Lancelot Alternate Ending

The life within Lancelot had departed like a whisper when the blackness of the veil had closed around him. A languid drowsiness had stolen the strength from his limbs, gently urging his eyes to close, and then he'd known no more. Perhaps it had been due to the fact that he'd chosen his fate willingly, but death had been quick and painless, surprisingly gentle compared with the end he'd always expected for himself.

When awareness returned, however, it was something else entirely. Gone were tender thoughts of the people he'd saved through his sacrifice, beloved, familiar faces that had comforted him as he'd drawn his last breath and found his eternal rest.

No, dying had been the easy part, warm and soothing. Coming back to life was quite the
opposite – a gasp of shock as the frigid water stabbed his reawakened flesh like a thousand tiny swords, inhaling by instinct, only to choke when his mouth filled with foul tasting mud rather than the air his body desperately craved.

There was illumination from above, muted rays of sunlight that barely penetrated the murky depths, but he understood.
He needed to rise, and quickly… why, he didn't know, but he had to rise.

He kicked off from the bottom, awkwardly at first, as his stiff muscles gradually came back to life. Then up he swam, his oxygen starved lungs burning with agony as he fought his way to the surface.

She called to him softly from the recesses of his blank mind, already beckoning him to her as he lifted his head above the water and remembered what it was to breathe again. Calling, calling, and he began to move in the direction from whence her voice had come, knowing she'd be there before his eyes ever fell upon her black clad figure in the distance.

He knew so many things without quite understanding how the knowledge had come to him. The words that formed his thoughts made complete sense, although he couldn't recall how he'd learned them, or if they'd ever fallen from his lips in the past. Did he have a past?

It didn't matter, for the only certainty that drove him was the one that compelled him to open his mouth and acknowledge the woman he felt a overwhelming desire to
serve.

"My name is Lancelot, my lady," he murmured softly, giving her a respectful bow.
"I am yours to command."

She didn't speak at first, just smiled to herself as her eyes traveled slowly down his naked chest. Come out of the water, he felt her beckon silently, as she turned and made her way to shore. Come out, we have work to do…

Lancelot followed at her heels without hesitation, as if he were bound to her by invisible shackles that left him with no possible alternative. But unlike a prisoner who was chained against his will, he trailed after her retreating figure eagerly, his entire awareness wrapped up in a burning need to serve his new mistress, to please her, to do everything possible to bring her satisfaction. He was hers and hers alone; that was all he needed to know.

She faced him again when they reached solid ground, suddenly reaching out to wrap a warm hand around his cold, damp fingers. There was a flurry of words he didn't understand, followed by a brilliant flash of gold in her green eyes, and then the world was spinning, turning, whirling past his bewildered gaze so swiftly that he could distinguish nothing beyond splashes of color and the frigid wind that chilled his naked
flesh.

And then it was over. He was standing before her in a dimly lit dwelling, shivering, hungry, exhausted beyond all comprehension, but it never occurred to him to give voice to these needs. All Lancelot knew was that he must wait for her command.

"Sir Lancelot," she said softly as she circled around him. "Once known to one and all as a matchless warrior. I wonder what other skills he possessed in life?"

He wanted to answer her, for no other reason than the simple desire to never leave her wanting for anything. His eyes drifted shut as he struggled, searching in vain through the recesses of his empty mind for some clue about his former identity. The blackness shifted a little, punctuated by the briefest flashes of sound and color, but there was no logic to the mishmash of scattered images that fluttered by. And when he opened his eyes again, they had vanished.

Morgana seemed to sense his inner battle. "No matter," she said with a smile. "Don't try to remember. From what I understand, it's impossible for one such as yourself. I will teach you all you need to know."

Lancelot bowed his head submissively as he waited for her to continue.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

Without thought, he stepped forward and pressed his lips against hers. There was something pleasant about the sensation, strangely familiar, yet foreign at the same time. It was as if he'd done this before, many times, but the taste and the feeling were not the same as the faint echo that pricked at the back of his mind, recalling something sweeter, more gentle than the mouth that connected with his forcefully, the probing tongue that roughly demanded entrance.