He didn't look away from his task, his hands moving over the leather without stopping. "That would depend on what exactly you're asking. Who annoys me most?"

"That you stare at when you watch us."

"I wasn't watching you."

"You were. You do." She shook her head and got up, moving over to Lancelot's horse. "I can feel your eyes following us, accusing and wanting all at once." She smoothed her hand over the velvet nose and turned her head to look at him. "So I wonder, is it him? Or is it me?"

Lancelot bowed his head slightly, focusing on the work in front of him for a long moment before speaking. "I have know Arthur a long time. Over half our lives. As such, I am privy to his…weaknesses, such as they are."

"And what are they?"

He turned and faced her, straddling the bench, his arms crossed over his chest. "His loyalty to his god. His belief that Rome is a place of honor and freedom. His devotion to those who do not deserve it." His sly smile directed his comment at himself and he cocked an eyebrow. "And his inability to say no to a beautiful woman who needs him."

"So it's me then?" She pressed her face to the horse's nose then turned her head to look at him. "That you stare at? Wondering if I need him?"

"You need him. And you want him, which Arthur may see as the same thing to satisfy his own honor." He turned back to the table and picked up the leather again. "I don't watch you."

He stiffened as her fingers lightly brushed the back of his neck, feathering over his skin like the wake of the wind. "I see you watch me," she whispered, "when I watch you."

Lancelot nodded to Tristan as he let his last arrow fly. The other knight acknowledged him with a twist of his lips as the arrow sunk to the feathers into the hay dummy. "You'd probably miss if you actually aimed, wouldn't you?"

Tristan's smile grew more enigmatic. "I never miss." He headed toward the dummy as Lancelot laughed and knelt, setting his quiver on the ground before glancing over his bow. The wood shone, smooth as silk as he ran his hand over it.

"You know, if you treated your women half as well as your weapons…"

Lancelot didn't look up from his bow. "I'd never get anything done." He glanced up and smiled at Arthur. "Supervising the troops, are you?"

"The Bishop wants to look at what we're losing." Arthur's smile quirked slightly. "Perhaps if he likes what he sees he will be foolish enough to see if you wish to enlist."

"Ha!" Lancelot let out a bark of laughter. "Will they offer the same option to her, do you think?" He nodded toward where Guinevere stood, her long gown fluttering in the breeze. "Or are they too scandalized?"

"They assume I'm humoring her."

"They assume you're sleeping with her." He stood and sighted then notched an arrow. He let it fly and watched its trajectory, his voice revealing nothing when he spoke again. "Are you?"

"Tell you, Lancelot?" Arthur's smile was a ghost of what it had been in their youth. "I think not. If I say no, I'll hear no end to the insults upon my masculinity, for which I will have to beat you unmercifully in a fierce battle. And if I say yes, you'll take it as a challenge to steal her away from me."

"Right out from under you is the more appropriate term." Lancelot smiled. "What you've neglected to realize, Arthur, is that by not answering, you've told me everything I need to know."

"And what is that?"

"Even if you were sleeping with her, which you're not, by the way, you'd lie like a dog, because you know no woman can resist me." He watched Arthur look at Guinevere as she fired her last shot and turned toward them, her eyes moving from Arthur to Lancelot.

"It's a wonder you're ever out of bed, Lancelot."

"You can't lounge around all day when the woman is due back in her husband's bed by dawn." His gaze stayed on Guinevere for a long moment before moving to the Bishop. "I think your company is growing weary." Catching the Bishop's eye, he lifted the bow and aimed it in his direction. "Or perhaps wary."

"You will be the death of me."

Lancelot's eyes lost their spark for a instant. "That, my friend, you should not speak. Even in jest."

Arthur nodded and clasped him on the shoulder, squeezing hard for a moment before walking away. Lancelot cleared his throat and turned back to the target, closing his eyes for a moment and inhaling deeply.

