He knows the jolt of excitement that accompanies the quick slash of a sword and it is only matched by the thrill of the chase. He sees it in her eyes that she knows it as well, speaks of it with a lying tongue that seeks to tie him to a land he does not know, does not love. He feels it when he watches her watch Arthur and almost smiles. He knows himself far better than anyone, and knows that nothing engages his spirit more than the wanting of something he cannot have.

He has never taken it from a woman unwilling, but there have been plenty enough who were willing to lie down for a Sarmatian knight. He has stolen from no man, though he has not discouraged the myth of nights spent in the beds warmed by others. But there is nothing a woman offers him that is more attractive than what lies between her legs. Those women tie you and trap you and offer hope where, to him, there is none.

He knows no hope. Only freedom.

She is different though, with her feline grace and wicked smile. She knows too much of the world and the land and weaves her words like a spell around him. He senses in her something more than just a woman - witchcraft or devilry or pure seductress. She does not know the shame the Romans have bred into them as she bathes and watches him. He feels the heat grow inside of him and moves away, the ache of wanting enough to keep him warm throughout the snow-draped night.

"You!" He snarls the word at her in a voice he doesn't recognize. Her head snaps up and she meets his gaze with a challenge of her own. "You lead him to this."

"You think I have the power to persuade him?"

"I think you have the wiles and wickedness inherent to all women. I think you perfume yourself with sex and offer him whatever he has so long forsaken to lure him into your Merlin's hands."

"He chooses. I did not choose for him. And how can you think so little of him to think that a mere promise of what I offer could draw him away from Rome?"

"Promise." He spits the word out as he walks around her, his eyes sweeping over her. Her dress is demure and concealing, but he with one touch, it would slip off her shoulder and to her feet. "You offer him more than a promise, don't you?"

"And what do you offer him? Run away to Rome where he would be lost and destroyed? Where he would be ruined of his beliefs and his heart if he were not tainted by the wickedness of those who rule? They would break him or kill him, and it would not matter much to them which. But to us, he is the offer of peace. Of hope."

"There is no hope."

"There is always hope. So long as there is dirt and grass and blood in this land, there is hope. The army out there wants this dirt, but without us, without its lifeblood, there is nothing for him here. Arthur's blood beats in this land."

"Arthur has shed the blood of this land. You expect him to lead those we fought against, those who killed our brothers in arms…"

"You said you'd killed too many sons to have some of your own, Lancelot." He stops speaking, stops moving as she steps toward him. "There is no such limit on brothers." She moves forward, her dress flowing like water around her thin form. "He understands. He knows. He knows that by standing here, by facing this, he can forge his own brotherhood based on what he believes, what he thought Rome believed."

"And who are you to his beliefs? What is your place?"

"I will fight for my land, for my people. I will fight for Arthur."

He shakes his head with a slight laugh, the sound bitter and dark. "You lead him on a fool's errand."

"I lead him to the land of his heart." She reaches out and touches him, her fingers pressing against his chest. He feels the lack of armor, the warmth of her flesh through his thin shirt. "You can feel it beating in you. You have lived a life here too long to not hear the song of the land and the lakes and the sky. We may have boundaries on this island, Lancelot, but the sky still does not end."

"You are like a witch." He says the words without venom, his voice low and deep, haunted by home. "You take my words and spin them to your tale."

"He will fight without you, his knights. But he is tenfold stronger with you by his side." Her hand moves up from his heart to his neck, touching the hollow of flesh above his collar.

"He is a man." He swallows and feels her fingers move with his flesh. "Nothing more." She lets her hand drift along his neck, curving around the column. "Nothing less."

"And what are you, Lancelot?"

"I am his friend." He doesn't look at her. He cannot see her eyes, liquid and magic like a fawn at the gloaming. "And what are you?"

"I am Guinevere." She whispers the words, and they break him. He catches her long hair in his fist and holds it as he bends his head, tasting her sweet, parted lips. She touches him on the chest and shoulder and moves her hands under his tunic until he rips away from her, undone in every way.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and inhales, licking his lips as he stares at her, unblinking. His hands do not betray him as he tucks his tunic into his pants again, breathing heavily in the cold night air. "You are his."

"I am no man's unless I so wish to be."

Nodding twice, he rakes her with his eyes, with his sharp smile. "You lie to yourself as much as you lie to Arthur. But you do not lie to me."

He mounts his horse carefully, patting the magnificent beast's sleek neck. "A fallen warrior, and a broken man," he whispers into the horse's ear. "Is that what we are to forever be?"

"Lancelot."

"Arthur." He holds himself different now, the man striding toward him. He is regal and strong, resolved of purpose again now that Rome has been burnt from his blood. "You are certain you will not leave this madness and come with us." He does not question, for they both know it is nothing of the kind.

