Clawed branches scraped the tarnished metal of his once-shiny helm as Lancelot rode. The mighty steed Ariel's once broad and muscular back was rubbed thin with age; his ribs stuck out, skin sagged. The beast more resembled Death's mount than a chivalric steed, and Lancelot bore more than a passing resemblance to Death himself.

Forever, it seemed, Ariel and he had been riding through this dense wood. It never grew darker nor more bright with the sun, but always remained the same. Same moss. Same piney smell. Same soft-mud path strewn with leaves and pine needles. And the same stream, appearing each time they grew thirsty.

Sameness. Perhaps that was where it had fallen awry -- Arthur's dream. A round table bearing honor rather than food or drink, and seating only the best of men; men who would flower into a pattern to which all men aspired. All wore shining mail, bore shining, well-used swords. Rode the finest steeds, claimed the best lands, bedded the fairest women. And the world through which they moved was perfect, a world in which beauty and dreams were cherished and evil vanquished-- always.

And then came Modred, and the violent children of red-haired Morgause, and the exposing of Arthur's clay feet and Guinevere's carnal lust.

Guinevere. Breathing in the scent of her name, the scent of sun and warmth and daisies in spring, Lance looked up. A tree covered in white blossoms grew in the path, almost glowing in the dimness. Ariel's steps faltered. Lancelot gazed at the flowers, wondering. Petals littered the ground, and dying blossoms lay there too, the sweet-scented yellow stamens turning brown.

Lancelot turned his horse reluctantly. White flowers were churned into the trackless mud.

Guinevere in a nunnery. Lancelot didn't like to think about that. They would have shaved her head, the floor-length golden braids dropping bonelessly to the ground, then burnt in superstitious fear. A white wimple to disguise the pallor of the naked scalp, and it bleeding from the treatment of a too-rough razor. The tears she cried would be soaked up in the rough black cloth of her habit when, in the night, she remembered Camelot, and prayed for it.

But would she truly pray? Lancelot thought not. She'd sit there in chapel, eyes closed, feathery lashes an inch long against her cheeks, lips curled around a little smile, and she'd dream. Of him. Of how perfectly two bodies could fit together. Of the taste of his sweat, and of his mouth, and of how she once struggled against him in hot ecstacy.

Lancelot half-smiled to himself, shifting to relieve his sudden familiar discomfort. Sometimes such moments were all he could think about.

At last the woods were darkening, and the wind increasing. A crescendoing rustle of leaves. A storm was moving in with the evening. Lancelot removed his helm and slung it across Ariel's saddle, enjoying the feel of the wind in his graying hair. A drop of water fell, cold against the spot at his crown where the helm wore his hair thin.

"Damn." Ariel shied, whickering at the sound of Lancelot's voice. The wind was picking up. Already leaves and twigs were blowing down from the tree. The birds and forest creatures had already hidden. Wise animals. Lancelot looked for the quickest path to lower ground; an armored knight was rarely safe in a storm such as looked to be brewing.

And there, the beginning of a path wound between trees and thorned bushes. Lancelot turned Ariel's head down it. Soon he found he had to dismount. The mossy trees here were so old and so close that little room remained for Ariel.

The rain started to beat down in earnest. Lancelot put his helm back on, trying to ignore the trickling of rain through the gaps in his armor, and the way his wool padded underclothing sopped up the water, and how whatever wasn't soaked up puddled at his feet and rushed out the toes of his armor.

Lancelot paused and dismounted at the castle gate, loosening Ariel's saddlegirth. Letters chiseled in stone spelled out "Perilous." He could not read them. Nor could he read any other letters. He had never learned how.

He removed his gauntlet to touch the rough stone walls, so like those of Camelot years ago, and stepped into the shadowy passage. His mail-clad feet echoed hollowly on the shadowed stone, scraping a bit on irregular protrusions.

His armor squeaked, testimony to a thin veneer of rust in the cracks. It had been long and long since he'd had opportunity to clean it, long since he'd slept on anything but roots and the ground. But then, he'd brought this existence upon himself, by his own choice of where honor lay.

Lancelot stopped.

Under the portcullis at the other end stood a white-clad woman whose long golden braids swept the floor. "Lance," she murmured. "I knew you'd find the way here."

Reluctantly, Lancelot looked at her face. It was the face of Guinevere, twenty years ago, before the fire and the war and the dying. Before the nunnery.

Before her death.

"Guin." He fell creakily to his knees, wishing desperately for a white rose to present to her.

"Am I dead, then? No, for we two shall never be together in heaven or hell. What is this place?"

"Sanctuary." She turned, the folds of her silk gown caressing her body in a well- remembered way. "Quickly. The rain begins again."

Lancelot followed her into a doorway set into the walls of the castle, and heard the roar of raindrops in the courtyard as he climbed the darkened steps. Guin's white dress glimmered before him as she glided upward. His own steps were more faltering. He stumbled over irregularities in the stone.

White cobwebs fluttered in the storm wind, caressing his face and armor. The passageway was a maze through the wall, extending in many directions further than it was possible for the wall to hold. He shivered. Magic. Lance had never been comfortable with magic, even when living in the Lady of the Lake's palace.

The passage ended in a wide and high room hung on all sides with banners and symbols, and the golden feathers of Roman eagles glinted against the rough rock walls, while double-headed axes lined the throne at the furthest end of the room.