He notched another arrow and pulled it back, his hand slipping at the soft sound of her voice. "Is it true what they say about you?"

Lancelot cocked an eyebrow as he released the arrow and began to remove the broken string from his bow. "They say many things about me. Do you refer to those who say I fight like a man possessed on the battlefield, wielding two swords with amazing prowess?" He paused, smirking slightly. "Yes. That's true. Or perhaps those who say I never leave a woman wanting, though they always want more?" He shrugged easily, his smile wicked. "Well, yes. That's true as well."

"I was referring to those who say you never want a woman unless she belongs to someone else."

His smile sharpened. "Ah."

She tilted her head giving him an impish smile. "So that's not true then?"

"I didn't actually say that." He freed another string and pulled it along the bow. "And who has maligned my good name? My fellow knights?"

"Their women, actually. Though not truly maligned. They say you are talented - skilled and arrogant enough that they know it is for your pleasure, but gentle enough that they know theirs will come soon."

"Soon?" He asked, offended.

"Well," she smiled at him, "perhaps maligned is the correct word." Taking one of the arrows from his quiver, she turned it over and over. "I expected more."

"Ridicule of my character and skill?"

"Women."

He finished restringing the bow and sighted along it. "Disappointed?"

"That you're not a rutting beast fathering other men's children?" She took the bow from his hands and notched the arrow, letting it fly toward the target. They both watched it as it speared the hay dummy. "It's all a part of the myth then? The legend of Lancelot?"

He retrieved the bow from her and gathered his stock of arrows, refusing to meet her eyes. "What else will I have to leave behind me when I die?"

"I'm beginning to think you're following me." Lancelot raked a hand through his hair, his tunic clinging wetly to his skin.

"I fancied a swim."

He snorted his disbelief. "And what innocent soul sent you here?"

"Gawain."

Lancelot shook his head, sending water everywhere. "A word to the wise about Gawain. He enjoys other people's discomfort."

"Says the man whose plan for freedom is to steal pleasure from whomever Gawain marries?"

"Well, yes. But not just Gawain." He tugged on a loose pair of breeches. "The water's cold."

"As cold as a woman's broken heart." She knelt beside the lake and ran her fingers over the surface. "There's a tale of a woman who loved a man who would not love her back."

Lancelot squatted beside her, his tunic still clinging to his skin. "Would not? Or could not?"

"She drown herself here the day he told her he was to marry another. Her tears flooded the countryside and her broken heart chilled the water."

"You truly are an unhappy people, aren't you?"

Guinevere laughed and pushed her hand through the water, splashing him. He stood, avoiding the spray and she looked up at him, her eyes serious. "Why do you come here?"

He looked out over the lake at the slowly dissipating fog. "Because no one else does."

She stood beside him and reached out, her fingers grazing his collarbone through his damp tunic. "Until now? Until me?"

He swallowed and glanced down at the ground. "There is much to be done before we leave."

"Will you say goodbye to me?"

He looked up, his eyes drowning her. "I have not yet even said hello." He shook his head again and stared over the lake. "I see through you."

"To what? The trees?"

"Through your words." His voice hardened. "Every question you ask, I cannot help but hear what lies beneath. Not what I think, not what I want, not what I desire, not what I see, but Arthur. What lies in his head. You're searching for something, and the only thing I can imagine that you're looking for are the words to say to him, to persuade him to your cause. This." He gestured at her, his eyes dark on hers again. "This is nothing to do with me."

"Do you think so little of yourself?"

"No." He shook his head. "Of you."

She glared at him defiantly, her body stiffening. "You know nothing of me."

"I know enough. Looking for well-placed words…" He cocked an eyebrow and smiled slowly. "Or is it not your words you wish to place well?"

"He saved my life. My body," she informed him in a low hiss, "is his, as yours is."

"Was." He snapped. "And be careful," he ran a finger along the collar of her dress. "Of what you claim. You may not be as wise as you assume yourself to be."

