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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
A/N:
This chapter is short but sweet (well depending on your definition of
sweet!)

Chapter
5 – Homecoming

It was
the middle of the night, when Lancelot was awoken by the sounds of a
woman screaming for help. Rubbing the sleep from his weary dark eyes,
he ran to the window of his small room above the tavern, to see what
the commotion was all about.

Romans!
There were three of them, dressed in the unmistakable bright red
and gold armor of the Roman Empire. And they were crowded around one
poor young woman, cowering helplessly on the ground. They must be
stragglers, Lancelot decided; soldiers who were stationed far north
and making their way south, back to their homeland. Their intent was
quite evident, as they stood menacingly over the young lady, who
cried again for mercy. Lancelot hurriedly dressed in his dark leather
armor and quickly ran down the stairs to the foul scene outside.

When he
arrived, a small crowd of townspeople had already congregated, and
one of the soldiers was already atop the sobbing woman, ripping at
her dress. Three against one. The odds were not in Lancelot's favor;
he could not be foolhardy and expect to slay all three
battle-hardened Roman soldiers without perilously endangering his own
life. But there was no way on this earth Lancelot would allow these
revolting creatures to rape this poor defenseless woman.

Keeping
his blades sheathed, Lancelot confidently sauntered up to the two men
who were keeping everyone at bay with their sharp swords drawn.

“Don't
come any closer,” one of them shouted, “or you will end
up like this one.” He pointed to a dead body on the ground next
to them. The poor soul had undoubtedly tried to aid the woman, and
for his courage, had lost his life by the gruesome strike of a Roman
broadsword.

Lancelot
laughed and continued his stride, “I am just coming to join in
the fun.”

The two
Romans looked at him curiously, and the one on the ground stopped
what he was doing and regarded Lancelot for a moment.

“Makes
no difference to me,” he said with a shrug and a nod to the two
other soldiers. This one was obviously the leader of the group, which
was why he was first in having his way with the woman.

“Fine,”
said the soldier who had addressed him previously. “But you'll
have to wait your turn. We were here first.”

“Of
course,” Lancelot replied.

And that
is when the two Romans made their final and most fatal mistake and
turned their backs to watch their commander forcing himself upon the
helpless young lady. For when they heard the sharp sing of steel
against scabbard, the next instant they were both death on the
ground, each with a blade lodged in their back.

The Roman
commander did not hear the grunts of his men as they were slain, nor
the sounds of their bodies falling to the dirt, for the shrieks of
the woman underneath him drowned out all sound. Lancelot reached
down, roughly grabbed the man by his neck, and sent him flying off
his victim.

“Get
up!” He growled at the visibly shaken Roman.

The
commander reached for his sword, and pulling up his trousers to cover
himself, he stood to face the dark knight.

“But
I thought ...” He stuttered in confusion.

“You
thought wrong!”

The Roman
squinted, looking carefully at Lancelot. “You're one of those
Sarmatian bastards aren't you? I always hated the whole disgusting
lot of you! Bunch of dogs you are. Good for first-wave infantry.”

Two
can play at this game.

“That's
not what your whore of a mother told me.” Lancelot smirked as
the Roman's face turned scarlet at the insult.

With a
roar, the commander lunged at the dark knight, but Lancelot was ready
and easily parried the blow. The clash of metal against metal
produced a unique shriek that was grating to most ears, but the sharp
sound was like music to Lancelot and aided in spurring him on. The
Roman and his practiced broadsword were no match for Lancelot's
ruthless double bladed attack, and the black knight had soon disarmed
his adversary and moved in for his final sweeping strike.

The dirt
was imbued crimson with the pooling blood of the three fallen Romans,
and Lancelot had once again been the unwilling yet indomitable
arbiter of justice. With a final glance to ensure the assaulted young
lady was now safe and being tended to by the other women of the town,
Lancelot wearily headed back inside, desperately wishing to resume
his interrupted slumber.

Guinevere
was thoroughly enjoying taking her aggression out in large chunks on
her sparring partner. With a deadly sharp Woad axe in each hand, she
hacked and slashed into the wooden dummy, sending splinters raining
down onto the dirt floor of the stables. She would have preferred a
live partner, but was not in any mood for company. The wooden figure
would have to suffice. Guinevere was angry, angrier than she could
ever recall being. Each fluid movement of her arms, the thump of the
metal striking wood, the raging heat coursing through her body; it
felt good. The anger felt good. It was passionate and heated and
sensual. She kept up the continual motion, a light sheen of sweat
covering her entire body, her short dress flailing about her as she
replayed the previous night over and over again in her mind.

