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|A tiny story about Lancelot of Kinbg Arthur's Knights and his unnamed love.||
The morning sun stole into the room, through the open casement that the knight had forgotten to close and shutter the evening before. He sighed heavily, and tightened his grip on the waist of the lady beside him, drawing her closer. She turned in his arms, so she was facing his broad, muscled chest and looked up at him, a radiant smile breaking across her face. She delighted in waking up beside him every morning, but there was always the lingering fear in the back of her mind that one day soon, she would be waking up beside no more than his ghost.
“Did you sleep well, my love?” he asked, in a voice barely above a whisper. She reached up and dusted a rogue lock of black hair from his face, and nodded.
“I did.” He reached down and kissed her forehead, then rested his chin on top of her head. She was instantly aware of the pensiveness that sometimes stole over him, and she tilted her head back, so she could look into his dark blue eyes.
“What is wrong?” she said, knowing that he wouldn’t try to hide whatever was disturbing him from her.
“I am merely fearful of leaving you for so long,” he replied after a long moment of silence. It was her turn to sigh, as she didn’t know what to say to console him. She selfishly wanted him to never leave home, but she knew it was his appointed task and the task could not be broken. He would never betray his beloved King and the other knights.
“Just return to me,” she whispered, as she did every time he had to leave. She closed her eyes so that he couldn’t see her pain. He pulled her even closer, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He always was a man of action, and few words.
“Return to me, Lancelot.”
|Gwenievere, Part Two||Rainmaker|