Summary: The night after the battle on the ice, Lancelot is captured by the Saxons and brutally raped. Following Lancelot's rescue, the knights are left to deal with the repercussions of an event entirely beyond their reckoning and initially only Tristan is prepared to confront the reality of what has happened.

Rating: PG-13, possibly going up to R (a soft R)

Warning: Slash and non-con (Lancelot's rape is not graphic), AU

Pairing: Lancelot/Tristan, eventual Lancelot/Arthur

Torn

"There's a large number of lonely men out there," Lancelot said, smiling.

"Don't worry. I won't let them rape you," Guinevere replied.

Chapter One

The night was cold and there were footsteps in the darkness; footsteps that were so quiet, Lancelot could scarcely believe he had heard them at all.

Then a sudden gust of wind rose blocking out the sound.

Lancelot sat up, his back against a tree, and peered into the darkness. His ears strained to hear above the wind but there was nothing. Lancelot shook his head. Nights like these instilled fear into a man's heart, making him jumpy. He relaxed marginally. There was a root beneath his left thigh that was starting to hurt but as he moved to shift his bodyweight, he heard it again.

Footsteps.

He froze for a moment, then his right hand settled on the hilt of his dagger. He moved it slowly from its sheaf, trying to keep the metallic scraping sound to a minimum. And then he waited.

"It is a night from hell," said Arthur. He clapped a friendly hand to Lancelot's shoulder then growled softly in surprise as a dagger appeared at his throat and pressed firmly into the skin there. The blade was so cold it burned his skin. "If you'd refrain from killing me, I thought we might talk."

Lancelot moved the dagger and laughed softly. "Your pardon," he said. It was necessary to talk loudly just to be heard above the raging wind.

Arthur shook his head and sat down. "It is I who should ask your pardon. I knew you would not be sleeping; I did not know you would be so watchful."

"Jumpy," Lancelot corrected. He would not have admitted that to any man other than Arthur.

"This night..." Arthur gestured round with his hands. "...Makes men jumpy. The sentries have already alerted me twice of the presence of Saxons in these woods."

"And?"

"A badger," said Arthur with a smile. "And a squirrel. Dangerous foes, indeed."

Lancelot smiled back. A companionable silence followed in which he found himself relaxing for the first time since this afternoon's battle. "What is it you want to talk about?" he asked eventually, sensing his leader had more important things to discuss than badgers and dark nights.

"Guinevere."

"Ahhhhh..." said Lancelot, once again becoming uneasy.

Arthur looked at him intently; although the darkness made it doubtful that he could see Lancelet's exact expression. "What do you think of her?" he asked.

It was a difficult question to answer. It would take a blind man not to see how Arthur felt about the Woad girl and Lancelot certainly did not want to offend his leader and oldest friend. He said nothing.

"You have something to say but you fear to say it."

Lancelot came to a decision. "I like her..." he said. "...But I do not trust her."

Arthur nodded, even though he did not like Lancelot's words. "That is all I wished to know, my friend." Once more, he clapped a hand to Lancelot's armour-plated shoulder. "This place is well watched. You should sleep if you can."

"And you?"

"I shall find no rest until we are behind Hadrian's Wall. Safe." The last word was added as an afterthought. Arthur disappeared back into the night.

After an interminable period of staring into the darkness, the talisman given to him by his family held tight in a frozen fist, Lancelot slept.

The Saxons came like shadows in the night: there were three of them. They came in the deepest, stillest time of night, four hours before the cold light of a winter dawn pierced the valley. The sentries did not see them.

"Split up," whispered one of the Saxons. He held a long knife before him and seemed nervous. "Remember: an armoured knight, tall with dark hair... Do not let yourself be seen or we are all dead men..."

The youngest of the Saxons, a battle-axe firmly in his right hand, searched the outskirts of the camp. He had little hope of finding Arthur, who he imagined would be sound asleep in the very heart of the camp. He ignored two men who were clearly not knights and one man who was: a huge man with little hair; his snores sounded like thunder even above the howling wind.

The Saxon came to the edge of the camp. His job was done and he was relieved to leave the enemy camp unsighted.

Something caught his eye as the moon emerged from behind cloud.

He turned and found himself staring at a dark-haired, armoured knight. He almost grinned because it was so easy. He crept up to the knight and with a sudden movement pressed his axe to the man's neck. "Are you Arthur?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

But Lancelot stared at the Saxon defiantly. "I am Arthur," he answered.

A second later the handle of the axe slammed into the side of his head and knocked him unconscious.

The ground was moving, that was the only explanation for it. An earth tremor, perhaps? But no, this was Britain and such things did not happen here.

Lancelot opened his eyes. It was dark; it must still be night and yet he had the feeling of having slept for hours.

And everything still seemed to be moving.

He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the grogginess of sleep. The pain came like a cauterising iron thrust into an arrow wound. It was pure-white agony in his head. He cried aloud in his shock, then bit down on his lip, hard, to suppress a sob.

Something was very, very wrong. Lancelot reached up a hand to touch his head but stopped halfway. His hands were bound. He felt a peculiar sinking feeling in his stomach that was not lessened even by the fact that the ground had stopped moving. He could remember nothing of his capture.

Suddenly, the world filled with light and he shut his eyes as a new outbreak of pain in his head was felt. "He's awake," said a gruff voice. Lancelot wondered if he was imagining it. "Must have the scull of a boar."

"Better for him if he hadn't woken..." said a softer, more sinister voice. "Cynric will be pleased..." The voice laughed humourlessly and Lancelot dared to open his eyes.

A stab of pain followed and he groaned.

The groan, however, was not solely on account of the pain. Lancelot had realised he was in a covered baggage cart in the same second as he had realised the source of light was from the opened flap at the rear of the cart.

And looking past the two gloating figures standing in the flap, he could see the camp of an entire Saxon army.

The enemy had captured him.

Tbc...