom lover's touch. She
had been dreaming of him, as she did every night. Some say that
dreams are the pathway to the soul; her soul, her heart and her body
ached for Lancelot.

“Milady
are you awake?”

I am
now.

“It
is past midday milady. Arthur has come by to check on you twice
already. Are you feeling better?”

I
would be if you let me be.

With a
sigh she turned to face the woman, “Yes I am feeling better
today, thank you.”

Her maid
smiled, “I have drawn a bath for you.”

Guinevere
nodded and left the bed for her bathing room. A nice soak would do
her good right about now, she thought as she disrobed and lowered
herself into the luxuriously hot water. With the smallest hint of a
smile on her lips, she closed her eyes and continued last night's
stimulating dream in her mind.

With a
groan, Lancelot submerged his body into the chilling cool depths of
the pond. When he had left the castle that morning he had had no
destination in mind. He had just needed to run away from everything,
to spend time in solitude, and hopefully to find some peace and quiet
for once. Letting his horse roam freely, his faithful companion had
brought him here - to his and Guinevere's waterfall. The whole
damned world knows. Why not the horse as well?

It was a
blessing in disguise he quickly decided, and after tying his horse to
a nearby tree, he stripped off his garments and jumped into the
water. He wanted to scrub off the filthy scent of the whore from his
body. The water was freezing cold, which was exactly what he needed
to temper his anger. Lately he was far too angry far too often, he
thought. Experiencing one minor disaster after another; things had
been piling up long enough. The past two days, culminating in this
morning's events, were the final straw. He hated himself for his
actions last night. Taking pleasure in another woman's body, all
because of his broken heart. It was disgusting and selfish and
foolish. And the sad part was, he was partly glad he had done it –
he had wanted to hurt Guinevere as she had hurt him. And that damned
whore knew! Enough was enough. A man can only take so much before he
snaps.

The
crashing of the waterfall muffled the sound of the two approaching
men. With a deep breath, Lancelot immersed himself completely, the
icy cold liquid tickling his skin. When he returned to the surface,
he opened his eyes to the sight of two men turning to run. One
carried his swords, the other his clothing. Bastard thieves! He
berated himself for having been caught off his guard and instantly
leapt from the water.

Naked and
weaponless, Lancelot sprinted after the two men. His body, which had
been freezing only a second earlier, warmed immediately as hot angry
blood burned through his veins. They will pay dearly for their
theft, he inwardly snarled. The fools have no idea whom
they have robbed. They will know soon enough.

His legs
carried him faster than he thought imaginable. His mind was racing
just as rapidly – jumbling images of catching the foul thieves,
of slowly torturing them, of doling out well-deserved vengeance for
their robbery. They had taken his most precious items. His blades had
been his unwavering, faithful companions for the past 15 years. They
were a part of him, as much as his own hands were. It was a betrayal
of a wholly devilish kind to see them in the hands of anyone else,
and he felt even more naked without them on his back. But it wasn't
only the image of his swords that entered his mind, but his cloak as
well. Or rather what was nestled deep inside it’s pocket. He
suppressed the urge to scream and rapidly closed the gap between him
and his nemeses.

With a
loud moan, the one carrying Lancelot's weapons stumbled, plummeting
face-first into the dirt. His companion stopped when he heard the
cry, and turned to aid his fallen comrade. Lancelot’s pace did
not falter and in an instant he was upon them. The one on the ground
lunged for the single blade that had fallen within his grasp. Quick
as lightening, Lancelot picked up a thick branch of dead wood,
thrashing it with all his might. The sickening sound of the man’s
skull cracking reverberated throughout the forest, and the branch
shattered into a thousand splinters at the contact. The other thief
stood frozen in horror, until his eyes caught Lancelot's vicious
stare. With a bolt he was off again, running for his life, with the
black knight of death quick in pursuit.

One
down and one to go. Like a demon possessed, Lancelot reclaimed
his stolen blades and gave chase, his vision tainted crimson. He was
the predator and savored the hunt. He could taste it. He was running
on pure emotion, his adrenaline feeding him, and his primal instincts
completely controlling him. Lancelot was an extremely skillful
Knight, though he had always thought the word knight to be too fancy
a title for what he really was – a trained killer. He and his
Sarmatian brothers had been taken from their home for one purpose –
to destroy anyone or anything that opposed Rome in anyway. They had
taken this innocent young boy and turned him into what he was today.
He knew no other life than the one he had lived in the service of
Rome. He knew not of mercy, only of death. Better his opponents'
deaths than his own.

