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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
- 6
- 7
Forbidden
Love

If
I tell you
Will you listen?
Will you stay?
Will you be here
forever?
Never go away?

Never
thought things would change
Hold me tight
Please don't say
again
That you have to go

A
bitter thought
I had it all
But I just let it go
Hold your
silence
It's so violent
Since your gone

All my
thoughts are with you forever
Until the day we'll be back
together
I will be waiting for you

Chapter
7 – One Last Night

Guinevere
was seated on the floor of the cave, her arms tightly hugging her
bent knees against her chest. Her long crimson dress was the same
shade as the roaring fire and her raven hair hung in damp curls about
her hunched shoulders. The flickering flames danced about her,
bringing out the copper hue of her dark locks and tinting her
chestnut eyes with a reddish glow. She made no move at his entrance,
not even the slightest twitch of her head, and continued staring
intently into the fire, as if hypnotized by the orange sparks.

“Guinevere!”
Lancelot rushed to kneel by her side and gently touched his
fingertips to her arm.

“Don't
touch me!” She yelled, shrinking from his caress and quickly
turning her back to him.

Though
she had shunned him, Lancelot could at least take comfort in the fact
that she had not fled entirely from the cave. However this time, he
was fully prepared to stop her if she made any move towards the exit.
Her silence had been quietly destroying him for too long now. She was
here for a reason, and Lancelot fully intended to discover her
motive.

Lancelot
once again reached out to her, ever so softly placing his hand on her
shoulder.

This time
Guinevere jumped to her feet before screaming, “I said do not
touch me!”

She moved
to the opposite side of the cave, keeping the roaring fire between
them as a barrier. Her fiery eyes were fixed on the dirt floor and
her hands were clenched, shaking ever so slightly.

Lancelot
finally rose from the floor of the cave and stood to face her, yet he
was mindful enough to keep his distance.

“Please
Guinevere. Let me explain.” He softly pleaded to her.

Guinevere
at last allowed her dark eyes to rise and meet his soulful stare.
Though he could barely discern their deep brown shade, for they were
narrowed into thin piercing slits, as sharp as his twin blades.

“Explain!
And what explanation would you have me hear?”

This was
it. The moment he had been silently reflecting on for the past three
weeks. Here was his chance to finally speak aloud everything that his
aching heart had been holding in; but suddenly Lancelot found himself
lost for words. She was right. What explanation could he give her? He
could not change what he had done, and any apology that he may utter
would be wholly inadequate.

Instead
of speaking, Lancelot looked at her. Couldn't she see? Couldn't she
see all his feelings written so clearly in his eyes? How sorry he
was, how guilty he felt? He held nothing and yet everything back from
her - some things could not be explained away with crude words.
Lancelot's dark eyes were a direct pathway to his heart; but
Guinevere had placed a shield around her, a thick wall of ice that
the raging fire would not melt, and he knew that his effusive gaze
had no hopes of reaching her.

“Do
you know how I came to find out?” She finally asked, breaking
the heavy silence between them.

Lancelot
sighed, “Yes, Galahad ...”

“Fool!”
Guinevere snarled. “Do you think I would so easily heed his
drunken words? My heart would not let me believe his tale.”

Her
heart. And finally she speaks of her heart, which he had assumed
had shattered into a million frozen shards already.

But now
Lancelot was most confused. If she had not believed Galahad's tale,
then how had she come to find out? Had Arthur told her? It did not
seem the sort of thing he would do. No, he could not believe that
Arthur would have told her. But did it really matter how she found
out? She knew. And now the question was, could she ever find it in
her heart to forgive him?

“Then
how?” Lancelot asked. He knew he could not hide from the
discussion; this event had been festering inside both of them for so
long. And tonight, everything would be finally laid out on the table.

She
regarded him oddly now, as if questioning if he truly did want to
know how exactly she had learned of his betrayal. Lancelot's eyes did
not waiver from hers and she answered him finally in her fiery tone.

“From
the whore's own lips. She told me.” Guinevere paused, watching
as Lancelot took in her words, before delivering the final blow,
“Right before I killed her!”

Lancelot's
eyes widened in shock, “You killed her?”

