A Knight Arising 1-4

The old man, the one with the beard and red robes, was laughing gently under his breath. "Wart, you have really done it this time. You have taken the woman directly out from the clutches of Archbishop Anno. The last couple of weeks of his trying to get her to fall in line with the teachings of the Church have resulted in nothing but frustration for the monks. She is as strong willed as ever she was."

"Well, we have her now. Look, here comes Anno." The older man came up the slope with a series of monks in tow.

"Gerald, you have betrayed me and your God. Why have you done this?"

"Archbishop, this is a case of something beyond what your beliefs will allow you to comprehend. I suggest that you live and let live, and let her go."

"I will not. You are stealing the property of the Roman Catholic church. What you are doing is blasphemy."

"No," interrupted Mer, "Blasphemy involves the initiation of an idea that is rooted in another, but twists it to the verge of incomprehensibility. What we are offering is a truism that contradicts everything you believe in. I, for one, have enough respect for you to say that I would prefer to save you from a potentially damaging revelation."

"Respect, Brother Mer? Respect? If you truly had respect for me, you would not be supporting this insurrection!"

"Supporting it? My dear man, I initiated it." Mer shook his head. "You really do not have much of a choice. Please stand back. Go back to your monks and your bibles, and live your life. Forget this ever happened."

Some time later, Gerald and the woman were sitting in a hide tent in a forest of pine and fir. "What is your name, girl?"

"Hedda."

"Do you remember anything odd, anything that did not happen to you in life?"

And so the questions went, for hours. Days. Finally she broke down and cried, screaming that the visions would not come out of her head, that she was being driven mad by things she had never seen, but could not forget. On the Sabbath, on the twelfth hour, she screamed, "Gwenhyvere!! Arthur!! Forgive me!!!"

In a rush of movement, the woman threw herself off her cot and wrenched the sword out of Gerald's sheath and impaled herself on it, sending the blade gliding quietly and easily through her flesh, missing bone and bypassing cartilage. The steel blade penetrated her heart and lacerated her lungs and other vital organs.

Hedda died, quickly and quietly, just as she had entered the lives of Gerald and his group.

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Andre Bors, Lukas and Mer closed their eyes in a mutual gesture of pain and empathy for that act of sin so many centuries ago.

"We did not find her again for six hundred years. Her mortal anguish overrode her immortal essence. It did not find rest again, hoping that its new host would be of stronger will. She slipped through our fingers time and time again, until a hundred years ago, with Michelle's grandmother." Lukas sank his face into his hands. "I can't lose her again, Mer, Bors. Once I passed on, the first time, she left in disgrace, hiding from my best and most trusted friend once she had destroyed our marital sacrament and saw me fall on the battlefield, half-slain by my own, bastard, incestuous son. No wonder he went wrong. He was…twisted. Damn my sister!!!"

"Arthur, there's only so much you can do. You can't make a woman, dead for some fourteen hundred years and in denial of her true identity for much of that time, love you again. Particularly since she thinks you are dead as well…"

*

*Note to the Reader! Well, in the event that none of you have figured it out yet (in which case I am extremely disappointed in you), A Knight Arising focuses around the exploits of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table in their attempts to force Gwenhyvere, whose spirit now resides in the body of one Michelle Leodegrance, to return to sanity and to realize that, despite her adulterous behavior with Lancelot, Arthur still loves her and has forgiven her. Yeah, I know, "gooey and smoochey and all sorts of good stuff." Heh. Anyway, you'll also have noticed that there are parallels (gosh I hate that word) with the storyline of a certain series of movies and TV shows involving Immortals. This is intentional. Don't sue me. I like the idea of living forever. I really do. I could put up with the loneliness…I'd hope, anyway. Might have difficulty keeping my head though.

In research, I focused primarily on Sir Thomas Mallory's "L'Morte d'Arthur," and T.H. White's "The Sword in the Stone." Admittedly, I did watch the late-1980s made-for-TV movie "Excalibur," that farce of the Arthurian legend "Arthur," with schmucks and that blazing Keira Knightley, and a bunch of others. I dispensed with the idea that Merlin is a bumbling buffoon, but I might bring it up if my sense of humour returns.