They stood in silence, staring at each other for a long moment until a soft rustling of brush caught their attention. Lancelot dropped his hand, uncurling it from the fabric of her gown as Arthur strode into the clearing. He smiled at Guinevere then pulled his tunic over his head. "Sharing our secret, Lancelot?"

"No, Arthur." He held Guinevere's eyes. "Gawain had that honor."

"Did he hope you would work your magic on her and she'd attempt to drown you?" Arthur removed his boots and nodded toward the water. "Or are you susceptible to his charms?"

Guinevere cocked an eyebrow. "Lancelot has charm?"

Arthur laughed and waded into the water. "She has you there, Lancelot." He turned back and met Guinevere's gaze. "Coming?"

She nodded and glanced back at Lancelot. "I fight for this land. Not for him."

"That is the difference between us then," Lancelot dipped his head in her direction in the mockery of a bow. "I fight for him."

"Tell me about your horse."

"There is nothing to tell." He patted the beast on the side of the neck as his other hand ran a comb through the dark mane. "We move as one during battle. That is all I ask of him, all he asks of me."

She moved to the opposite side and patted the horse gently. "Where will you go? Home?"

"Eventually." He gave the horse another pat and moved away, facing the opposite wall of the stable and leaning his head against it. "I have the entire Roman empire as mine to explore. Perhaps I shall find other men's wives throughout the world."

"Is that what you wish?" She closed the distance between them and leaned against the wall beside him. "Really?"

He turned his head and met her eyes, his jaw clenched, his expression tortured. "What do you want from me? What I can tell you of Arthur's heart is there for all to see. He has no artifice. He is as he seems."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "This is not about Arthur."

"Then what, Guinevere?" He reached out, his fingers stopping just before they could touch her cheek. "What is this?"

Her mouth opened as she turned her head to find his touch, pressing her lips against his palm. Her fingers encircled his wrist as she feathered light kisses down to where she held him. "Do you not know?" She whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. "Do you not see?"

His hand jerked in her grip as he shuddered, fingers closing into a fist. He closed his eyes, his jaw tight as he stepped into her, turning them both so she was pressed against the wall, his hands on either side of her head. His voice was whispered and gravelly, his restraint drawn as tight as a bow. "What do you want from me?"

"Do…do you think about death?"

"Only to avoid it."

"How…" Her lip shook. She swallowed and began again. "How do you wish to die?"

"I don't." He smiled slowly, predatorily. "But if I get to choose the time and manner of my death, I wish to die a very old man with a beautiful woman on her knees between my thighs."

"You don't want to die in battle?"

"You did not ask me how I will die, only how I wished."

She swallowed again, her eyes on his mouth. "You don't wish to die wielding your swords?"

"Oh, she'll be wielding my sword," he assured her, leaning in even closer. "Make no mistake of that." She swallowed hard and he laughed low and soft. "Do I disgust you?" His breath feathered over her cheeks as he slid his leg between both of hers. "Make you blush?"

"I thought you were a warrior."

"No." He shook his head, the closeness of the movement causing her to close her eyes. "You want to know if I'm a man. That is what this is about, is it not? You want to know if I'm a man who will stand beside Arthur or give in to the sweet offer of temptation." He threaded his fingers through hers as he held her hands against the wall. "I have no promise of heaven to risk, Guinevere." He flicked his tongue out and let it touch her parted lips. "Offer me heaven here and now and I will worship at your altar." He let his fingers trail down her bare arm to the curve of her breast. "Kneel before you in prayer."

Her breath shook as she opened her eyes and met the darkness of his. His lashes brushed his cheeks as he pressed his words against her mouth.

"Shall I give an offering worthy of heaven?" His hand closed over her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple gently as he bit her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. She let out a soft mewl, her body curving toward his. "Shall I light a fire?"

