A/N: Disclaimer...I own nothing and I am making no money off of this.
A different take on the King Arthur story from the eyes of Guinevere. Any reviews would be greatly appreciated and welcomed (NO FLAMES PLEASE) If you don't like, then don't read.
My chest heaved and pain radiated from every wound on my aching body. I looked up to the sky that was stained with inky black smog that rose from the fires of war. My end was near and I stared at my executioner with calm eyes, sure to make him see that I was not afraid. This Saxon would gain no such satisfaction from me. I lifted my chin defiantly as I saw his blood stained sword descend towards my body when there was a sudden clash of metal on metal. My eyes darted to the man who saved my life and my breath whooshed out when I saw that it was Lancelot who had come to my rescue. I nodded my thanks to him as I rolled out of the way of the two men and grabbed my own sword, which lay discarded on the battle field. There would be time to give Lancelot proper thanks when this battle was over.
All around me lay the bodies of Saxons, Romans and Waods alike, slaughtered without mercy. I let out a shattering battle cry when my blade sliced through the back of a murdering Saxon and I watched as the blood slowly dripped from his mouth. I saw the shock in his eyes when he saw that he had been bested by a woman and a Waod no less.
Suddenly my legs were kicked out from under me and I fell to the ground with a thud. I brushed the hair out of my eyes to see the second in command of the Saxon's and I would not let him bring me down. I quickly rose and drew my blade, whirling it around to flick some of the blood off of it. I stood my ground as I waited to see what my opponent would do. He did not disappoint. He rushed me and though he was twice the size of me, I easily dodged his bulk and thrust out my foot into the small of his back. He stumbled slightly and I took advantage of his stager; my sword cut into the heavy armor that he wore and drew the first blood. I smiled a feral smile as he got to his feet and tried to rush me again. This time I was not prepared for the shield that swung out from his left side and hit me square in the jaw. I felt the skin on my cheek break open and sticky warmth slid down my face.
I swung my blade out to meet his mid-air and the resounding clang could barley be heard over the roar of the battle. My nose was filled with smoke and I could not see anything else around me. It was as if this was the only battle that was being fought and I was determined to come out of it victorious. I stumbled back and let out a scream of pain as his sword sliced over my exposed stomach. He laughed and made to end me when out of nowhere my sisters came rushing out of the smoke and held him fast, each woman sticking her knife into him wherever there was exposed flesh. His screams of agony were nothing to me as I rounded his body and grabbed a handful of his greasy hair. My sisters were yelling their triumph as I yanked my knife across the man's throat.
Blood dripped from the wound and the man fell to the ground in a heap; all of the life gone out of him. I surged to my feet, a sudden rush of adrenaline filling my veins and forcing me to continue. This was a battle that I was meant to fight…and win. My eyes scanned the battle field that was slowly becoming visible through the dense cloud of black smoke.
My sword was raised for the next attack when I realized that the shouting had stopped; only a few British voices could be heard as the last of the Saxons were brought down. My chest heaved with pent up energy from the fight. I waited a moment for my breathing to steady a bit, although I was still on the alert.
I wiped my sword on the blood and dirt stained thigh of my pants and surveyed the damage. The ground was black and charred from the fires that continued to surround the courtyard. Bodies of both British and Saxon soldiers littered the ground; their blood continued to drain into the soft soil of the Earth. Black smoke lingered in the air and I could feel it coat my lungs, making it hard to draw a steady breath.
It was then that I saw his face among the wreckage.
"Lancelot…" My cry of anguish tore the air as I ran to Lancelot's lifeless form. Arrows pierced his flesh; it had taken quite a lot to bring this fierce warrior down, and he was covered in blood. There were gashes on his arms and legs and his once shiny armor was now torn and tarnished. His eyes were open and yet they were dead eyes; closed forever by the hand of the Saxons.
I looked around helplessly and I could feel the sting of fresh tears assault my eyes. This man died to save my life…suffered at the hands of the Saxons when he could have returned home away from a life of war and pain. My shoulders slumped and I fell to my knees, a sense of grief and helplessness replacing the pain in my battered body. There was so much death around; the brave soldiers I fought with were doing nothing to hide their grief and anguish as they gathered the fallen and laid them to rest.
Hot tears streamed down my face and mingled with the blood and war paint that adorned my body. Lancelot's face blurred before my eyes and I angrily wiped away the tears that continued to fall. I reached out a shaking hand and brushed Lancelot's hair away from his forehead when suddenly Arthur was at my side.
He dropped to his knees beside me and quickly pulled off his bloody helmet. His voice cracked as he gathered Lancelot's lifeless body to his chest. He raised his face to the heavens and shouted, "It was my life to be taken! Not this…never this!"
Tears ran down the Roman commander's face and he continued to hold Lancelot. I placed my hand on his warm forearm and softly said, "He saved my life."
Arthur looked into my eyes for a moment before laying Lancelot back onto the ground. He leaned over the body, carefully closed the brave knight's eyes and softly kissed his forehead. He took a steady breath and tightly gripped my hand as we stood together.
Out of the smoke came the rest of the Sarmatian knights and I could see Tristan's body draped over Bors strong shoulders. My fingers tightened around Arthurs and I saw the pain and guilt pass over his face. There was no need for words as Galahad and Gawain bent down to lift Lancelot's body off the ground. Arthur never let go of my hand as we followed the procession of our fallen knights.