Fin'amor (Arthuriana oneshot)

[all fictions]

Spoiler: Author's note

Very slight reference to past sexual assault, not shown or described in details, but you may not want to read if that's uncomfortable for you.

Originally posted as part of the Summerfest contest "Rotating Prompt Writing Jam", with the prompt being simply "Love".

---

Fin'amor​

Father Adragain had once preached that human love simply cannot compare to Divine Love. Divine Love was agape and caritas, the unconditional love of God for the sinful man. In contrast, he had said, human love is self-serving, possessive and tyrannical. All-devouring, all takes and no gives, or all gives and no takes. Without Divine Grace, human love is ultimately selfish and eventually destroys the object of its affection.

Lancelot was not the most learned of believers, but it had stuck with him somehow. Love used to be an abstract concept to him, far behind friendship, or honor and glory, in battle or otherwise. Saving ladies and damsels was something to be done because it was right, and he did not particularly understand other men when they hoped to receive the love of the fair sex as a "reward". Perhaps his disposition was because he had been raised surrounded by women in his mother's domain beneath the lake.

But the notion that human love only consumed and destroyed…he did not understand then, yet it still struck a chord. And every year of his life since coming to Camelot had seemed to further cement the truthfulness of the holy man's words.

They came to his mind now, alone with the queen..

Despite the candles placed in strategic corners, the room was still largely dim, with only the faint glow of the moon slanting through the narrow window as the primary source of light. In the pale light, the woman facing him did not look like Queen Guinevere, the dignified wife of King Arthur. She looked like Guinevere, a woman his age, her head barely reaching his chest, curly brown hair framing a heart-shaped face of freckles and sun-tanned skin. Without her finery, she could have been mistaken for the comely daughter of some shepherd.

Looking at her made his heart ache, sweetly, painfully. He also wanted to scream.

Even in the dimness, he could see she was looking at him, and the way she was looking at him. There was that same longing he felt in her eyes. Only without the disgust.

"I should step out, keep guard in case Meleagant comes," he said. It was a pathetic excuse, he knew, and even to him he sounded only half-convinced, but everything to get out of the room. He tried to smile. "Good night, my lady."

"Sir, wait." She took a step forward and made to grab him, but instead her hand hovered hesitantly before retracting. It was just as well, the sudden movement almost made him bolt for the door. As it was, he only balled up his fists, painfully digging his nails in his palms. He felt his smile strain, stretching the skin of his face unpleasantly.

"My lady, you need to rest," he heard himself say. "We need to wake early to leave at dawn, before Meleagant realizes you're gone."

"I know that. It's just…" She fidgeted with the trim of her dress. "I need to explain why I was cold, earlier. I want to ease my conscience, and I won't be able to sleep without telling you. I need to."

No, you don't. "Your Highness—"

"When you refused to climb on that cart, it felt like you valued your pride over me," she interrupted him. "Like you didn't care about me. And it made me think—made me realize that what I feel for you…"

Please, don't say it.

"—goes beyond the commitment owed to a knight by his liege lady. It is more than mere friendship."

Please, I beg of you.

She looked at him, a mixture of anxiety and hope, searching his eyes for…something, he did not know what. He desperately wanted to avert her eyes, but he also wanted to drown in them.

"Sir Lancelot…"

Her eyes turned resolute. She spoke.

For a second he couldn't make out the words. He couldn't hear her voice over the sound of his heartbeat and the blood rushing through his ears, the noise of his own body rendering him deaf. The indistinct words sounded like gibberish, like sounds infants make before they learn to speak. "I...I'm sorry," he said, his mouth dry. "What did you just say?"

The room felt smaller. She repeated. This time, he heard the words.

I love you.

Familiar words.

"I don't...I don't…" he started breathing faster. He felt hot. The room got smaller.

Love. A familiar word.

"I love you, Sir Lancelot," had said Elaine of Astolat, her love only ever giving, pushing, suffocating. She had given and given until her body had no more left to give and her desperate love swallowed her life whole, ending her life because her love was not returned. Some nights she haunted him, and he hated her for that. Other nights he wept.