The
remaining thief was not a young man and soon the aching in his lungs
from the exertion was overwhelming. Darting quickly behind the
shelter of a large oak, he prayed the tree would be an adequate
hiding spot from his stalker. He tried to slow his ragged breath and
stop the burning in his chest. The woods were strangely hushed. He
knew the black knight was still silently hunting him. He continued
waiting motionless until he was fairly certain that his foe had
passed by his hideout and finally allowed himself to let out the sigh
his lungs had been holding in. That's when he felt the cold steel
pressed against his skin.

Keeping a
single blade against the thief's throat, Lancelot moved from his
position behind the tree to face his victim. Crossing his arms, he
placed the second blade in it's proper position, his dark eyes never
leaving the man's trembling features. This was the one that had taken
his garments, his cloak, and the letter. This one would die slowly.
This one would know exactly who was exacting their vengeance upon
him.

“Are
you so ignorant as to not know who you have stolen from?”
Despite the heat raging through Lancelot's body, the words were ice
cold.

The
thief, who had not yet had the courage to look Lancelot in the eye,
finally met his gaze. Terror was written on his face, but it was
evident he did not know the identity of the man holding the blades
against his neck. Not right away at least. Realization slowly entered
his eyes.

"You!
You are the one that made my Eliza cry."

Who in
damnation is Eliza? Lancelot’s mind was unable to properly
process anything due to his frenzied rage. Nevertheless, even in his
right mind he would not have been able to put a face to the name.

"She
came home this morning crying her eyes out, going on about how that
nasty Lancelot had used her and thrown her out."

The
knight’s mouth formed into a wickedly evil grin. "Ah yes.
The whore from last night."

Disgusted
by Lancelot’s words, the man spat in his face. Not bothering to
clean the saliva off his cheek, Lancelot instead increased the
pressure of his blades, causing rivulets of dark red to flow freely
down the man's neck.

"Now,
have you nothing else to say before you die?”

The thief
responded only with silence and a cold glare. He was prepared to die,
and would not give Lancelot the satisfaction of an answer.

“I’ll
be sure to tell your daughter how I killed her thief of a father next
time I take her to my bed.” Lancelot took perverse pleasure in
goading his victim.

Now the
thief indeed did have more to say, and with what were surely his last
few breaths, he addressed his executioner. "Knight. You call
yourself a knight? What kind of a knight are you? You are without
honor. I may be a thief, and my daughter may be a whore, but at least
I have some semblance of honor. Unlike you! In love with your King’s
wife!"

Lancelot's
jaw fused together, quelling the scream rising in his throat, as the
razor sharp blades sliced clean through the man's neck. The scene
resembled a nightmarish vision of the underworld. There he stood, his
naked body stained with the blood and gore of the decapitated man at
his feet, his eyes black as night and burning with anger and hatred.
If anyone should dare come upon him in this state they would have
thought him a demonic-creature come from the very bowels of hell. He
would have struck terror into the heart of the devil himself.

Farther
away. He still needed to get father away from this insanity.

Bending
down to gather his belongings, he threw the cloak over his shoulders.
Not wanting to sully his clothes with blood, he left this godforsaken
part of the woods to return to the waterfall and wash up.

Guinevere
was sick of puttering about. She was not one to sit idly by, doing
nothing all day. But that was exactly how she had passed yesterday
and today – moping about her chamber, feeling sorry for
herself. Avoiding Lancelot would accomplish nothing, she chided
herself. In all honesty, she very much wanted to see him. She dearly
missed his handsome face and the way his dark eyes sparkled like
stars whenever he looked upon her. Even if they could be together no
longer, he was still dearest in her heart and she delighted in being
merely in his presence. Whenever she was near to him, her heart would
rejoice at finding it's companion and beat all the faster.

With that
thought in mind, she made the decision to go to dinner tonight in the
great hall. Besides her true motive, she did not want to rouse
Arthur's suspicions. He was already concerned about her well-being,
believing she had been ill these past days. If she stayed in another
night, his worry would surely grow to the point of demanding they
call for the healer. Then her fake illness would undoubtedly be found
out, which would only lead to more questions she was not prepared to
answer. How many times could she look at Arthur and lie to him? How
deep could her betrayal run? Everything will be fine after the
wedding. She had become so adept at lying she was even doing it
to herself now. With a final glance at the mirror to ensure her Queen
face was on, she left her room en route to the great hall, while
all the while a flock of butterflies danced in her stomach at the
thought of seeing her now former lover.