She pressed against him, her mouth finding his. He groaned low and deep in his chest, the sound muffled by her tongue as it slid against his. With a rough gasp, he pulled back from her and bent his head, breathing roughly, one hand still threaded with hers, the other still over her breast, rising in rapid time with her breath.

"I…" He took a deep breath and raised his head, his gaze piercing. "I owe him everything. My loyalty." His body shook with control as he closed his eyes and took another breath. "My life."

"As do I." Her voice trembled as she reached out, the fingers she trailed over his face shaking as well. "Bu…but when you are near, I cannot breathe anything but you."

He bowed his head, his breath catching on another gasp. "He is…all that I believe in." He caught her hand and pinned it against the wall again, his eyes hooded as he moved closer once more. "Everything I trust in this world is in Arthur. I cannot…will not." He shook his head and found her mouth again, moaning as she surrendered to his kiss. He released her hands and brought her against him, cradling her body as he devoured the soft taste of her mouth, the swollen flesh of her lips.

He released her suddenly, crying out and stepping back, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand. "You owe him everything. Nothing of you is mine." He glanced away from her sharply toward the door of the stables. "Go." She started to reach out to him and he whipped his gaze back to her, his face a tortured mask. "GO!"

She ran and he sank to his knees, bowing his head forward. His body sagged and he dug his hands into the dirt, feeling the hard packed mud against his nails.

He did not know how long he had knelt there when he heard Arthur's voice. "You will find," Arthur sank down beside him and caught Lancelot's hands, smoothing his callused fingers over the cracked and bloodied nails, "that prayer to my God requires no blood sacrifice."

"I wasn't praying."

Arthur reached out and lifted Lancelot's chin until his dark eyes met Arthur's green ones. "Then what brings my bravest knight and dearest friend to his knees."

Lancelot managed a weak smile at the question that was not a question at all. "I always assumed I would die in battle. A sharp sword I did not parry or an arrow of fire would kill me. I assumed that you would bury me."

"I'm not to bury you." Arthur's smile did nothing to hide the concern in his eyes. "You want to burn."

"I do not know life without you any longer." Arthur got to his feet and helped Lancelot to his. "Do you think I'll get old and fat?"

Arthur laughed. "Yes."

Lancelot sniffed and closed his eyes for a moment as Arthur clapped an arm around his shoulder. "Really?"

Arthur shook his head sadly. "Yes."

'Forewarned is forearmed', Tristan informed him once in a rare fit of words and eloquence as his hawk had soared off into the sky. A beautiful lie, Lancelot thought as Arthur rushed up the steps of the Wall, Guinevere directly behind him. It gutted him like a sword as her eyes met his, everything shadowed in their depths.

His fight with Arthur was nothing but a blur of words and emotions in his mind as he blew his breath out to the frozen sky, feeling her come up behind him. "It all comes down not to questions," he said softly as she approached, "but to answers." He shook his head. "I told you all along that you wanted him and you needed him and that was everything you needed to know. He is noble, our Arthur."

"He wants a home."

"He has one. Here." He slammed his fist against his heart. "In all of us. All of us who have fought beside him, fought for him. Died for him. And now you ask him to throw every sacrifice we've made aside as if it matters nothing."

"I asked nothing of him."

"Well-placed…words." He spit the syllables out like venom. "Did you hope to lure me to your cause as well? A taste of alabaster skin for a letting of blood?"

"You," tears glistened in her eyes in the firelight. "You wanted nothing that I offered."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her aside, shoving her against the wall in a darkened corner. "I wanted everything." His hands clenched into fists at his sides then he lifted them, placing them against the wall on either side of her head. "I want." He took a deep breath. "Everything."

Her breath hitched and she tilted her chin, staring at him defiantly. "Because I now belong to someone else?"

"You," he whispered softly, his lips ghosting over hers, "have always belonged to someone else."

