Lady Elena pays Sir Lancelot a visit

Elena came down to Sir Lancelot’s chamber first thing in the morning. She stood before the door, flexing her fingers, eager to knock yet reluctant to disturb. She might have dithered there until she had no choice but to leave for the tournament had the door not opened then.

Healer Adrienne stepped out, looking tired. When she glanced up at Elena, she didn’t look the least surprised. “My lady. Good morning.”

Elena rushed through a polite response before jumping to the burning question she came to ask: “How’s Sir Lancelot faring?”

Healer Adrienne opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it. The corner of her lips twitched up. “Why don’t you ask him yourself, my lady?”

Before Elena could protest, she was being ushered inside and the door closed shut behind her. She froze, fists bunched up in her skirts, heart drumming against her ribcage as if wanting to burst out, far away from this awkward position she was forced in. Her gaze went to the bed, a stammered excuse bubbling on her tongue, but was relieved to find Sir Lancelot seemingly asleep, none the wiser to her unbecoming entrance. Her relief was soon stamped out by anxiousness.

He lay on his back, long golden hair fanned across his pillow and fallen across his brow. His head was turned away from her but she could see the profile of his beautiful, sharp features. His sun-kissed complexion was worryingly bloodless and waxy and, just below his left eye, a bruise bloomed sickly purple. Aside from that, Elena could only spot small bandages wrapped around his knuckles and a bigger one, peeking from beneath his loose chemise.

Her stomach knotted painfully.

Despite it all, his face looked peaceful, serene - she’d hated to see his face contorted by pain the day before, mouth open in a silent cry.

His chest rose and fell slowly and steadily. He must have been sleeping, she realized, and her rudely intruding. She should have left, should have slipped out of the room as if she’d never been there; yet she was rooted in place, wondering how she should make her presence known, whether to knock belatedly or clear her throat or softly call out and instead doing none of that.

Then his head lolled to the side and his eyes fluttered open, their sights set squarely on her. Elena almost fled, a startled bird. If she were quick and lucky enough, he’d think he was only dreaming.

“Lady Elena.”

It was too late to flee. The arrow had been knocked and loosened and she was riveted; she had been since the first time he laid his eyes on her.

His voice was thick with sleep and surprise – and, unless she imagined it, a note of curiosity.

“Sir Lancelot.” She hated the way her voice sounded, too small, too quiet. “I came to see how you’re feeling.” She hastily added, “The healer let me in. But I can leave if I’m bothering you – ”

“No,” he said quickly, and cleared his throat. “You can stay. I’m feeling much better. I’m mostly numb from all the medicine.”

“Then,” Elena said, dragging out the words with some difficulty, “would you like some company?”

Lancelot nodded, so she looked for a chair. She was growing overly conscious of all the space she took up with her tall frame and gangly limbs and wanted to fold in on herself, shoulders struggling to stand straight. There was only one chair, and she dragged it across the room with a screech of wood on wood towards the foot of the bed. She tried to calculate the proper distance, and reckoned this was a bit too far, too cold, so she pushed the chair forward, but overestimated and came all the way up to where he rested against the pillows. It was an overly-familiar closeness, one that assumed too much. But drawing back the chair now would seem awkward and impolite so she steeled herself and gingerly sat down. At least this way she wouldn’t have to worry about her quiet voice not being heard.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

A small hum of acknowledgement, then silence. It rang in her ears. She stared down at her folded hands, searching desperately for something to say. She was not at a loss of words, just a loss of articulate tongue.

“We’re all very concerned for you.” That was true, but she was mostly speaking for herself. “What Sir Walden did was plain unfair and cruel.” He’d pummeled into Lancelot with intent to not only win, but to make it hurt too. Lancelot was left bruised and bloodied while all he got was a warning and a slap on the wrist. “He should have been thrown out of the competition.”

Lancelot slowly shook his head. “No, Sir Walden was overzealous, but I cannot begrudge him the fact. If I cannot hold my own in a tournament, then how will I do so on the battlefield, how will I protect the King?” He spoke with a conviction that took her aback.

This is what had drawn her eye to him: the confident way in which he carried himself, silent yet dignified.

She smiled shyly. “You’re loyalty is commendable. But still it’s a pity you were left wounded and unable to further compete.”

Lancelot snorted and agreed. “That is a pity.”

“A pity as well,” Elena continued, as the drone of conversation and patter of footfalls grew louder beyond the chamber, “that you’ll be missing out on all the excitement of the trials and fair.”

“I’m sure that Kay and Arthur will regale me with the goings-on.”

Elena didn’t dare look up as she asked, “Would you like a third recounting of events?”

One panicked heartbeat later, Lancelot said “Yes, I think I’d like that.” His gaze was turned too, staring at the wall behind her.

She stood up, feeling as if she were floating, as if she could fly all the way down to the tournament. “Then I’ll come back.”

And she did. She returned at evening, and the next morning, until the festivities drew to an end, bringing chocolates and caramels for them to share, cards and checkers for them to play.

Finally, just before farewell, it was Lancelot who plucked up his courage first, to ask for her correspondence.