The blood-soaked into Lancelot's boots as he shrugged off the broken bodies of the fallen Paladins which flopped like puppets with cut strings. The stench stuck to his lungs and he slowly stalked into the square ahead of a ghostly Arthur.

The only sound was the slow, painful drip which splattered onto her face

lay in a pool of blood at the edge of the parched fountain. He approached her form slowly, a hand gripped around the pummel of his sword. She looked so calm in that moment, her jaw had softened and though her face was dirty from the dusty street, her face struck him. Cold terror ran down his back as he gathered up Guinevere's body. Lancelot now knew why Father Carden had cursed him for being the creature that he was, for having sympathy for them. But this woman was the incarnation of demonic power, touched by evil.

Lancelot trudged across the square towards Captain Hart and the Prince and tossed Guinevere into his arms. Prince Arthur though still stuck and stunned did not miss Lancelot's callousness and steadied Guinevere in his arms. Lancelot mounted his horse and pulled his hood over his head, covering his healed head from prying eyes.

He watched Arthur tuck Guinevere's body against his own on his horse and Lancelot scorned himself. She was a witch, he told himself, though she may appear to be a kind, beautiful woman, she was a demon and there is no changing what she was.

Lancelot stayed behind Arthur and Hart as they made their way out of St Peter's, the town was silent with shuttered windows but the occasional sly eye coming from a high-up window. Much like the windows, Lancelot dug deep and hid his heart away in the cold recess of what he had left of his soul to rot away like a dead animal on the side of the road.

As the light began to fade a small groan called out "Lancelot?", he whipped his head up. The witch had woken up. She sat up straight as Arthur reached for her stomach and Lancelot's eye snapped to hers. They were wet, glassy, reflecting gold in the setting sun, she was forbidden fruit. Lancelot clenched his reins and road ahead to avoid her sweet clutches. They rode like that, soundless, until the sky became a sheet of beaten black coal.

"We will camp here for the night" came Arthur's automotive voice as they approached a broken-down villa. The ruined marble remained Lancelot of the bones of ancient giants who had been swallowed by the earth. It was a scar in the landscape, a reminder of an attempted empire. Lancelot swung off his horse and headed into the ruins but he was not far enough to block out its gentle thank you.

Lancelot cut down the tangled web of vines to open up the shell of the marble. The large main room had thankfully remained intake, the only hole was the metre circle meant for a central fireplace. He busied himself using some well-placed firewood, vines and flint to start a small fire. He ignored the shuffle of feet and its groans of pain.

"Just a few more paces Miss Archer" Lancelot tried to push out The Prince's sugary encouragement. "Only a few more, my dear", "You can sleep soon Miss Archer". Lancelot wanted to grab his sword and take The Prince's head off, he almost screamed. He wanted to yell at the Prince, she isn't a little damsel noblewoman, she was a witch, sorceress, a demon wrapped in silk.

Lancelot sat cross-legged, eyes staring into the blaze. He refused to acknowledge the witch who The Bloody Prince had placed right next to him, wrapped in a thick pelt. The silence was stifling but Lancelot would not give in to his more base, more primal desires to talk, to speak was to break the Monk's covenant. Father Carden's voice thrummed in his head, pressing against his brain, he had to have the strength, this witch was not Squirrel.

"Look at me, Lancelot" her voice shattered the silence. Four simple words, Lancelot steeled himself preparing himself to stare into the face of the demoness. The tiny remnants of his heart shattered when he looked into her eyes. She was beautiful, exhausted, filthy and bloody but breathtaking. Lancelot felt his lower lip drop slightly, he felt naked under those deep brown eyes which shimmered between obsidian and glowing starlight.

"What are you?" he said, his voice came out in a stammering quiver and he shied away from her.

"I don't know Lancelot" she whispered back and his heart stuttered. He had been trained, drilled and primed by cold fire and boiling water to detect depiction. Her eyes were clear as still water, her fear of full display. At that moment Lancelot saw her terror and guilt but he stayed silent. He did not know how to speak, how to make her feel better, he did not know them but he would have begged God on his knees to learn how.