The physical features of Lukas are similar to LL Cool J's, and Michelle carries a striking resemblance to Nicole Scherzinger. In case you have not paid attention, Lukas' body is the same he has had for over 200 years, and bears the marks of the American slave trade, and ghosts of the innumerable injuries he has suffered to all of his bodies over the last 1400 years. He has the rough hands of a metal-worker, but his sense of touch is very refined. Michelle is a highly intelligent woman who contains the soul of Gwenhyvere within her own. Michelle's will is strong enough to keep the neurosis of Arthur/Lukas' first bride under control, and Lukas is conflicted. Despite her dark skin and long, thick, fine black hair, her ancient ancestry is revealed in her eyes, green as emeralds and sharper than thorns. All men who see her are mesmerized by the flow of her body as she walks, and the movements of her heart-shaped lips as she speaks. While Lukas has lived for most of the last 1400 years, manifested in various human bodies, Gwenhyvere is only now making an appearance after a furlough of six hundred years, and Michelle's body is virtually unblemished, barring a very faint dark scar beneath the skin of an ancient wound – it looks like a tribal tattoo in faded ink, but it is a ghost of a scar from an impalement that killed her last human body. Her favorite outfit is a frilly, pale cream blouse under a bright scarlet corset, gladiator sandals and a clingy-cotton skirt that barely hides her ankles. Her soul is that of a strong, feisty burlesque dancer and has the mind equal to some of the greatest of history. She has her moments but generally is sweet tempered, and has a love of fine things...as long as they meet her standards of "fine."

CHAPTER FOUR

Michelle opened the door with a grunt and tossed her purse and portfolio onto the table before walking exhaustedly to the living room.

The young woman caught a glimpse of herself in the TV just as she nearly disappeared into the plush cushions on a couch, and the only analogy she could readily dredge up from her tired mind was of a kitten that had walked uphill against a Pacific hurricane for a week. And that, unfortunately, was exactly how she felt.

She kicked off her kitten-heeled gladiators and knocked over a vase as she put her feet up on the coffee table. Michelle leaned back luxuriously for a few minutes before realizing that she was still in her jacket and reluctantly standing to remove the offending garment.

Michelle sighed as she took her jacket over to the closet and hung it up. She was vaguely pleased that there was a heat register in the closet, for it would otherwise take forever for her jacket to dry out. Her hair started dripping water into her eyes again, and she passed a hand across her brow and swore as she realized that it was not only her hair that was wet, but the entirety of her body and her clothes. Shaking herself like a wet dog (and subsequently soaking her foyer), the consultant started peeling off the layers of soaked silk and wool clothing that clung to her skin and dropped them into the sink, on the floor and finally directly onto the bouquet of flowers Andre Bors had sent to her the previous week. She was sure that she would feel guilty for crushing his gift, but at the moment, she just wanted to get warm and dry.

Pushing her way into the bathroom, Michelle dragged one of her huge fluffy white towels from the linen closet and started to rub herself dry. She rubbed her head with such vigour that she started to waver back and forth – she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror (a bathroom necessity that, in this instance, was roughly the size of a plate glass window and was engraved with flowery images and happy-go-lucky little animals) and thought she looked like a wild woman with her hair in every direction and hands wrapped up therein. She blinked and took her towel-wrapped hands out of her hair and leaned in over her bathroom sink, squinting at the left corner, at one of the animals engraved into the glass. Before it resolved in her view as something she could recognize, a frigid bead of water trickled its way down her spine, distracting her and resulting in a shriek.

Michelle straightened up with a twist and she ran into her shower. She cranked the temperature of the water stream to the max and jumped in.

Just before jumping out again, screaming because the water had scalded her.

Nursing her unpleasantly tingling back, Michelle sat down on the toilet seat and rubbed her shoulder and her throbbing temples. It was a common misconception, she thought, that women did not get tired of their own voices. Particularly if they end up screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Hanging her head between her knees, Michelle dragged herself upright and turned on the tub, foregoing the shower she normally took to warm up, thinking that the jacuzzi would be more relaxing. She sat on the edge of the tub, a large marble affair built for three, and played with the water jets as the jacuzzi filled itself. The tub was big, and before long Michelle had dozed off - despite the cold water trickling down her spine - one hand in the water, the other resting on her belly, and her head resting in a towel braced against the wall.

