Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

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
- 5
- 6
- 7
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.
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Forbidden Love