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Fandom: King Arthur/Arthurian Myth and Legend
Rating: Australian PG, for mention of adult concepts.
Title: Elayne
Disclaimer: I'm borrowing the characters from the Western cultural history, and the interpretation of Lancelot from Ioan Gryffud's performance. No money made or solicited for this story.

He's fire and passion. He's everything this land isn't. He's dark and beautiful, and he will never, ever be mine.

I work the tavern at the fortified camp near the Wall. I serve the men drinks, and I try to stay where I can watch him. One of the knights, the strangers. The Samartians. Men from so far away I almost cannot believe such a place exists. Surely it's just another outcropping of the land of the fae. Or the land of the Gods. For surely he is the child of a god.

He comes in with them, laughing and teasing, joking continually. His wit is sharp, dagger-bright and dagger-quick, and he can use it to flay the skin from a common soldier, should he wish to do such a thing. His eyes gleam in the firelight, and he spots even the smallest weakness in an opponent.

The others are there - the silent one, Tristan; Vanora's man Bors; Dagonet, the evil-looking man who will not harm a child; quick, talkative Galahad, ever impatient, ever active; Gawain, ever the core of the group, ever the centre. And him. Lancelot. The burning blaze in the middle of the group, the centre of attention, the fire that warms them all.

He jokes of womanising, and it cuts me deep inside, I bleed. For I know he does. He has had them all, every one of the girls who serve here. Even me. I wanted it to be something special, but it was just a quick tumble back of the stables. I wanted to be something different to him, but I was just another face, just another name. I never touched his heart.

I know who does touch his heart, though. I know who he watches, watches in the same way I watch him. I know who he longs for, and who he knows he will never be able to claim. But he is closer to his love than I am to him. He speaks with his love every day, can fight alongside his love, protect his love from harm.

I envy him. I want him. He has set a fire within my soul, and I am burning in it, caught in its grasp. If I cannot have him, why should any other?

Had I the money, I would place a bounty on his head, let some fool in the wilds take it and give him to me, to be mine forever. If I thought I had a chance of success, I would arrange a defeat for this commander of his, this Arthur. Artorius Castus, half-Briton, half-Samartian, half-breed. My blood is better than his, I know it. I am more worthy of Lancelot's love - can I not trace my family back to Bouddicca herself?

I cannot. Instead, I remain here, trapped between hope and desolation, between longing and despair.

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