She had
been at it for hours - her fingers were numb from her tight grip on
the axes, her arms were aching from the harsh blows she relentlessly
delivered, her heart was racing from the heated battle that raged
within her. She imagined Lancelot's head atop the dummy and with a
hissing snarl struck what would be a deadly blow to any human's head;
but all she succeeded in doing was firmly lodging one axe into an
enormous gash in the timber.

“Glad
you didn't ask me to be your sparring partner.”

Guinevere
turned to see Bors regarding her with a smug grin.

“What
do you want?” She asked impatiently, utterly annoyed at his
intrusion.

“Me?
Nothing. Though Arthur wishes to speak with you,” he replied.

With a
heavy sigh Guinevere tossed the remaining axe to the ground and
stormed off in a huff.

When
Lancelot awoke the next morning, he was not prepared for the greeting
that awaited him outside. It seemed the entire village had
congregated in the street, and an enormous cheer rose when they
caught sight of the dark knight exiting the tavern.

Men,
women and children were crowding around him, announcing him a great
hero, a savior for his courageous deed last night. The young lady he
had saved had her arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace,
praising him for defending her honor. The children were calling him
the greatest of Arthur's knights, the best swordsmen in the land. The
men were slapping him on the back, proclaiming Sir Lancelot the
mightiest of heroes.

It was a
strangle feeling for Lancelot – receiving this whole-hearted
appreciation and respect that the people of this little town were
showering upon him. It was a bit overwhelming, yet Lancelot had to
admit that part of him quite enjoyed the feeling. He was not use to
such admiration, and could only recall a handful of times in his life
when he had ever felt anything remotely similar. Knights did their
duty, not expecting nor receiving any thanks in return. Lancelot
tried to recall the last time anyone had ever thanked him for
anything.

He had
been flitting in and out of consciousness for weeks, and they were
still unsure of whether he would survive or not. There was something
cool and soothing on his forehead, and he opened his eyes finding
himself in a foreign room. Though his brain was still hot with fever,
he knew these chambers were not his own.

“Lancelot.”
A soft voice called to him, and he wearily turned his head to see who
had spoken.

“Guinevere.”
His throat was parched but he managed to breathe her name.

She
smiled at him with tears in her red and swollen eyes; she had
obviously been crying recently. It was her hand that pressed the cold
cloth to his forehead.

“Where
am I?” He uttered in confusion.

“In
my chamber,” she replied.

He
tried to sit up but was stopped by a sharp ache in his chest, and he
cried out at the pain.

“Stay
still Lancelot. You are still gravely weak, please don't try to move.
Your wound must heal.”

“How
long have I been here?”

“It
has been almost one moon since the battle, and you have been here
ever since.”

He
closed his eyes again and could faintly remember times he has awoken
and heard her voice. But he had always thought it was but a dream.
Now he knew it was no dream.

He
turned to gaze at her beauty. Why was she here, caring for him? Why
had she been here, tending to him this whole time? His dark brown
eyes locked with hers, and he thought he saw something, half-hidden,
or half-exposed perhaps. Something beyond words, something beyond
thoughts, something only he was meant to understand.

“You
saved me,” was all she managed to say.

“Indeed
I did, my lady.”

“Why
did you save me?”

He
wanted to laugh but the pain in his chest prevented him from doing
so.

“Shouldn't
you be saying thank you, and not questioning me?”

She
laughed at this. He must indeed be feeling better if his sarcastic
wit was back.

“Thank
you, my dearest Lancelot, my protector, my champion,” and she
reached down and placed the softest of kisses on his lips.

He had
not been expecting that. “Thank you my fair lady, for if
I had known I would receive such a thanks I would have saved you a
thousand times by now.”

She
watched as her champion closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful
slumber, a smile painted on his lips as bright as her own.

“You
wished to speak with me?” Guinevere stood in the doorway of
Arthur's chambers.

“Yes.”
He smiled at her, “how is everything?” He motioned for
her to enter, and shut the door behind her to ensure their privacy.

“Fine,”
she replied nonchalantly, gazing about his chambers.

“I've
been thinking. Today is the third day Lancelot had been gone. Perhaps
you were right?”

Guinevere
stopped her shifting and looked at him quizzically.