Though he
knew it was so wrong, Lancelot could not stop the small smile that
formed on his lips. For he could understand so well. He would have
done exactly the same thing if he had found her with another man.
Another man besides Arthur of course. “So you see Lancelot,
we are very much alike, you and I.” Oh how true her words
rang in this moment.

Guinevere
instead regarded him with utter loathing, “Please! Don't be so
full of yourself to think that I killed her out of mere jealousy! For
it was not envy that moved my arrow.”

“Then
why did you kill her, if not out of jealousy?” Lancelot asked,
confusion shadowing his eyes.

Guinevere
spat through gritted teeth, the rage flowing so freely through her,
“I killed her because I had to! I killed her because if I had
not, she was going to tell Arthur of us!”

What
have I done? The girl had known, she had confronted him with the
truth, and he had tossed her out of the room. Her father had known,
and Lancelot had killed him for it. And now Guinevere had completed
the evil circle by killing the girl herself.

Finally
dropping the ice shield, Guinevere allowed all her anger to flow
freely from her lips. “How did she know? What did you tell her?
How stupid are you Lancelot? Do you want to destroy everything? Do
you!”

What
did I tell her?!

“Are
you mad woman? I never told her a thing about us!” Now Lancelot
as well felt the heat building inside his gut. How on earth could she
ever think that he would have spoken to the whore about them? She was
indeed mad with rage to have ever fathomed such a thing.

“Then
how in damnation did she know, if you did not tell her?”

He was
almost burned by the bolts of fire shooting from her eyes, and
Lancelot bowed his head in shame. Ashamed to tell her the truth. Why
would he be ashamed? Perhaps because he wanted to protect what little
of his heart was left unbroken. Perhaps because he feared to let her
know how much he truly ached. Or perhaps because he was afraid she
would laugh at him, and shatter him completely.

With a
deep breath, Lancelot raised his eyes to meet hers again. They were
still hard stone, yet he held but a little hope that these words
would soften them, at least in the slightest. “I called your
name in my dreams. That, my fair Guinevere, is how she knew of my
feelings for you. For even in my dreams I cannot escape you.”

He had
been wrong - her dark eyes did not soften at all. His words had done
nothing to assuage her, in fact she seemed even more enraged now than
before.

“Well,
if you hadn't taken the little whore to your bed, she would never
have known!”

That was
it. Her words had relit the fire inside of him again. She seemed to
know exactly what to say to stoke his temper and he would not
disappoint her.

“Damn
you woman!” He screamed at her, but she did not even flinch.
“And if you hadn't been revelling in Arthur's body out in the
open where anyone could see you, I would not have done what I did!”

Her voice
was now laced with haughty sarcasm as her lips formed into a vicious
sneer, “Oh! So this is my fault now. Oh yes, of course! I
forced you to sleep with the little bitch. All because you saw me
making love to the man I am due to marry tomorrow!”

“Yes!”
his scream bellowed inside the tiny cavern.

The cave
was filled with a deafening silence, as two pairs of deep brown eyes
were locked in a heated battle. Guinevere was so angry, that much was
obvious from the way she glared at him. She had spoken her piece, as
had he, and what had it accomplished? He did not feel any better, any
calmer now; instead his blood was boiling under his skin.

Suddenly
the cave felt too hot for comfort, and Lancelot ripped his grey cloak
from his shoulders and tossed it onto the ground. Her dark eyes
followed his movements and their fierce gaze was broken; but the
heavy silence continued, until Lancelot could no longer bear it.
Shaking his head sadly, he spoke softly to her, his previous rage now
extinguished by a sudden weariness.

“Why
are you here Guinevere? Tomorrow is your wedding day. And why on the
eve before, are you here, away from the castle? Here in this place of
all places, our place.”

His eyes
implored hers to meet his, but she continued staring into the corner,
as if afraid to capture his gaze.

Lancelot
soon found himself on the opposite side of the fire. If she would not
look at him of her own free will, he would make her do so. This was
not over yet; his heart was unsettled, and his thoughts plagued with
endless questions that only she could answer. He reached his hand out
to her, in an attempt to raise her chin to face him. But just as
before, Guinevere shunned him and abruptly turned her back.

Lancelot
was tired of her games. He demanded answers and she would give them
to him now, whether she wanted to or not. He roughly grabbed her arm
and turned her to face him.

