Author's Note: Re-watching the 2004 movie gave me a lot of feels. This ficlet is the result of all the beautiful Lancelot angst. For my darling Märrie.

It had come down to choice, from the moment they had freed Guinevere. But really, it had not been a choice at all, not on Lancelot's part. When she approached him in the dark forest, her eyes earnest, he had known what she was pointedly not asking him - and had given her the only answer he could.

And so he sent her away, and into Arthur's arms, as he had known from the moment he'd seen how Arthur looked at the fierce warrior princess. Their commander had never been one for bar wenches or farm girls, and a part of Lancelot was glad his friend had finally found someone worthy of being by his side. Of course, the rest of him bled, from a wound he suspected would lead to his death eventually.

Not for Lancelot the warmth of Guinevere's body, nor her strong will and unbent spirit - his heart had been bound a long time ago, in bonds of friendship, loyalty and blood, born on countless battlefields. For Lancelot, it had always been Arthur who commanded his passion - in arguments, in battle and, sometimes, in dark nights better not spent alone.

On the outside, he might pretend to have had a choice. But when it came down to choosing between himself and Arthur Castus, Lancelot would choose Arthur every time. Even if it cost him his life.

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