Spring Maiden (New Book)

Fragile but alive

The stench of charcoal no longer clung to the air, for they were now at the hook where the river wound north. Gawaine thrashed through the shrubbery with his sword, bringing them onto the banks. "Aina!" He bellowed.

Lancelot exhaled wearily and followed. They had searched long and far now and were almost halfway to Astalot.

He put a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "She must be back at the castle now," he said. "T'is impossible for her to be here. Us grown men, who know the river like kin, would have overtaken her. It is dark and she a child, on pony back."

"Cousin you assume she has run off into the night, as though by purpose. She is a child, yes, but she was on no pony," Gawaine shouted back.

Lancelot frowned uncomfortably. "Why was she not on a pony?"

"I know not which imbecile put her on that horse!" Shouted Gawaine, sweeping his sword through the tree branches now. "But it was too big for her." The sword became wedged in the wood and he forced it out, growling with frustration.

"Even if she were seated upon Excalibur the stallion, I do not believe he would not guide her out here."

"Do you not see, cousin? She has fallen from the beast. She could have lost all alertness, and been swept along the river."

Lancelot dropped his head back and closed his eyes. He could brave much, but a child in peril, was something he feared dreadfully.

"T'is my fault, I should have instructed her immediately to dismount the beast!" Said Gawaine.

"Ney," said Lancelot opening his eyes and staring up at the crescent moon, a finger nail, that did not offer much in the way of lighting their path. "Ney, it was deathly, that fire, and we did well to put it out. You, and Aina, should be very pleased with your efforts. Now look, Gawaine, we must head back to Camelot. She is not in the river. I know it."

Lancelot did not like to give false hope, but he did not really think it plausible. From the vague glimmer of moonlight, he could see the river was low, it's current mild. If she had indeed fallen, he feared it may be on land. "Let's return, and see if she is back. If she is not, then we will wait up and head out at the first sign of daylight. We will send all of Arthur's men, I swear it to you."

Gawaine let out a long agonised breath that turned to growl half-way and Lancelot knew he would concede; it was madness searching in these conditions. "Very well," said Gawaine, but it I'll be the very first tone of blue when we ride - the deepest darkest of the colour, swear that."

Lancelot put a hand on his cousin's shoulder, he felt his suffering deeply. "Of course I swear it. I would never stand in the way of finding Aina, but let's not despair yet, for she may be safely in Camelot."

***

The weary duo plodded through the fields east of Tintagel. They were thick and tall with icy grass and Lancelot heard it brush against the horse as they travelled. Gawaine called out his daughter's name every few minutes, but there was only silence.

How I pray little Aina hasn't fallen here. If she doesn't die from her injuries, the frost will steal her from this realm. Lancelot shuddered, and not from the cold.

He tried to refocus and soon found his tired mind travelling to Guinevere and their joyous passion before the fire. He been euphoric; his heart alight, his skin emblazed with goosebumps. He had felt so close to his ultimate dream; day after day spent entirely with his love, no longer fretting, looking over their shoulders, aching with guilt and lust. Had Lanceot been asked to define love, until last night he would only be able cry, 'Terrible! A misery!' For that was his experience thus far. But last night, he finally saw a light, a pathway leading to an isolated yet enraptured place. The only place he truly wanted to be. 

But now he felt the pinch of reality. How could Guinevere talk Arthur out of this conquest? And even if she did he would surely return to his mission once he learned of their betrayal, and with even more conviction than now. And, can I truly bear to hurt and humiliate Arthur, my honourable king whom I have come to love and who loves me like his very own kin?

But then the vision that destroyed all reason formed in his mind and nothing else mattered. That face, those crystal eyes, the gateway to a soul that everybody thought selfish and unpretty, but that only he, Lancelot, knew to be a glorious river of sunshine, betwixt meadows of the most fragrant summer flowers, be them fragile but alive and beauteous.

"It is that woman of yours who has done this," said Gawaine bitterly, as though picking up on Lancelot's thoughts.

"Done what?" said Lancelot tiredly, for he was now caught halfway between his love-daze and sleep.

"Done this to Aina," Gawaine retorted through clenched teeth. "She put her on that horse, I know it."

"You have no such evidence. You are weary, grief-stricken, looking for someone to blame. Do not make your allegations so hastily," said Lancelot.

"She would do anything that wretched Guinevere tells her to do, for she adores her," said Gawaine. "I tell you, Lancelot, if my child has come to harm..."

"Tell me what?" Snapped Lancelot, anger awakening him. "Gawaine, I am a higher rank to you, don't think I will not reprimand you for these ill-chosen words for sake you are my cousin,"

Gawaine slashed angrily at the grass with his sword, before returning it to its sheath. "It is only your desire that speaks," muttered Gawaine. "I will forgive you, cousin for turning on your kinsman, because I pity you."

Lancelot felt the world spin as rage hit him. He pursed his lips drawing in a deep breath and kicking his horse hard in the sides, riding out past Gawaine and into the night.