"I love you, my brave knight," had said Morgane the enchantress, robbing him of his name, of his past, and all that he was just so he could truly be hers and hers alone. If he was an empty cup, she need only pour him full of love for her. He had managed to escape, but her possessive love stole time of his life he would never get back. Some mornings he did not know his name and he did not recognize the man in the mirror.

"I love you, my dear Lancelot," had said Guinevere. Not his lady, but another, wearing her skin and speaking her voice and laughing her laugh. Another Elaine, whose love was all-taking, all consuming, all devouring, and she took and took and took from him what he did not want to give, what he had never wanted to give.

He must have fallen over at some point, because the room's floor was cold underneath one of his cheeks when he felt Guinevere's delicate hand gently cover his forehead.

"Easy, sir. Just rest for a minute. I'm right here."

She gently got him up and he let her guide him to the bed without protest where they both sat next to each other. The whole time her hand did not let go, moving from his forehead to holding one of his own, rubbing the knuckles in a soothing motion. The skin her hand touched felt tingly and pleasantly warm, and he also wanted to slap her hand away.

Silence hung a moment between them. "Were you so exhausted or was my confession that shocking?" Her voice was gently mocking, but he could sense a hint of sadness.

"No, my lady, it's not you. I…" What? He had his heart broken before? Every person who loved him hurt themselves or hurt him? He loved her, but his desire for her battled his self-loathing? "Forgive me, I do not know what to think," he said lamely.

"It is all right. You have nothing to apologize for." She searched his eyes again, and spoke gently. "I did not expect nor wanted your reply anyway."

"Pardon?"

"Sir Lancelot, I am a married woman, and you have your oaths. We both took vows before God and man, I would never make us break them. I do not want to force you to do anything, that's not what love is. I simply wanted to be truthful with you."

Her words struck him. He should have realized: Guinevere was not Morgane, she was not the first Elaine nor the second. Her love for him was freely given and with no constraint. It was patient and kind and did not demand its own way. She simply loved him.

Like Galeholt had.

How could he have forgotten? "I love you, Lancelot," had said Galeholt, his big, gentle hands cupping his face, his lips touching his, unbearably soft against the tickle of his rough, wiry beard. His love was not overbearing or hurting him, it simply was.

He felt like weeping.

"Now let's get some rest, and I will not take no for an answer."

He did not argue.

They blew out the candles and, to honor their respective vows, they laid down his unsheathed sword in the bed before laying down on either side of it. In the dark, as minutes passed, he could hear Guinevere's breathing slow and roughen to a soft snore. He did not know what overtook him, but he let his hand wander, feeling his way in the dark, nicking himself on the naked blade a few times, until he found her hand and took it. To his surprise, her soft, delicate fingers instinctively squeezed.

He recalled the rest of the sermon. Human love was flawed, yes, but it was still worth pursuing. Remember the First Epistle of John, he had said. Love one another, for love is from God, and he who loves knows God. He who does not love does not know God, for God is love.

He squeezed back. He could feel the blade bite into his flesh and draw blood, but he did not mind.

He did not mind if she destroyed him.

 

[stormbringer951]

Nice. Always fun to see a bit of Arthuriana!

Also, rare Galeholt sighting (although yet another variation of the spelling 😩 I'm going to have to remember).

 

[all fictions]

Also, rare Galeholt sighting (although yet another variation of the spelling 😩 I'm going to have to remember).

Click to shrink...

Be thankful, I almost went for the ancient/original spelling for most characters for flavors, so it would have been "Launcelot", "Ganievre", "Morgain", etc. But I decided to spare people instead.

 

[TheFairTyrant]

This is beautiful. I wish I saw this sort of mythic-feeling storytelling more, especially with the framing device of a sermon and Lancelot's quiet agony/joy. I'm guessing he either already loved Guinevere from afar before the Elaine of Corbenic episode here (my first thought was that it was a future Lancelot recalling past loves in pain, but I suppose that doesn't work with the setup).
With his mother also being named Elaine, Lancelot doesn't really have a lot of luck with women named that, huh.
Also, this story calls to mind some fanart I once saw of Fate!Lancelot solemnly floating in a lake a la Ophelia - just has the same vibe to it.