He heard nothing as he charged for the horse. Not the clang of metal on metal or the soft rip of flesh. He didn't feel the blood that coated his skin or see the slick sheen that caked his blade. All he felt was the rough pounding of his pulse as he swung up on the animal's back, his heels digging into the soft belly as he goaded it onward.

They raced across the battlefield, his eyes focused ahead of them even as he swung his sword from side to side. Bodies fell back - living and dead - as he vaulted off the leather saddle and thrust his blades forward.

The sound all rushed back to him as he stared into the Saxon's face, unable to keep from smiling. Dealing death was what he did best - pain and agony and staring his enemy in the face as he ripped them from their mortal coil. He fought like he did everything else, with grace and aplomb and sheer delight in knowing that he was going to win. He didn't fight with ease as Tristan did, wielding his curved sword like an extension of himself. He thrust his blades with passion and intensity until he found cold steel resistance or the soft give-way of flesh.

The sheer euphoria of the fight stole the past week of longing from inside him, taking out every checked instinct and letting it loose. What he wanted, what he needed, what he could not have slid into the Saxon as he smiled and twirled his blades, daring him. Here he knew what he was fighting for, what victory was. There was no ambiguity in the clatter of swords and the rough grunt of contact. There were no questions to cloud the blood-red haze.

Until he turned and she was there and then suddenly his chest blossomed in pain, his heart stuttering in the solid thunk of the bolt. His vision narrowed and he threw the sword on instinct, watching the taint of victory slip from the Saxon's face. He forced himself forward, his hand slipping on the grip of the sword until he lifted it, pushing the blood red tip closer to the Saxon's exposed throat.

There was nothing more than this, he realized as he thrust the sword home, the rending of flesh suddenly loud in his ears as everything else dulled to a low hum. He fell, his eyes wide at the cold realization that he could not stop. This was not as it was supposed to be. Victory belonged to him. To him and Ar…

"…thur."

Guinevere ran her hand along the burned grass, fingering shoots of green that had broken through the dark layer that edged the deep hole. Wind and rain had washed the blood from the blades at the head of the empty grave. She straightened and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as she watched Arthur walk up the rise of the hill. The flash of pain in his eyes showed even through the shadows as his gaze swept over the empty grave.

"Does he ever answer you?" Arthur's words were soft as he circled the grave and came up behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I find that whenever I try to hear him in my head, all he does is laugh at me."

She shook her head and looked back at him. "Do you talk with him often?"

Arthur paused for a long moment, his silence speaking volumes. Finally he smiled and shook his head. "Come. I have something to show you." He took Guinevere's hand and led her toward the stable. "We used…Lancelot and I used to frequent this place. Always warm. Always quiet. Smelled of leather and hay and horse and oil and sweat."

"Comforting," she offered.

"Private." He held her gaze for a long moment. She opened her mouth to speak and he shook his head. "Come. Outside."

They moved out into the moist air, the promise of sun melting the thick dew that colored the grass white. Guinevere followed in Arthur's steps, her hand tight in his as he drew her around him. She gasped quietly as the soot black stallion reared up onto its hind legs before dropping back down and cantering around the circle of the corral.

Arthur watched her as the horse moved closer, his eyes unreadable. "He was born the day of battle." She glanced at him quickly - there had been other skirmishes, but there was only one battle to them - then turned her gaze back to the horse. She stepped up as it neared her, surprised when it didn't shy away. She caught his mane and buried her face in his neck. "Lancelot." Arthur stopped, his voice thick with emotion. "Lancelot used to tell of a Sarmatian legend. Warriors." He reached out and stroked the sleek hide, his hand trembling as his fingers furrowed through one of the rough, thick patches of hair that marked the horse's back. "Warriors never truly die. They are reborn in the souls of wild horses."

Guinevere closed her eyes on the hot sting of tears then opened them and looked at Arthur, holding his eyes for a long moment before speaking. "He's beautiful."

Arthur reached out, his fingers brushing the fall of hair from her face. "He's yours."