Take a Bow
Take a bow, the night is over
This masquerade is getting older
Lights are low, the curtains down
There's no one here
There's no one here, there's no one in the crowd
Chronology: Tristan is 30. Lancelot is 28. Raja is 20.
He had been weak, did not know how it had happened. All he knew was that when he had returned to the fort, he had never been so happy to see Sophia. Her smile, her sweetness, her omniscient beauty. The day he had returned, he washed his body thoroughly, every remnant of his betrayal. Sophia did not know the reason for his intense behavior, but she welcomed it. Lancelot had made impassioned love to her for virtually two days. They did not leave her room; they only stopped for intermittent bouts of rest, and nourishment. He held her tightly, despite the heat they generated between them, from the love making or July heat he did not know, but he was nearly incapable of not having her in his arms.
All remnants of that other woman were wiped out when he was with her, save for the guilt and the trepidation of ever having to go back to a cold bed, to go back to the vapid existence he had frequented nightly. How does one experience such awe when in love to have it end? Lancelot was anything but a coward, but the prospect of losing Sophia frightened him to his core. A person does not realize how empty and lonely they were until they find someone to love, and someone who loves them.
Gods, how had it happened?
----
Six months ago...
It was February, but
the late winter still burdened them with heavy snow. It had come rather
unexpectedly, and the knights had been snowed in at a distant village. Already
gone for nearly a month and a half, they had been cordoned at their substitute
dwelling for a week. Raja was not with them, a few nights out in the blistering
cold would have had her rendered feverous, too much so to travel at all.
A group of traveling
musicians had been there at that time. The second night, the woman had caught
Lancelot’s eye in the tavern as she danced to the beat of the music, but she
was only granted a small smirk from the dark knight. The third night she had
danced closer to him, well in his sight. He missed Sophia and the warmth of
her, and the near presence of this woman made his groin twitch, and his longing
ache.
After a week of
flirtatious eye contact, she had finally engaged him in conversation, sitting
close to him at his table, her brightly colored dress distracting. Seren, she
said her name was. Her musical laughter ringed in his ears, and the more she
flirted with him, moving her body suggestively, running the tips of her fingers
against the back of his hands, he became even more hypnotized by her.
That night he found
himself with her in the small room he was staying in. Lancelot did not remember
who kissed who first, but the next morning he woke to loud knock on his door,
and Seren waking next to him. She smiled slyly at him, ignoring the intrusion.
His heart beat rapidly. What had he done? What had he done? So panicked was he
when the knock became louder, he donned his breeches quickly, and opened the
door just a crack.
“Arthur wants a
meeting,” Tristan said perfunctorily.
“Lancelot,” Seren
lulled, “where on earth did you throw my undergarments?”
Tristan’s face was
expressionless when Seren opened the door further, obviously having no
compunctions about her body, for she was nude. Tristan barely spared a glance
at her.
“Now,” Tristan said,
before walking away as if he had seen nothing amiss.
The icy cold wind hit
him when he closed the door, his heart beating out of his chest. Clumsily, he
put his clothes back on. When Seren repeated her question, he snapped, “I don’t
know where the hell your clothes are, woman.”
She sighed, unaffected
by his tone. As he put his puts boots on, Seren dressed. When he was heading to
the door, not sparing the woman a word, she spoke.
“Who is Sophia?” She
continued to dress.
“What?” His throat was
dry.
“Sophia.” Her lips
curved slyly. “You called her name in your sleep.” She shook her head in mock
reprimand. “Straying?”
Lancelot did not
answer her. The meeting was called to inform them that they would be leaving
within the next two days. Tristan had managed an easy route. There were sounds
of relief, they were eager to return home.
He was on pins and
needles the whole time. He was snappy with everyone save Tristan, who barely
spoke anyway. But whenever Lancelot was in the scout’s presence, he avoided eye
contact. He avoided the tavern at nights, too, dreading running into Seren. He
was probably the most relieved of the bunch when they had set out early in the
morning as planned.
A few nights into
their journey, Lancelot found himself riding next to Tristan.
He cleared his throat.
“Look...” he began.
“I am not the one you
need to worry about,” Tristan interrupted stoically before the other man could
finish.
Lancelot nodded,
swallowing the dry lump in his throat. Why he felt the need to explain to
Tristan he did not know. And he blurted under his breath, “Are you going to
tell Raja?”
