Horses whinny as he crosses near the stables, the scent of water giving way to more earthy smells, hay and dust and warmth emanating up into the night like a comforting blanket against the sky. He keeps moving, unwilling to stop and investigate the soft rustles of noise. Some nights it is sport to rout the young whelps and even younger girls as they experiment, nestled in the warmth of the stables rather than the cold and rainy air, but tonight, he finds himself too much at an odd sort of peace.

He reaches the curve in the wall and stops, not surprised by the dark figure perched there, head tilted back to the rain that doesn't fall. Tristan is unlike the rest of the, never restless for home or anything he does not have. He fights for causes of his own, surprising them all with how often he deigns to let them coincide with Arthur's. The sharp cry rends the air and Tristan smiles, his eyes closed to everything but his hawk's distant hunt.

Lancelot turns back, closing his eyes and letting his memory guide him. The smell and feel of the night is familiar and he stops, sensing something in his path. He knows without looking, can tell in ways that he refuses to acknowledge. There is smoke and more on the horizon, in the distance shrouded by night, but this-

He opens his eyes and she is there, ethereal and unreal, like mist rising from the dawn. This is fire. He reaches out, touching pale skin and even paler promises, her lips parting for his a movement he knows is nothing like surrender. She tastes of ashes and rain and silk and fruit, ripe with juice that spills down over his tongue.

He pushes her against the wall and raises her skirt, needing to feel her more than he needs to breathe. It is a betrayal, and he knows it, will hate himself for it beyond morning, but it is one he cannot help but commit. He finds flesh and heat and buries himself in it, in her, soft cries carried away on the wind like the distant scream of fallen prey.

She destroys him and breaks him down, her fingers like hammer blows as they stroke his skin. He feels himself shatter in more ways than he can stand, and he gasps his breath against her skin. She shudders with release and releases him, and moves away, staring out into the darkness with eyes that shield more secrets than he can bear to see. Secrets not so different from his own.

"This must end," she says softly, meaning nothing and everything in the simple phrase.

"It will," he assures her as he walks away, smoke curling upward and coating the wall, parting around him in like the lick of flames from Arthur's hell. He turns and looks back at her, sure his own eyes must be as night-black as hers. "It will end." His smile feels as sharp as his blades. "Badly."