“Dammit
Guinevere, look at me! Why are you here?”

The fire
Guinevere's eyes held rivalled the intense burning of the sun, and
she attempted to rip her arm from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, the
dark knight increased his hold on her. There was no way on this earth
he would allow her to turn away from him again. Enough was enough.

She could
feel each strong finger digging into her arm, burning a hole into the
material of her dress; each exhale from his lungs struck her cheek, a
warm breath pricking her skin. His eyes were as dark as the night sky
and she could barely discern the slender moon of his black pupils.
His lips were drawn into a tight line, as sharp and as deadly as a
blade. In this moment, she both loved him and hated him, as she both
loved and hated herself.

Don't
touch me! Her mind screamed, railing against him. But her lips
would not cooperate and they remained pressed together so tightly it
hurt. Her heart was beating faster than she cared for, causing her
breath to shoot in ragged spurts from her nostrils. She did not
resist at all, as he roughly pushed her body against the stone wall
of the cave, his hand never loosening the death grip he firmly held
on her arm.

His voice
was merely a whisper across her lips, “Tell me why you came
here tonight?”

She did
not respond. There were no words to properly express the answer he
sought. He held his body mere inches from her, their only contact was
his hand on her upper arm, and his eyes - piercing into her very
soul. He waited for an eternity for her to speak. Realizing her lips
would still not part, Lancelot opened his mouth to repeat the same
question he had asked her now three times already. And Guinevere
finally responded, by instantly silencing him and fiercely crushing
her lips against his.

Suddenly
there was lightening coursing through her frame, intense radiating
light shining in her eyes – and Guinevere forgot. She forgot
her anger, she forgot her pain, her heartache, her rage. She forgot
why she hated him; she forgot why she had ignored him for the past
weeks, she forgot why she had hurt him. She forgot everything, save
the feel of his lips, warmer than sunlight; of his tongue, sweeter
than honey; of his breath, purer than rain.

Guinevere
was home, after being having been lost for so long. She wanted him.
No - this was not simple want, nor craving desire, nor lustful
passion. She needed him - to live, to breathe, to make her heart
beat. She would surely die without him.

His lips
met and melded with hers with the same want, desire, need. It was
spring rain; that warm comfort one feels when the air is clean and
the sky is bright, as the cool raindrops fall from the sky. It was
not lust, it was so much more. But she craved it with such a
ferocity, afraid the drops would suddenly stop falling, that she
sucked each one off his lips as water to a woman dying of thirst. He
was her oasis in the desert, and the feel of his warmth ensured her
this was no mere mirage.

She
needed him, as she had never needed anything before in her life.
Guinevere wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tight against her.
The feel of his warm hard body thrilled her so that she soon found
her hands wrestling with the laces of his trousers. She was frantic,
as if he would be taken from her without a moments notice.

Lancelot
had enough sense about him to realize that on this night, he did not
want her in such haste. He wanted to relish and savour each and every
inch of her. He sensed her panic and raised his hand to stroke her
dark locks, whispering in her ear, “this night is ours.”

Pulling
back, he stared into her eyes, reading the passion, the desire, the
want, the need, written in her dark brown gaze. Lancelot gently took
her hand in his and moved to the other side of the cave. As long as
they were in physical contact, Guinevere was calm. But the second, he
released his hand from hers, she cried out as if in pain.

It was
not desperation, it was not agony - it was love and need. He removed
his hand from hers and she watched as he laid out first his grey
cloak on the floor of the cave, and then her crimson one atop of his,
to make a soft blanket. Realizing what he was doing calmed her ragged
nerves, and as soon as the makeshift bed was made Guinevere's hand
instinctively reached out to touch her lover once again.

Circling
her arms around his neck, she pulled his warm body tight against
hers, forcing her hot tongue into his mouth. Heaven could never birth
such an angel as the one Guinevere held in her arms. They moved to
the floor of the cave, laying on the blankets beside the fire.

Lancelot
kissed her so slowly, so gently, his hand caressing her cheek with
such warmth and love. A love she had tried in vain to suppress these
past weeks. She let her own control slip and gave him complete
control, for it was he that commanded her heart and soul. Lancelot's
lips moved to her neck and her body arched into him. Guinevere began
pulling at his shirt, ripping it off his body and freeing his skin so
that her fingers could trace every inch of his smooth and rough
flesh. Her nails dug into his back, writing her heart's words on his
skin.