It seemed
her nervousness was unfounded, for when she arrived the first thing
she noticed was Lancelot's empty seat. Arthur and the rest of the
knights all stood as she entered and bowed to her. Her eyes were
still transfixed upon the vacant chair; not even realizing she had
ignored the men, she promptly nodded her head in return.

She moved
to seat herself at Arthur's side, who turned to her with a grin.
“Glad to see you are feeling better.”

“Yes,
thank you.” She replied with a false smile in return.

The men
continued clamoring on about some business, no one making any mention
of Lancelot's apparent absence.

Unable to
contain herself any longer, she finally asked, “Where is
Lancelot?”

“Galahad
saw him leaving this morning in haste,” Arthur replied, nodding
at the youngest of the knights.

“He
just took off on his horse. Never said a word to me, not even a
hello. Just completely ignored me like I wasn't even there,”
Galahad elaborated.

A look of
concern passed over Guinevere's face and out of the corner of her eye
she noticed Bors regarding her oddly.

Looking
pointedly at Arthur, she asked, “Have you not sent anyone out
in search of him?”

Laughter
ensued at her comment, as the men looked at each other knowingly.

Arthur
turned to her with a smile, “One night has not even passed. I
am certain he shall return soon - this is not the first time he has
left in such a manner.”

“Nor
will it be the last!” Bors chuckled. Looking over to Gawain he
continued, “Remember that time the bastard took off when you
beat him in cards. He swore you were cheating! Conceited hot-head
couldn't believe he could lose!”

The rest
of the knights laughed loudly at the reminiscence.

“He
was gone for only one night that time,” Gawain recalled.
“Another time he left for two days when Tristan bested him in
an archery contest. “ Gawain nodded to Guinevere, “Don't
worry. It's just Lancelot's nature. He will be back after he has
cooled down from whatever has set him off this time. He always comes
back.”

Guinevere
had an annoyed look on her face. Lancelot was gone, Arthur would not
go look for him, and the knights found the whole situation extremely
amusing. She could not continue asking Arthur to go search for his
missing knight without stirring even a tiny hint of suspicion, and
did not query him further on the topic. A few times throughout the
night she caught Bors looking at her with the same curious look he
had on his face earlier. She in turn avoided his gaze, and attempted
to act more jovially, laughing along with the men as they each told
tales of their journeys with Arthur. At the conclusion of dinner she
took her leave and hurried back to her chambers.

By the
time Lancelot returned to the waterfall, dusk was settling. He was
exhausted and though he wished to ride even farther away, he knew it
would be best to leave in the morning. Placing his belongings into
the cave, he waded into the frigid pond and stood directly under the
rapids. Sheets of freezing water crashed down upon him, along with
thoughts of everything else that had happened. Washing away the dirt
and blood was easy. Washing away the anger and the pain was an
altogether different matter.

With the
waterfall pounding down on him, a hellish scream erupted from deep
inside the fierce knight. The dark bellow that had been festering in
his gut since he had left the castle that morning. The swelling roar
that had been building inside him for far too long. The overwhelming
cry he could contain no longer. Lancelot screamed his heart out –
all the rage, the pain, the hurt, the blood, the tears, the love, the
hate. Every agonizing emotion came gushing out of him, in a sweet and
unfettered roaring outpour. He continued screaming until there was
nothing left to purge and his throat was afire with red hot flame.

This was
all her fault. The knights thought the whole situation laughable, but
they did not know the real reason Lancelot had left. She knew he had
been upset after their talk in the cave, but she had not ever thought
he would leave because of it. And why did he not leave until today?
If he truly had been so distressed over her, why would he not have
left yesterday? Something else must have happened. But what exactly
she did not know.

The
letter! Had he read the letter and then left because of it? She had
only written her heart's truth, and did not believe her words would
have ever caused him to flee. Yet she knew Lancelot was entirely
unpredictable at best. Perhaps something in the letter had set him
off. Either way she was certain that she was the true cause of his
disappearance. Though she could not surmise all the details, nor know
what exactly he was thinking, or what he had hoped to accomplish by
leaving. She feared this was not just some angry one night rant he
had embarked on. The stories the men told of his prior disappearances
were all fueled by anger due to childish reasons – cards,
archery, and petty arguments. This was a wholly different matter.
This was a matter of the heart.

