Page 25 of Embrace of Dragons

Lancelot admired many things about his King. He was very rarely impressed by anything, and yet, everything Arthur did, if not impressed him, always made a lasting impression.

The park was not large enough to release the tension he sensed in Arthur, to be sure. At this pace, their run would be over in ten minutes unless Arthur also covered the neighboring Green Park or ran in a different direction to Big Ben and Westminster Bridge.

He knew that the warrior could run at top speed beyond a normal man’s endurance. But Lancelot never had trouble keeping up. He could run far longer.

Or, he used to be able to.

Now, perhaps because of their shared life force, they shared strengths as well as weaknesses. Arthur benefited from Lancelot’s…magic. And Lancelot was held back by Arthur’s limitations. He grew tired when he never tired before, except for the torture Guinevere had exacted upon them both. Over the last months, he’d even fallen ill when Arthur “caught a cold.” He’d never been ill a day in his life before this.

And, of course, there were Arthur’s strengths as well that rubbed off on Lancelot. His passion, for example. Everything felt stronger now. Colors were more vivid. Tastes were sharper.

As if Lancelot had been frozen in the depths of an iced-over lake, and Arthur’s perceptions, reactions, and feelings had melted him.

He had always been aloof. Distanced. Removed. Cool. Guinevere’s sorcery had rendered him even more so. He became her puppet. A man made of stone. Stone that bled.

Only Arthur had ever made himfeel…

~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~

Reign of Uther Pendragon, Dark Ages Britain.

Lancelot lied.

Well, he didn’t outright tell an untruth, but he did not tell the whole truth.

Aye, he intended to attend more tournaments hosted by warlords and kings. But he would also follow Arthur and his friends from a distance when he could. He would not lose track of them.

After all, he’d seen Destiny in those stormy, hypnotizing blue eyes. And from his observations thus far, Arthur could very well become a king one day. Even a mighty one.

Perhaps the greatest of all.

The signs were there in the way people gravitated to him like moths to flame. They wanted to bask in the heat of his radiance, his confidence and competence, his natural instinct to protect the weak.

It was there in the way he could treat his men like brothers, yet win their respect as a leader. It was in his stern fairness and easy affection. In the way he never presumed to be better, only that he took his responsibility to take care of those who followed him like a solemn oath.

Lancelot knew that he would never break it. He would never let his men down.

Part of this responsibility, as Lancelot saw with his own eyes and heard Arthur recount in his own words, was leading his men into battle. Often against seemingly insurmountable odds.

Arthur fought like a demon. He seemed fearless, but Lancelot could tell it was not that. His eyes showed what he really felt: he feared.

He cared for the safety and wellbeing of his men. He cared for the villages he protected. Like a papa bear defending his cubs from rabid wolves, his care for those who depended on him far exceeded concern for himself.

Arthur was not fearless. He was simply very brave.

All of this Lancelot observed from afar, trailing after Arthur and his men whenever he was in their vicinity. Watching from the shadows.

If Arthur possessed one fault, it might be that he was too forgiving. Too merciful. Not ruthless enough. Not vengeful enough. He always treated others, including his enemies, with honor. He tried several times to protect Lancelot in the tournament even though they were opponents.

It wasn’t…logical behavior. Perhaps this was Arthur’s one fatal flaw.

That was why he needed someone like Lancelot to protecthim. Maybe even from himself. For Lancelot was eminently logical.

Nature’s law was “an eye for an eye.” Survival of the fittest. And in these lands, often the meanest. Arthur was strong, but his sense of honor prevented him from being “mean.” Lancelot didn’t want to change anything about Arthur. Only to defend and preserve his strengths.

Thus, he followed the warrior from camp to camp to make sure Arthur’s inherent goodness didn’t land him into trouble he couldn’t get out of.

One night, months after Lancelot first met Arthur, he lay like a panther upon the branches of a large oak directly above the camp that Arthur and his men had made at the mouth of theRiver Glen, where it flowed into the River Till near the town of Woller.

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