What was
it about him that made her feel this way? She did not know. Her very
soul was drawn to him – he was her fated lover, written in the
stars before she was even born; her forbidden lover that ignited the
fire in her heart. How had she been able to live without him? How
would she ever live without him again? Too many questions that only
he could answer, though she feared the response, for she knew the
truth of everything, whether or not she would ever admit it.

Lancelot
pulled her crimson dress over her head and now their naked chests
were pressed against each other. She wrapped her legs around him
tightly, pushing his buttocks hard into her, feeling his aching
arousal pressed up against her warm naked flesh. Their lips were
crushed together so tightly that they could not discern where his
mouth began and hers ended. And she would have it no other way.

Guinevere
raked her sharp fingernails down his back, massaging every tight
crevice into submission, soothing every ache, calming every ragged
nerve. Her fingertips wielded magic and she scrolled each letter of
her spell upon him; and magic she did possess – for she
commanded his heart and soul, and he allowed her to. There was no
fear, only love.

I love
you. Was it her mind or his, that screamed the words? Did it
matter? She breathed in his breath, that sweet and tangy taste that
he possessed. His lips left hers to feast on the soft skin of her
chest, before settling to nip at her breasts, taking each hard nipple
slowly into his mouth, rolling his tongue around her glorious peaks
and sucking as her fingers curled into his dark locks and her hips
rose to crash against his.

She felt
a barrier blocking her skin from his and realized she had never
finished unlacing his trousers. Guinevere immediately set about
remedying this, and her fingers quickly shed him of his last
remaining garments until finally all she could feel was his bare skin
against hers and his warm mouth lavishing her. Lancelot dragged his
tongue slowly down her taut stomach, stopping to lick at her belly
button, before proceeding to her warm center.

Ahhh.
Lancelot's cool tongue finally danced around her core, teasingly so.
He was surely relishing in drawing out her passion by gently nibbling
on her inner thighs, first the right one, then the left, ever so
careful not to let his lips touch her most sensitive area. It was
torture for her, immense and beautiful torture. She had both hands
gripped in his darks curls, but no amount of pressure would force his
slow and loving ministrations. He continued bathing her skin with his
warm tongue, everywhere on her lower body, except for where her
throbbing desire ached to be touched.

Guinevere
was exuding such a supreme patience over her intense need; but it was
enough that she was here with him now and that his lips were hot
against her skin. She didn't care what he did, as long as he did it
to her. Finally his mouth passed over her moist center and she was
lost in an overwhelming abyss, as he gently stroked his tongue across
her slit. His rough beard prickled against her sensitive skin, and
she cried out with the glorious sensation that ran through her
shaking body.

She
forgot to breathe when he slowly pushed one finger deep inside her,
stroking her already burning flames. Her hands were tangled in his
dark curls, pushing him to fulfill her every want and desire; but he
was only teasing her for now, preparing her for what was soon to
come.

Leaving
his finger to pleasure her, he slowly moved his mouth up her flesh to
reach her open waiting mouth. Guinevere eagerly sucked the taste of
herself off his lips, moaning loudly as he increased the rhythm of
his hand. She wanted him now; she could not wait any longer.

“I
need you,” she whispered desperately, grabbing his hips to
force them on top of her.

Moving
his hand to his lips, he sucked her liquid off his fingers, staring
at her with those seductive brown eyes.

“I
am yours,” he breathed.

All she
could see was deep brown and all she could feel was his warm hard
body pressed into her. He moved his hips to position his manhood
against her wet core, his eyes never wavering from her stare as he so
achingly slowly entered and buried himself deep inside. They both
cried out at the initial contact. It seemed forever ago, but just
yesterday, that they were so connected together.

This was
what she lived and she died for. What she would have again, what she
would never feel with another. She knew the difference. Guinevere had
not been a virgin the first time she went to Arthur; she had been
with men before, experienced pleasure before. But this, this was
nothing of the same. People used the term 'make love' too
frivolously. She herself was guilty of it, which was why she could
not use that same term for this. For there were no words...