To this, Tristan
turned to look at him, the wind blowing his tresses from his eyes so Lancelot
could see his implacable stare. Tristan and Raja did not keep secrets from one
another and neither of them was much for gossip. Observant they were, and without
prying, they simply knew what was going on around the fort. But this was not
mere gossip, this was her cousin. “It is not Raja you need be concerned with.”
He spurred his horse forward.
Lancelot had seen no
judgment in the man’s golden eyes. Oddly enough, he had expected some. Tristan
had always been faithful to Raja, when she was around and when she was not on
these patrols. Sometimes he wondered if he even thought about other women, even
in passing contemplation. Lancelot had never cared much for anyone’s opinion,
but he found himself wondering how Tristan perceived him now. An unfaithful man
to the woman he loved.
So when they finally
arrived at the fort, Lancelot’s guilt spilled over the brim, seeing Sophia
waiting for him in the courtyard. He held to her so tightly that his armor dug
into her soft body. He looked over her shoulder to see Tristan embracing Raja.
Gone so long, Raja greeted all of them with hugs for their safe arrival.
Lancelot felt guilt when she hugged him affectionately, a peck on the cheek.
Though Sophia was his
lover, his love, and had opened doors inside of him that had been locked for so
long, Raja had been the first person, he felt, who had never doubted his
capacity to love. She had always accepted him no matter what, even when she was
a young girl and he had not always treated her with the same devotion as she
did him. Not because he didn’t care, but because he was not used to genuine and
open tenderness, so long as he had been away from home, so long he had been in
battle, his ability to express true emotion cut off. The only people he cared
about were his brothers, and then Raja when she came along. In that moment, he
felt as if he had transgressed with two women – Sophia, for betraying their commitment,
and everything they had shared with one another. And then Raja, for betraying
her belief in him that he had a good heart, her steadfast patience and faith
she had always had in him.
The months passed, and
when June came around it marked a full year he and Sophia had been together. He
never thought he would see Seren again.
----
Say your lines, but do you feel them
Do you mean what you say
when there's no one around
Watching you, watching me, one lonely star
You don't know who you are
But he did see Seren. In August, Seren’s dancing troupe came to the fortress. Lancelot had not been there when they had arrived. He was out on patrol with the others, this time Raja was with them. They arrived three days after Seren had been at the fort for a week. Sophia was not there to welcome him, which did not cause undue concern, sometimes she was busy. But all the same, he was eager to see her. After a year, the impending reunion between them two of them still sent warmth through him. It made his armor not seem such a burden, knowing it would come off soon, holding her soft body against his. She never minded the smell of perspiration of him and Adonis. The grime on his body did not have her pushing him away like most woman would have done. He especially looked forward to the times when she would sit behind him while he was in the tub and wash his back, clean the dirt out of his hair. Even better than that, he could even persuade her to join him even though she had already bathed.
At times, he wondered when the novelty of their union would wear off. But not for a moment had his ardor faded. It had done him good, as time went on he became less bitter, not to say he was as optimistic as Arthur or ready to praise Jesus, but there was a brighter outlook on things. He no longer counted the days when he would be free of this island, but he did wonder what would become of him and Sophia when his time was up. He had a few months shy of two years to finish, but it no longer seemed so out of reach. Sophia had changed that for him, he was just glad to be with her. Lancelot still scoffed wryly at his change – considerate towards a woman, respecting a woman, relishing the same body night after night.
That night with Seren – and he only remembered her name because of how they had come together – was far from his mind, even though he still regretted it with all of his being, and when he would look at Sophia from afar, when she would treat him so lovingly, he felt he did not deserve her. He would have gone to Raja for advice then, when she said that he deserved happiness and love he wanted to believe her, part of him did, but it was mostly her devout belief that strengthened him. Had he confided in her, she would have told him that he should not dwell on his doubts, and if he could not shake them, then he needed to act like he did deserve her, and take nothing for granted. And not by lavishing gifts on her – even though little things like that were a nice surprise – but by giving all of him to her. So after that night with Seren, he had, bearing the rest of his heart and soul.
When he had gone to Sophia’s room after bathing, she was not there. She was not in the tavern, he had asked Vanora if she had seen her, but the red-head was short with him and gave him a look of pure – disappointment? – and something like disgust, which confused him to no end. Lancelot’s consternation was complete, and after a few hours he went to see Raja, maybe his cousin had seen Sophia. On his way to her room, he passed Tristan, and the scout gave him a stare of – sympathy? Pity?
