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Gawain was on his side, a heap of plate and mail in dirty snow. He’d gone down like a stone; long, horrible moments had passed during which Lancelot feared that the blow had cracked his skull, killing him out of carelessness just like Gareth and Gaheris. But he twitched after a time, then shifted, clumsily trying to reach his helm. He could not drag his arm far enough.
“Gawain?” Lancelot did not approach him, though his body still knew that its place was on its knees, at his side, helping him up. Their audience in the castle and in the tents had begun to reemerge, roused by the sudden silence after hours of battle, and a quiet and ferocious muttering was starting. The scrutiny froze him where he stood.
With a wordless noise of pain, Gawain mustered the strength to tear off his helmet and roll onto his back, grimacing into the midday sun. “Damn. Ah…”
“Cry mercy,” Lancelot ordered, quietly. “Gawain, sit up. Cry mercy.”
The words incited something in Gawain. Clarity came to his eyes, and he drew a breath, and he looked up at his friend with rage twisted into the lines of his bloodied face.
“Coward,” he rasped, struggling again to move and failing. “Cur, damn you, traitor knight! Kill me!”
His voice had risen to a hoarse shout, delivered with all the power left in him. Many people had gathered, knights and footmen and servants from both camps, and they were milling restlessly, wondering whether to break the agreement not to interfere.
“Yield,” said Lancelot.
“I will not yield!”
“Stop this,” he whispered. Over three hours they had fought, and the fervor of battle was leaving him, the hideous reality trickling back in. He was shaking. “Please go home, I am sorry. On my life I swear, I did not mean–”
“Kill me!” Gawain screamed. “Or I will fight you again and I will finish it!”
“It will end in your death.”
Flushed with passion, panting for breath, he stopped his raging and regarded Lancelot. As Lancelot watched him in return, praying that he would give in, tears gathered in his eyes.
“Then you will understand,” he hissed, “what you’ve done to me.”
Lancelot opened his mouth—a reaction to the tearing pain in his chest more than a desire to speak—and at that moment shouting began at the edge of the camp. Arthur appeared through the crowds in a flutter of red, a young page on his heels. From across the bloody courtyard he stared at his injured nephew, took a step forward, and stopped, his eyes meeting Lancelot’s. Dazed and weak, Gawain started to cry in long, keening sobs.
Lancelot turned and strode towards the castle gates.
In the great hall, he shrugged off the attentions of the servants trying to help him out of his armour, tearing off his own coif and scowling at courtiers brave enough to congratulate him on his victory. He could offer no explanation. He had won, and the grief and rage and shame choking him were no less powerful than what he’d felt before running mad years ago. His trembling hands worked him out of his plate armour, and his hauberk and gambeson, and then he fled the hall half-dressed and half-blind with tears.
Guinevere was waiting in the solar, and tried to greet him with a kiss. He twisted his head away, slipped past her and went to the window.
“Lancelot!” she chided. He felt the moment she stilled, noticing the state of him. “Are you injured?”
A harsh noise escaped him, barely passable as a laugh. He did hurt, everywhere; Gawain was a brilliant fighter. Outside, two men were helping him stagger off the battlefield, the king’s tiny red-cloaked figure hovering nearby, and from above Lancelot could see just how much blood they’d drawn from each other. It was disgusting. He was seized by the desperate desire to open the window and jump, bash his own head on the stones and add to the mess—by God, he could still turn the scene beautiful. But then Guinevere would only be killed after all.
She joined him, placing a gentle hand on his elbow.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
“Well, you have saved me from burning.”
“Before that.”
She had no real answer, and had grown wise enough not to placate him with words of love. “It is what it is now. Come, sit down. I wish you wouldn’t avoid the surgeons.”
He pressed his forehead into the cold glass, shaking in pain. He didn’t understand how she could worry about such things while his world was ending.
“It would be better if I had died on his blade,” he rasped. “It would. Why–” He sniffed, swiping away tears to clear his vision. “Oh, God. I am too old for this.”
Guinevere sighed, quiet and pitying, and took his hand. “You only ever work yourself up, speaking like that. Come away.”
Lancelot drew a shuddering breath, savouring the thought for just a moment longer. Then he obeyed, and let her lead him off to change his bloodied clothes, ready him for another day of siege. And outside, the chant picked up once more:
Traitor knight
Come out to fight.
Yah! Yah! Yah!