A soft buzzing woke her up. For Michelle, as tired as she was, returning to the waking world felt similar to rising above the waves in a chilly ocean, breathing in warm air into her lungs. She looked around and realized that the tub was full. The bubbles – lavender scented – rose above the edge of the marble jacuzzi and released little puffs of aroma as they burst. Stepping into the tub gingerly, wincing as the hot water returned circulation to her cold legs, Michelle eased herself down below the bubble-line, inhaling deeply of the scents that nearly threatened to overwhelm her senses. Michelle, a tall woman, was forced to bend her knees so they protruded above the waterline. She felt her skin pucker into goose-bumps as her nerves fought to sort out the conflicting sensations and temperatures they were experiencing. Even her chest began to pucker, Michelle noted absently as she sunk deeper and deeper into the water. She felt herself begin to return to sleep, and buckled herself in, wrapping the silken safety belt snuggly under her breasts.

Michelle's last waking thoughts were of Lukas, the man who owned the company she was trying to save – a tall black man with striking amber eyes. Michelle thought that she was hallucinating as she drifted off, for she saw Lukas kneeling beside the tub and cover her hands with his own as she closed the latch. She felt his hands, soft and tender, but gnarled and calloused, caress her skin and rest briefly on her breast, tracing the outline of the odd birthmark on the outside of her right breast, just below the line of her nipple. She smiled, her soft, red lips curling gently upwards as she shifted into a more comfortable position, and quietly fell asleep.

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Lukas Lejonhjartad dropped the faded parchment down on his desk and took off his glasses, tossing them away in frustration. It had been nearly a week since he and Michelle (Gwenhyvere! he silently yelled at himself) had met, but a long and frustrating week, as Mer had kept him away from Gwen as though she were the Plague herself. Every time he had come close to leaving his apartment to go and talk to her, to interrupt the conversation she, Percy, Bors and Tyler were holding regarding the genetics lab in Scotland, Mer appeared out of nowhere, as was his habit, and stared evilly at him until he returned to his office. Lukas understood why Mer was being so protective of the young woman, but he did not have to like it. He understood why Mer was always able to know precisely when Lukas was about to leave – the old man was in fact experiencing time's passage backwards, but through some accident he could return to every point in his past life instantly, effectively being everywhere and every-when throughout time.

It irked the man mightily that he could not even see the woman of his dreams – and his nightmares – because he knew that he may lose her again for another six hundred years. Michelle's personality and mentality rode side-by-side with that of Gwenhyvere, but both relied on the other to such an extent that neither was aware of the other. If Michelle were to be unbalanced for any reason, Gwenhyvere would go into shock, killing Michelle and disappearing into the ether. Lukas was the cause of Gwenhyvere's first breakdown, and he regretted it. Everyone dies with regrets, he thought. The trouble was, every time he died, it was with the same ones.

Lukas settled back in his chair – an ancient elephant-hide covered recliner designed by Mer – and rubbed his eyes. He was getting tired. Lukas had not slept since Mer had confirmed Gwenhyvere's current identity – as used as he was to stress, Lukas was not familiar with sleep deprivation: knowing one was immortal, barring a decapitative event, tended to allow rest with little fear of recrimination. He closed his eyes and reached out for his cup. The warm liquid inside usually helped him stay awake, but this time he slept instead, drifting off before the mug could hit the carpet, spill its contents and reappear on his desk, full again with rejuvenating liquid. Lukas dreamt . . .

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Lukas blinked. He could have sworn that he was, in fact, back in his chair at the office. What he saw instead was a large flat screen television – turned off – and a well-furnished apartment with a corner view overlooking the Minneapolis cityscape. He grinned as he realized that he could see his building from the window. The tall black man uncrossed his legs and hoisted himself from the white plush chair in which he had found himself. The apartment he was in was really very nice, he thought. There were a number of feminine touches scattered throughout the room – flowers, framed embroidery on the bookshelves and hung on the wall, potpourri – but in all it seemed rather stark. He figured that he was either dreaming or remembering: either way, this was an odd occurrence. How often did one find himself in someone else's home without remembering how he got there?