“She’s resting,” Tristan told him before he could speak.
He nodded. “Have you seen Sophia?”
Tristan did not answer for a moment. “No. But I saw someone else.”
Lancelot cocked an eyebrow when he did not tell him who he had seen. “Well?”
“That woman.”
He was clueless; Tristan’s lack of expression did not help. Maybe he imagined it, but it looked as if Tristan sensed danger. He came to know that expression well enough when they were out, though, this time it was a little different. “Who?”
He gave a quiet sigh. “The woman you were with a while ago.” He shrugged a shoulder lazily.
A pause. Then Lancelot’s face blanched, his throat became dry. Was that why he could not find Sophia? What were the chances of Seren even remembering him, or that one night? Or even Sophia’s name? “Do you think...? I can’t find Sophia.”
Tristan shrugged again.
Lancelot’s breathing was short, he had to find Sophia. He went to her room again, he was long past knocking, and she was there this time. The atmosphere told him everything. How the knowledge had come about he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. There were no words. She sat on the edge of her bed, hands in her lap, staring at the fire. Then she turned to him with a veil of sadness in her eyes.
“Why?” she asked him, her voice a cracked whisper.
She had found in the tavern while she had been serving, it wasn’t even her night but Vanora had asked because of the extra crowd. She barely noticed the dancers, but Seren must have heard someone call Sophia’s name, the name must have registered with her. Seren knew it was this fortress that Lancelot was assigned to. The woman knew she had bedded one of the Sarmatian knights. Sophia told him that how she found out was not important. “Why?”
“I don’t...” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know...it was a mistake.”
She scoffed. “A mistake. You make it sound so trite.”
“I know it wasn’t,” – he bent down on one knee to look at her bowed head. When he touched her hand, she flinched, which was like a blow to his heart.
“If you cannot tell me why, then leave.”
“I can come back later...”
She shook her head vehemently, standing up. He rose. “I don’t want you to come back. I want you to stay away from me.”
He bit his lip. “I love you, Sophia; I never meant to do this to you.”
“Don’t say that to me,” she hissed. “Do not tell me you love me.” Her eyes met his in a hard gaze.
“But I do,” his voice became earnest. “I am more sorry than you will ever know. Just please-”
“No!” she snapped. “Everything we had together, all this time, it was all a lie. It was all a lie!”
This time it was he who shook his head, but in denial. “That is not true. You are the best thing that ever happened to me!” the volume of his indignation rose. “Every time I kissed you, made love to you, I meant it! That alone was the truest I have ever been. Do not say it meant nothing!” Gods, he was losing her. She was shutting herself off from him, back to the distrust she had for him in the beginning. “It didn’t mean anything. I swear.”
Sophia looked at him incredulously. “So you threw what we had away for something that meant nothing to you? You lied to me, you cheated me. I let you into me, Lancelot.” She wanted to scream at him, hit him. Tears were slamming behind her eyes, begging to let out. But she would not, already having given herself to him, exposing herself to the core, and he had thrown it all back in her face for one meaningless night. Sophia felt so empty, felt herself retreating back to the lonely existence she had lived before she fell in love with Lancelot.
When he took a step towards her he ignored her retreat and pulled her tightly into his arms. Her body was taut, unrelenting. “There is no excuse,” his voice was muffled in her hair as he breathed her in. “I can only say that I am sorry, I cannot justify what I’ve done. I just...” a lump developed in his throat, “I can’t lose you.” Speaking those four words, panic filled him at the very thought.
“Let go,” she ordered stoically.
“I can’t.” Lancelot cupped her face forcing her to look in his dark brown eyes that were pleading for forgiveness. He bent to kiss her; his mind was reeling, his body shaking. “Please.” He kissed her cheek softly. Her forehead, her other cheek, a whisper over her lips. “Let me make love to you,” he said earnestly. “If you don’t believe my words, believe what I do, what I have done.” Lancelot wrapped his arms around her waist, molding her to him. He kissed her neck, his breath hot and moist on her soft skin.
“No,” she said, her voice quavered.