But what
was she to do? She could not just leave and search for him. She knew
not where he had gone. He could be far away at this point. And how
would she ever explain it to Arthur if he found out she had gone
looking for Lancelot? Also, there was Bors, who had glanced strangely
at her all night, almost knowingly. She feared he suspected
something.

No. There
was nothing she could do at this point, except wait and pray he
returned soon. She resigned herself to this fact, and slipped under
the covers, hoping the next day would bring Lancelot back to the
castle.

Lancelot
entered the small cave having thoroughly exhausted himself. He was
numb to the bone; not just from his bath in the frigid water. His
baser emotions - anger and rage, had been released into the night
air, but the sorrow was too deeply rooted in his heart to be so
quickly expelled. He lit a fire in the darkness, and laid himself on
the dirt staring into the flickering flames. But not even the intense
heat radiating from the fire could warm his chilled body.

Sleep was
threatening to overtake him, and he went to retrieve his cloak to act
as a makeshift pillow. Lying back down, he put his hands under his
head, and rubbed against something coarse. The letter. He chastised
himself for having completely forgotten about it. After the day's
events he was thoroughly spent, but his heart begged him to read it's
contents. Sitting up, he pulled the letter out of the pocket and
began reading.

My
dearest love,

I
write you this with my heart in my hands. My heart, which I have
pledged to you and only you. I pray in reading this you will come to
understand all the things I have not told you. All the things I have
not shared with anyone, I share now with you.

I did
not want this – any of this. When I was a girl, my father told
me of my fate. My destiny, he called it. I did not believe him. I did
not want to believe him. My mother died giving me my life. My father
was my only family. He was my whole world. Until you.

When I
was young he would take me out into the forest at night. Teach me to
hunt, to fight, to live. Look at these trees, he would say. They are
ours, mine, yours. They belong to us. As our land belongs to us and
one day will be ours again. He would point to the stars and say ,
look - for it is written, for all time. One day we will once again
rule that which is ours by right, by birth. And he would look at me
with a smile and say – because of you. You, my dearest
daughter, will save us. You will give us freedom and you will reclaim
our land.

I
could not understand how I could be so important. How I could save
our people? And how am I to do this? I would ask him in disbelief.
You must always do what you know is right, he would tell me. You must
never be swayed, though your heart may be broken, you must always do
what is right.

At
first I was too young to understand his words. But he would tell them
to me over and over again until they were etched into my memory. And
only when my eyes fell upon you did I understand the truth of
everything he had told me.

I
loved you from the moment I beheld you. You, who saved me not once
but twice. The moment I first saw you, my heart both rejoiced and
mourned. For my father's words came rushing out from the back of my
mind. I could not stop myself from loving you. Freedom, but at what
cost. Only two broken hearts. Only. If it were only one broken heart,
I would gladly be the sole bearer of the pain. But to know that your
heart breaks along with mine is far too great an agony.

I went
to my father and begged him to release me from my duty. Your destiny
is not in my hands, he said. Your destiny is written in the stars,
and lest they fall from the sky, it shall be as it is written. You
must do what is right. For our people you must.

I knew
his words held truth, all the truth in the world. But this did not
lessen the ache in my soul. For I shall love you until the ends of my
days. The land may be united, my people may be free, but I - I will
never be complete without you.

Never
forget, you alone hold my heart.

A few wet
splotches marred the ink. He hadn't even noticed the warm tears that
flowed freely down his cheeks and dropped carelessly onto the
parchment. The weight of it all was overwhelming. Lancelot felt as
broken and shattered as the branch he had wielded earlier. He put out
the fire and curled up on the floor of the cave, carefully placing
the letter back inside the pocket of his cloak. Closing his eyes, the
image of Guinevere remained constant in his mind until sleep finally
took him.

Lancelot
awoke the next morning and immediately felt the presence of someone
else in the cave with him. Keeping his eyes closed to avoid alerting
the intruder of his awareness, Lancelot silently tightened the grip
on his blade. He had been sure to place one of his swords directly
aside him last night. He would not be repeating the mistake of
yesterday again. With catlike reflexes, Lancelot was instantly on his
feet, sword held at the ready. Upon recognizing the trespasser, who
remained sitting calm and silent on the other side of the cave,
Lancelot lowered his blade and slowly shook his head.

“What
do you want?”

A/N:
Oh the suspense! Who is the intruder? What do they want? Stay tuned
when all is revealed in Chapter 4.
- 2
- 3
- 4
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Forbidden Love