Author: Sarah
Email:
Rating: G
Pairing: A/G, A/L implied
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.
Summary: Lancelot knows.

Lancelot knows. As soon as he sees Guinevere wrapped in Arthur's arms, carried up from the cells below the Roman's estate by his commander, personally, he knows.

Maybe it's that he can see a glint in her half dead eyes, a spark of life that suggests at what her spirit is, could, must be. Maybe it's that he can make guesses as to her strength of mind, duty, power, will, the list goes on, all of them qualities that Arthur needs for his partner to possess. Lancelot knows this from personal experience, after all.

It could just be that Lancelot has been expecting this, has known that this day was on the horizon for weeks now, months, and that there's nothing he can do to stop it. He will return to his homeland, Arthur will travel to Rome, and only by God's own grace, as Arthur would say, will their paths ever cross again.

Later that night, as he sits the watch and Guinevere walks by him through the darkened forest, Arthur trailing behind like a well-trained shadow, he feels a twisting ache in his gut. The pain becomes sharper still as Arthur looks to him, eyes bright, as if asking for Lancelot's permission to do what Lancelot already knows to be a nearly inevitable outcome.

He's not asking permission, though, and Lancelot knows it. Arthur is his commander, his leader, his—

Arthur asks no one's permission. Lancelot knows this.

Still, at Arthur's glance, Lancelot nods slightly, although Arthur has already looked away, his attention focused on the woman ahead of him again. On the mystery, the potential that Lancelot saw that morning, but Arthur only seems to be noticing truly for the first time now.

Under his gaze, Arthur and Guinevere draw close, closer, and Lancelot can feel the pull of the two of them even from where he is sitting. There is power there, surrounding them.

Lancelot watches.

And he knows. He knows what is happening, recognizes the twisting pain in his gut for the illogical jealousy it is, and yet still, he cannot make himself look away.