“Yes,” he insisted. “Just let me...” His hand slid to her rear, squeezing, moved to her breast, untying the strings on her chemise. Sophia felt herself being floated to her bed, laid on her back. Lancelot kissed her nipples and she moaned. The room spun. She felt his hand run up calf, up her thigh. But when he cupped her mound, she snapped back to her senses.
“No!” she screamed, pushing him off with all her strength, covering her nudity.
“Sophia, don’t do this.”
How she wanted to forgive him, let him back in. But it would never be the same; she could never look at him the same way again. This was far beyond any possibility of contrition. Sophia mustered the last bits of courage she had, her pride unwilling to succumb to the voice that was telling her to rush into his arms.
“Damn it, Sophia!” he yelled. “Don’t look at me like that!” With that passive stare of resignation. He went to her again, but she fought, but he would not give up. He needed her, he did not care that he was begging, making a fool of himself. “Don’t do this to me!”
“Get out.” She hissed. “Go, please, just go.” She turned her back on him, willing the tears back. “Please, please go,” she whispered.
Her name fell from his lips, he was not hearing her. He enveloped her from behind, his chest heaving against her back. “I love you, Sophia.” Lancelot’s jaw clenched, his brow scrunched fiercely. “We can go back to the way it was, we can start over.”
“We shouldn’t have to start over, Lancelot. You’re making it worse.”
He held her tighter, unwavering in his persistency.
“Lancelot, if you truly love me ...let me go.”
Wish you well, I cannot stay
You deserve an award for the role that you played
No more masquerade, you're one lonely star
One lonely star and you don't know who you are
For minutes he stood there, never relaxing his hold. Her words running through his head. He was hurting her more by being here. A single tear slipped from his eye, landing on the slope of her neck. She shuddered in his arms. “I’ll let you go,” he rasped, “but only because I love you.” Slowly, Lancelot released her, but she did not turn around. His feet were slow but resonant in her room as he walked to the door. He knew once he stepped out of this door, there was no going back in. “Sophia. I will love you forever, and I’m here if you ever...can ever forgive me.” Before he lost his nerve, he was out the door. Clouds had formed in the sky.
He wanted to cry, his insides were torn. And it was his fault. He couldn’t be around anybody, his first thought was to get drunk, numb his pain, but that was how it had started. He went to his own room, not bothering with a fire or lighting a candle. He sat on the side of his bed, head in his hands.
----
Raja had woken up just as Lancelot left Sophia’s room. Tristan was sitting in front of the fire, whittling a dog from a piece of wood. He went to her and kissed her, caressing her cheek with the rough pad of his thumb.
“I think Lancelot needs you right now,” he told her.
“What? Why? Is he all right?” Abruptly, she propped herself up.
“He’s in his room.” Tristan did not know what was said between Lancelot and Sophia, but he had a good feeling that the woman wouldn’t forgive him, and he didn’t blame her. “Go to him. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Raja tapped lightly on Lancelot’s door, calling his name. When there was no answer she peeked in and saw him sitting, hunched on his bed. “Lancelot?” There was a chill in the room, and she knew something was terribly wrong. She sat next to him on the bed.
He knew that his cousin was the only person who could provide any sort of comfort. But what would she think of him when he told her what he had done. When he looked at her face, filled with worry, he broke down. Her eyes opened wide at his sudden cries of sorrow, she scooted closer to him, wrapping one around his shoulders. She listened as he told her everything, crying throughout. His head fell to her lap, his tears soaking her skirt. Raja consoled him as if he were a child and she a mother, her heart broke for him.
“Don’t hate me too,” he pleaded.
“I don’t hate you, Lottie.” She bent her head to kiss his cheek, which made him cry harder.
He sat up again, forcing himself to stop crying. He wiped his face; his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red. Outside, the rain started to fall. The clouds were dark curtains, closing out the light, unforgiving. Raja stayed with him, holding his hand as they sat next to each other, listening to the torrent of heavy raindrops. He was so tired. One night destroyed an entire year. When his eyes drooped, she said he should try to sleep. She took his boots off, vest and belt. She tucked him in snuggly, and then went to start the fire. When she was finished she went back to him and lay next to him on the bed. There was nothing to say so she just moved closer and pulled his hand into both of hers. One more tear slipped down the side of his face – it was over.
I've always been in love with you
I guess you've always known it's true
You took my love for granted,
why oh why
The show is over, say good-bye
Say good-bye...
-Madonna