Hips
crashed and tongues clashed. Each movement pushed him deeper and
deeper inside of her, and she squeezed her legs so tightly around his
hard body. Her eyes never left his, as their bodies moved in sync
with each other, faster, then slower, then faster again. When her
lips were not attached to his, they were moaning in utter desire or
crying out his name in complete pleasure. Her heart beat feverishly
in her chest, swelling her red aching lips that lapped at his in
between her heavenly panting.

He played
her like an instrument, each movement eliciting the sweetest note to
escape from her lips. Where did he get this power over her? It was
glorious, the way each thrust of his hips filled her very soul and
caused her heart to sing. She was lost, and so blissfully so. She
lapped at his neck, savouring the salty sweat that accumulated at the
crevice of his throat. Her hands kneaded into his muscular buttocks,
pushing him deeper and harder against him.

They
loved each other that night as if tomorrow was the end of the world,
for there truly was no tomorrow for them. But Guinevere's mind was
not on the next day, it was solely focused on the here and now. On
him. On them, together and joined as one.

“I
love you.”

“I
love you.”

She felt
it, that overwhelming flood that was threatening to spill and drown
her completely. Two pairs of brown eyes, two bodies melded together,
two hearts beating in rhythm, two lovers reaching ecstasy at the same
time. Her head tilted back and she screamed his name as her body
convulsed with waves of pure pleasure. Eyes still closed, she felt
his warm lips breathing heavily against hers, drinking her breath as
he was gasping for air.

Guinevere
brushed his damp curls off his forehead, kissing him softly. She felt
like she was floating on warm salty water, calm blue currents pushing
and pulling at her body ever afloat atop the tide. She was the
calmest and most serene she had ever been, thanks to him.

“I
love you,” she whispered it this time, staring into those deep
brown eyes of his.

He smiled
so brightly back at her, “I love you, my fair Guinevere.”

He kissed
her on the forehead before moving himself to lay beside her and
pulled her tight against his chest. She wrapped her arms and legs
about his body, relishing in his warmth and nuzzling her head to
breath in the salty musk of his neck. She would lay here with him
forever if she could. If she could only change the world, the world
that mocked and tormented her. The world that cursed her with this
heart – to love a man she could never have; to love a man she
was fated to never spend her life with; to love a man she had caused
so much pain to.

He felt
her body shudder against him, and placing his thumb under her chin,
he lifted her head up to find silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I
am so sorry. I am so sorry for everything,” she cried. Her body
was now shaking and her crying had turned to sobbing.

Lancelot's
heart ached at the sight of his lover's tears.

“No,
Guinevere. Please do not cry.” He felt his own eyes stinging,
and this time could not hold back the tears.

“I
am so sorry for all the pain I have caused you,” She managed to
utter between sobs.

He held
her so tight and stroked her hair, “Guinevere, it is I who must
apologize, not you. Never you.”

They both
shed oceans of tears, for they were both guilty of crushing their
lover's heart. Each felt their own overwhelming agony, and each
thought themselves the sole sinner and thought nothing of their
lover's transgressions.

Lancelot
finally managed to stop the wet flow of tears raining from his dark
eyes. If this was the last night he was to spend with her, he did not
wish to pass the time crying over what could never be. He had to be
the strong one, though at times he did wonder who was the strongest
of the pair– him or her. They both possessed a most fearsome
and respectable strength in their own right, which was one of the
many qualities he so admired in her. But more than her strength, he
treasured her ability to release her inner self – to show her
fear, her heartache, and her tears. Guinevere never cried, not in
front of anyone. Not in front of Arthur, not even in front of her
father. Guinevere held her emotions in; she always held back the
tears until she was alone, or for when she was with him. Lancelot was
the only person on this earth who she would cry in front of, the only
person to whom she would show her vulnerability.

He pulled
her chin up again from his chest to look into her tear stained eyes,
and she let him. He knew why she cried, and it was not just for the
regret of her behaviour over the past weeks. It was for everything.
For tonight was truly their last night together; one last night
before the world changed and her fated destiny finally called upon
her to fulfill her duty. He stared into her bloodshot swollen eyes
and saw the woman he would love forever.