Arthur
continued, “Perhaps I should send the knights out looking for
him. What are your thoughts on the matter? I know how concerned you
are with his disappearance.”

Guinevere
could not quell the bitter laugh that rose into her throat. “If
he can run off without a word to his beloved knights, then he
is no knight himself, and does not deserve the time wasted looking
for him.”

Arthur
raised both eyebrows at Guinevere's unexpected outburst. She was a
fiery one, this he knew well; she had a fearsome temper, but Arthur
could not fathom as to where this sudden hostile attitude of hers had
come from.

He seemed
unable to fashion a response, so she continued, “The knights
say he ran off with some woman.”

Arthur
had to laugh at this statement. Never in a hundred years could he
believe Lancelot would just up and take off with some woman,
“Guinevere, that notion is laughable. Lancelot would never do
such a thing.”

“And
how would you know Arthur!” She had really done it now,
but was unable to contain herself.

Arthur
decided to ignore her snarl and instead approached the situation
logically. “Lancelot has not spoken of any woman to me, let
alone hinted that he was thinking of running off with one.”

Gods,
his composure is insufferable! Doesn't he ever get angry about
anything?

“So,
you have not seen him with any women then? Galahad seemed insistent
that he had company just the other night.”

The
wench at the tavern the other night? Arthur thought to himself,
why on earth would Lancelot run off with her?

“Well
he did leave with a young lady from the tavern,” he conceded.

“So,
you saw him leaving with her then?” Guinevere challenged.

Why in
damnation is she so concerned about who Lancelot brings to his bed?

“Yes,
I saw them leaving together, but I am quite certain he would not have
run off with her Guinevere. He seemed upset last I spoke to him, but
mentioned no specific reason and I did not push him to tell me.”

“Fine.
Go after him. Don't go after him. It's really all the same to me. If
you will excuse me now.” She promptly nodded to him, and rushed
out of the room before Arthur could even open his mouth to say
another word.

Women,
Arthur mused to himself, shaking his head.

“Lancelot!
Look!”

Lancelot
turned to find Bedivere and another young boy reenacting the fight
from last night. Bedivere played the part of Lancelot and wielded two
short blades made of wood, while his companion acted as the Roman
with one long wooden broadsword.

“Didn't
I tell you, you shouldn't be fighting?” He shook his head at
the children.

“But
I want to be a knight! Just like you Lancelot.” Bedivere
insisted.

With a
sigh, Lancelot shook his head again, frowning at the child. Children,
so innocent. They have no idea of what being a knight means.

He stood
and watched the boys, though he really should have been preparing his
horse for the journey. When he was of the same age as Bedivere,
Lancelot would engage in similar mock battles with other young
Sarmatian boys. But he had all too quickly learned the gruesome
reality of battle, at all too young an age. Lancelot could not
begrudge Bedivere his youthful enthusiasm, for he had been just like
him when he was a boy.

“No,
no! You are holding your blades all wrong.”

Lancelot
walked over to the boys, and proceeded to teach them both the proper
grip. Before he had realized, the midday sun was beating down upon
them, for he had lost track of time, having spent the entire morning
instructing the boys on combat tactics and sword wielding.

“I
must go now. You both keep practicing and remember what I taught
you.” He regarded the youngsters with a smile and made way to
retrieve his mare.

“Do
you have to return to the castle now Lancelot?” Bedivere asked
as Lancelot returned with Beornwyn.

Lancelot
had been so selfishly absorbed with his own self-pity of late he
realized. He was needed, not here in this town proper, but back at
the castle, with Arthur and Guinevere. In his self-loathing of the
past days, he had pushed aside his duty for his own egotistical
reasons. If anything were to happen to them, to any of them, he would
never be able to forgive himself. What am I doing? He harshly
chided himself. It is time to return home. Home. He
knew not when he had begun thinking of the castle as his home. But he
could deny the truth no longer.

“Yes,
Bedivere. I must return to the castle now.”

Lancelot
mounted his faithful steed, and with a final wink to his new young
friend, galloped out of the town and made way for home.

/FONT>

It took
all day, and a better part of the evening, to return to the castle.
Lancelot stopped outside the huge wooden gate and gazed upwards at
the emerging stars. He wondered if Merlin was right - if all their
fates were written up there in the black depths. Perhaps,
he reflected. Leaning down low, he stroked Beorwyn's flank, and
whispered, “well, let us see, shall we,” before calling
for the guards to open the gate.
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Forbidden Love