"My place is here. My heart is here. This land. I can make this," he gestures to the wide expanses of green now burning black and gold in the cool air, "them," and again to the tree where armies of Woads lie in wait, painted in black and green and blue to blend with the land. "I can make it all something. Make it mean something."

"It has always meant something, my friend. It has meant our freedom. Which we now have."

"Which we have always had, Lancelot, but have not taken." He glances to the forests and Lancelot wonders what he sees - A new army? New knights? Merlin? Guinevere? "It has always been ours, we have simply been bound by the lies other men have used to chain us. Today I break free of those chains, Lancelot."

"The world is out there for us, Arthur. If you have broken these chains, then why do you chose to imprison yourself here?"

"It is my home." Arthur smiles as the word catches him. "I have always thought that my home was where Rome was. But my home is the place where my ideas and my ideals are not tempered with politics and lies. My home is a place where every man is free. Where every man has honor. Where those who are strong serve those who are weak, not the opposite. That is my home, Lancelot. This is my home."

"I do not envy you this insanity, Arthur." He reached out a hand and clasped Arthur's forearm. "But live on, for no other reason than to irritate the Romans, eh?"

"You are my brother, Lancelot. My home and my heart are yours."

"Goodbye, my friend." He changes his grip, grasping Arthur's hand. "My brother."

The caravan moves slowly, inching toward the southern tip of the island. Men and women and animals tread warily, the sound of Saxon drums barely heard off in the distance. He lets the others fall in line as he waits back, making sure the stragglers are not left behind in his one last debt to Arthur. The Woads move as they do, archers standing ready, awaiting the sweep of Arthur's sword in command.

She is separate, waiting for something else as he approaches. The mass of people and carts moves forward in solemn silence as her people cling to the trees, only the pale hint of her skin giving her away as she slips away from the forest to his side. He stops his horse and waits, staring down at her.

"Stay."

"For what, maiden? To offer myself to Arthur's cause? Or to offer myself to yours?"

"My cause is his cause."

He bends down, leaning close enough to whisper in her ear. "Your cause lies on the taste of your tongue against mine. It lies in the looks of longing I see in my dreams. Your cause is not Arthur's unless his cause is my undoing."

She meets his eyes defiantly, turning her head so that her breath brushes his lips. "I fight for this land."

"Do you? Or do you fight for the spoils of war?"

"I am the spoils of war, should we not win."

He smiles and laughs softly, the sound making her shiver in the cold morning air. "You are the spoils of war either way, Guinevere." Her mouth parts at the sound of her name and she takes a step closer, almost touching him. "The only question is to whom you belong."

"I belong to no man."

"So you say," he reaches out on instinct and brushes her cheek with his hand. "And so you lie."

"I am not Arthur's."

He laughs and settles back on the back of his horse, his hand still touching her painted skin. "Yet."

He sits astride his horse beside Arthur, his brother. He feels the pounding of the Saxon drums and it sounds like the steady, rough beat of his own heart. He hears Arthur's words, feels them, believes at least in Arthur's belief in his cause, but his eyes stray to the woods and the blood thrumming in his veins is not just for the anticipation of battle but for the realization that, by fighting, he too can taste the spoils of war.

He and Arthur ride side by side into the first foray of battle then separate, the screams and cries and smoke of battle pushing everything aside - now there is nothing more than the slash of his sword and the stride of his horse. He does not seek her out, does not see beyond the mass of bodies that stand between him and victory.

He knows where they stand - Galahad, Gawain, Tristan, Bors and Arthur. They have fought too long and too hard together to not know the movements as they make their way through the sea of Saxons, their swords and knives, axes and spears cutting through flesh and draining life's blood to the land.

Bleeding and sore but unable to feel anything beyond the euphoria of the battle, he turns and he sees her. The blood rushing through is veins heats at the sight of her bloodied and yelling, shouting her fight to the skies as she attacks, the Saxon prince grinning a victor's grin as his eyes rake her flesh.

His cry is torn from his throat as he strides forward. He feels the weight of his armor and sword as he moves, slashing his way through the bodies that fall in his way until his sword clashes and the fight is no longer hers. He feels her gaze on him and it fuels him, burns him as he fights, no thought beyond the taste of her pale smooth flesh, her graceful movements beneath him, her voice whispering his name between the soft pants of pleasure.

The bolt, when it comes, drives his thoughts back to Arthur. His friend, his brother. If he can fall, he thinks as he sinks down to his knees, Arthur can. Arthur can bleed.

He gets to his feet and moves forward with his swords, the weight of them pulling him toward the ground, the land, the life's blood. He will burn for this land, he thinks as he takes a last look at Guinevere. Arthur will taste the spoils of war.

He will taste freedom.