Run
away with me. How many times had his heart cried to utter these
words? In this moment Lancelot's heart and soul tore into a thousand
pieces – four simple words, yet they were impossible to say.
But what he wouldn’t give to say them, to have her agree to
them. But he couldn't. Not for the fact that she would never concede,
but for the fact that her heart would break in having to deny his
request. And for this Lancelot remained silent and held the words in,
tearing an even larger hole in his heart.

Guinevere
sensed what he was thinking as she gazed into his eyes. “Were I
granted but one wish, I would wish that the sun would never rise, and
that this night would go on forever.”

He wanted
to cry again at her words, but enough tears had been spilled this
evening. He kissed her softly on the lips and pulled her tightly
against him again. He wanted to remember, to imprint the feel of her
body against his skin, the texture of her hair against his fingers,
the warmth of her breath against his mouth, the softness of her lips
against his own. Though he knew, he would never forget.

“Stay
with me tonight,” he whispered into her ear.

Guinevere
knew she should not; she had never before stayed the night. And
especially this night, when the risk was even higher; she knew she
should return to the castle as soon as possible. But nothing would
tear her away from Lancelot's arms this evening.

She
lifted her head from his chest to place a soft kiss on his lips, “I
would not leave you tonight for anything on this earth.”

His smile
brightened his entire face and he brushed his lips across her
forehead. There were words in his heart, thousands of words, more
words than stars in the sky. He could not fathom where to begin, or
how he could ever express them all. He pulled her head down to lay
gently atop his chest.

“Listen,”
he whispered. For he knew, she would understand.

Guinevere
took his hand that was wrapped around her body and placed it on her
own chest.

“Feel,”
she whispered in return, For she as well knew, he would understand.

And so
the two lovers lay, her head on his heart listening, and his hand on
her heart, feeling. All the words they could not speak, all the words
that would never express their true feelings. But they could listen
to each others hearts, and they could feel the beating, for they
spoke their secret language, and they would understand.

Neither
Lancelot nor Guinevere wished to fall asleep that night, but it
seemed the rhythm of their joined hearts lulled them into a sweet and
calming slumber. Their last night together and they were blessed with
a few hours of sleep wrapped in each others arms. What did they dream
of in those hours, you may ask? They did not dream, for no dream
could ever be better than the contentment and the love they felt,
holding each other close, warmed by the fire, but more so by their
intense love for one another. Not caring for what tomorrow would
bring, not worrying for what the future held, just living, and
breathing, and loving each other. And this is how the lovers spent
their last night together.

When
Lancelot awoke the next morning, he was cold. The fire was long
extinguished, but this was not the cause of his chill. Guinevere was
no longer in his arms to warm him. She had undoubtedly left him,
sometime in the early hours of the morning. It was better that way,
he knew. There was no way either of them could have said a proper
goodbye. A goodbye. What is a goodbye? They were not going away; they
would see each other each and every day. Yet everything had changed
now. They would never be together again, not as they were last night
– no, not ever again.

Lancelot
rose from the floor of the cave and dressed in his dark leather
garments. He used all his strength to keep the reality of that day's
events pushed into the furthest crevice of his mind. No use thinking
about that which he could not change. He left the cave to find the
most gorgeous spring day one could ever imagine. The grass was a
brilliant green and the sun was so beautifully orange and so warm on
his skin. Just as it should be, he thought. Lancelot walked slowly
back to the castle, with the sounds of birds chirping happily in his
ear; but on this most beautiful of days, Lancelot did not see the
bright sun, nor the green grass, not hear the bird's soft melody.
Instead the dark knight felt only cold rain, saw only grey clouds,
and heard only loud thunder. For on this day, Lancelot did not feel
as if he were walking to his best friend's wedding, but to the dank
wood and the sharp falling blade of the unforgiving guillotine.

If I
had told you
You would have listened
You had stayed
You
would be here forever
Never went away
It would never have been
the same
All our time
Would have been in vain
Cause you had
to go

The
sweetest thought
I had it all
Cause I did let you go
All our
moments
Keep me warm
When you're gone

All my
thoughts are with you forever
Until the day we'll be back
together
I will be waiting for you

-Bittersweet,
Within Temptation
- 6
- 7
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Forbidden Love