A/N: Rating applies to this chapter. I'm very sorry it took me so long to update. I lied before; this chapter was the most difficult ever! But I started this story specifically because I wanted to write this chapter. And without further ado...
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
A/N: One more chapter to go!