Lance looked about in awe. "What manner of place is this?"

Guinevere looked at him, smiling. "You like it?"

"It is - marvelous. Unlike anything I've ever seen before. Whose throne is that?"

She glided to the side of the room, where candelabra stood. "It is said that he who has the courage to sit thereon shall become the king of the world."

Lance stared at it as the candles sputtered and flared. In their ruddy light he could see the gold on the throne, the rubies set into the lion's head arms, and the blood that stained the tattered war banners. He shook his head. "No, Guin. This is not for me."

She nodded. "Very well."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why should you offer it to me?"

Guinevere stroked his face under the helm. "I offer nothing. The king of the world must take. He is never given."

"No, Guin. This is not for me. I have ever been a follower, not a leader, and have no desire to rule."

She nodded. "So be it. Come, then."

Lance followed her through a side passage. What manner of place, he wondered, could this be? She who led him was certainly not Guinevere; even had Guin been alive, she would surely be old and gray. And the Guin who had entered the convent was a subdued woman. Still Guin underneath, of course, with her quirks and childlike selfishness, but certainly not like this woman.

He wondered how he had gotten here. He had no memory, even, of where the forest had been, whether Normandy or England or some farther region. Nor did he know where he had been before the forest, or before that. He could remember, of course, all his adventures in Britain and Ireland, and the other places--but his sense of time about the whole thing was utterly gone.

He shivered. Perhaps he had fallen asleep on a Pictie mound, and the Little Folk were tormenting him.

About him, the walls became older, seeming more like mud or clay than rock, and smelling of damp and growing things. A sense of heaviness surrounded him; a feel of extreme antiquity. The room Guin led him to was small, round, low of ceiling. Small animals scurried around the edges, just out of candlelight. It was very warm and moist. He caught Guin's hand as she stopped.

"This?"

"The womb of all mothers. The man who remains in this place will be content and cared for all of his days. It is said that the Grail sprang from here."

Lance shook his head before even she finished.

"No, Guin. This place is not for me. I am one who must travel, and the Grail has been denied me."

"Very well." She moved on through a door that had been cleverly hidden around a blind corner. This time the hallway was wooden, airy and fresh-scented, with a smell like that of springtime. Guin opened a door and put down her candles and moved into Lance's arms.

Lance closed his eyes. Her hair smelled of memories and wax candles, the sweet of honey, the warmth of sunlight. He groaned as Guin began unstrapping his armor, removing it bit by bit and leaning each piece against a wall. Old blisters which had festered into numbness became irritated again at the disappearance of the weight, and Guin gently pulled the damp linen away from them, washing them with honey-scented water and, sometimes, her small pink tongue. His muscles loosened as the old familiar stirring began in the crease of his legs. He sighed and closed his eyes. Her hands stroked down naked skin, smoothing coarse hair, and a cool feeling followed, like water flowing around his limbs.

The last greave was removed, and Guin moved into his arms. It did not take long to have her naked against his body. Everything fitted as well as ever.

After, Guin stroked his forehead. She was lovely in this light. Her skin was haloed by the candlelight, her hair a little mussed. Her dark eyes and pale skin glowed. She smiled. "You are young, Lance."

He laughed. "Never again in this world."

"Look." There was a mirror against the wall he had not seen before. Instead of the greying and weathered man Lance knew he was, a young, golden warrior stared back at him. He lay back heavily.

"How?"

"You, Lance. This room makes you what you truly are."

Lancelot felt a great weariness. The room seemed to be darkening to his eyes, the mirror dimmed. "No. It makes me what I believe I am."

"The room is what you believe it to be, Lance." Guin stroked his forehead until he fell asleep, dreaming of the golden light and the Round Table, and the way things once were. Then she rose and took the candelabra, sealing the room in darkness.

The way she took was a perilous route. She crossed oceans of clashing rocks. She slew her own children and ate them. She tempted men to war and death and famine. She befriended serpents and ate of bitter fruit. She gleamed of mystery and magic.

She was all women, and no woman. She was that elusive quality that men sought so--mother and lover and ecstacy. It had always been Guinevere, and Morgan, and Medea, not Arthur, and Osiris, and Theseus. The queen ruled the land. The queen gave birth to the ideals. Her children bled and died in search of peace and perfection. It was the queen who was wise enough to know that perfection was impossible, and the only worthy life was the pursuit of Camelot, the pusuit of the dream.

She paused, pulled away the cobwebs from a tomb, gazed down at it lovingly. Wax dripped on the cheek of the perfect effigy decorating the top, running down the face like tears. On the archway above the tomb were written the same Latin words that decorated the front of the castle:

HIC IACET SEPULTUS INCLITUS REX ARTURUS IN INSULA AVALONIA.

In Morgan's eyes, tears glistened. "Every story has an end, to mirror the beginning. Would that this story had not been so harsh. Perhaps in the next tale, we shall be happy together." She traced the letters: ARTURUS. "Sleep well, brother. Dream well." The candle went out, and darkness fell.

Arturian Romances always get my attention. When they’re as well-wrought as this one by Mr. Proctor, they gain my respect as well. Lancelot was never one of my favorites, nor was Guinevere. This tale has made me think better of them both. And your opinions, please?