Lukas began wandering around the apartment: Shoes and coats in the closet in the foyer, one set of each dripping wet. There were a couple of dishes in the dish rack and a dirty copper pot still on the stovetop. The fork in the sink had a ring of red lipstick around it, indicating that it was a single woman who lived here. It was odd, he thought – before realizing his thoughts were beginning to repeat themselves.

Lukas circled through the den again and entered the bedroom. The bedspread was mussed, but the ivory-coloured satin sheets looked pristine, as though someone had tossed the bedspread aside in the middle of making the bed. A dark wooden bureau stood between the large bed and the bay window, one drawer slightly open. Quirking a dark eyebrow, Lukas stepped forward and quietly opened the drawer. He grinned, realizing that it contained lingerie. Like most men, he was fascinated by lingerie, puzzled by why women would choose to wear such ineffective garments, yet pleased by their aesthetic appeal. A good set of lingerie, he maintained, complimented not only skin tone but body shape as well. Delicately sifting through the panties, he withdrew a cappuccino coloured thong made of a soft silk with leg holes ringed by stretchy lace in a slightly darker shade. He spread them in his fingers, gauging the size of their owner by their spread. Grinning, he laid them out on the bedspread. Reaching in again, he found their match, a mocha coloured underwire bra of silk lace. Lukas brought the brassiere closer to his eyes as he realized they were hand made – the needlework was exquisite.

On a hunch, he loped into the living room and compared the stitching on the framed piece to that on the panties, he noted that the same person did both. It was rare, he thought, to find someone who not only had delicate needlework as a hobby, but enjoyed it enough to make her own under-things. The bra, as with the panties, had tiny little animals and people outlined in infinitely delicate silk thread. The patience she must have! he thought wonderingly. He let his forefinger trace the multi-headed beast embroidered on the left cup for a moment before placing the bra carefully in its place. Quietly sliding the drawer closed, he strode silently on the balls of his feet toward the bathroom, where he heard some muffled muttering and splashing. He took off his shoes and socks, loosened his shirt, and quietly moved into the bathroom.

The surrealistic musings he felt himself caught in continued as he stepped through a veil of steam, nearly bumping into a cabinet and a footstool, nearly teabagging himself on the corner of an end table, and repressing a shout of pain as the sharp heel of a shoe nearly forced its way through his foot. The muttering and murmuring continued, but the splashing slowly desisted. Lukas stepped forward and knelt next to the tub and pulled back a lock of hair from the woman's face – Michelle! He was in Michelle's apartment!!! Suppressing his shock as best he could, and trying to not show his arousal, he closed his hands over those of the half-asleep woman and helped her to secure herself safely in her tub. Lukas could not help himself...

Lukas let his hands run gently, oh so very gently, along the curve of Michelle's breast where it broke the waterline, tracing that birthmark he knew so very well. He let his fingertips trace a quiet pattern around her nipple, blowing very gently on it from a handspan away, causing it to pucker at his touch, and its owner to moan gently, moving her hand sleepily between her legs. So tired was she that she could not even locate her pleasure button, and Lukas took her hand. She whimpered. She whimpered louder as his hand dipped beneath the water and into her sex, his rough thumb teasing the flesh around her nub and two fingers sliding gently in and out of her. Lukas had agile hands, and he let his pinky dip farther south, tracing a pattern of constellations around Michelle's forbidden entrance. Never before, not during their marriage, nor during any of their brief experiences together over the last several hundred years had Gwenhyvere allowed – waking or sleeping – him to touch her private places, solely for her own enjoyment. Michelle was a singularly special woman, he felt, with the soul of his lover from the days of yore embedded within her, and her own personality of a liberated 21^st century woman binding together closer and closer. He was having difficulty in his own mind, and his heart, as he brought Michelle closer and closer to orgasm, slowing down his tender ministrations to keep her just at the edge of ecstasy every time she started to butt her bead into his thumb, unconsciously begging for more pressure, for a release from the pleasure she was feeling.