Title: Prisoners of the Dance
Author: Cropper
Rating: Mature for Violence, Disturbing Imagery, Adult Situations
Spoilers: None
Pairing: Grissom/Sara and some others just for fun
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Never have, never will.
Summary: AU...definitely AU. Grissom and Sara in Medieval England.
Author's Notes:
This whole mess started as a onehour2write History 101 challenge. When I started the research, however, I knew there was no way I could finish the fic by the community deadline. I shelved the story until 1 November and it then became my NaNoWriMo project.
As always, many, many thanks to my fantastic betas, Smacky30 and Cincoflex. They are terrific betas and wonderful friends. Sidle77, ssidleismyidol (Simi), and Snowydragon1776 deserve shout outs as well for keeping my head where it was supposed to be and for cheering me on. Sidle77 also has created some awesome artwork and a video for this fic that can be found on my website. The URL is in my author's profile.
And...I would be most remiss if I did not acknowledge my fellow Eejits as well. They may not have known what I was up to the past month but they are always there watching my back and cheering me on. Thank you, ladies.
One final note...when I started this story, I was unaware that the fabulous mingsmommy was writing a similar story set in pretty much the same time period. I have yet to read her amazing fic, Madrigal, for fear that I would inadvertantly adopt some of her story into my own. Any parallels between our two stories are purely coincidental.
Prologue
It's been a long, long journey down the river through the night
It's been a long, long journey, you were not in sight
It's been a long, long journey, now I want to touch the light
The air was cold, biting; the crisp autumn morning filled with the damp, musky scent of earth and the odor of decaying leaves. The frigid wind was not yet tainted with the acrid breath of fear or the choking coppery stench of blood, nor was the rain-muffled serenity yet broken by the clanging of swords and heart-piercing screams of the wounded and dying. All of that was yet to come, when the land would receive its bounty, cradling the dead and absorbing the tears of those left behind.
Shrouded by the relentless mist, a solitary knight sat confidently upon his charger and calmly regarded the craggy plain with a practiced eye. One more battlefield, one more useless tract of barren sod stretched before him, one more God-forsaken croft he had been ordered to defend in his lifetime of service as the King's champion. Silently cursing the freezing rain, he frowned, pondering the strategic value of this stone-riddled field where he would once again be forced to draw his sword and spill blood. He understood, dispassionately and intellectually, the need for this latest show of force but could no longer separate his personal feelings from those of the professional soldier residing within him enough to make sense of the slaughter of innocents, of mere boys barely past their teens who stood ill equipped and unprepared to face a contingent of well-trained knights. He was tired: tired of the fighting and of the waste and of the futility.
Momentary madness that I should let you go
Momentary madness to call and tell you so
Momentary madness can be a lifetime, don't you know
Unbidden by conscious thought, his mind conjured an image, one of unbelievable softness and warmth. She was there, just out of reach as always, but ever in his heart. He could see her riding toward the plain, her long dark hair flowing unfettered in the wind as she urged her mount onward at break-neck speed. She was coming for him at last, calling him home, bidding him to lay down his arms and fight no more. It was a dream he had often, one of hearth and home, with his lady fair standing by his side on a brilliant summer day as they watched their young sons tussle upon the ground.
Still I'm a believer in the mystery train
I am a receiver in the mark of Cain
I am a believer in a grace of rain
I am a believer in a grace of rain
A soft whinny stirred him from his fanciful musings. He reached forward to stroke the roan's neck and murmur soothingly in his ear, noting with a sense of deepening melancholy that his charger bore the same cruel marks of passing time, as did he. Odysseus' once smooth coat was nicked with scars from all but forgotten campaigns and his mane and muzzle shot through with gray. Indeed, the horse, like the knight astride his sturdy back, looked every bit the aging warrior. Both knew, somehow, that this would be their last stand and, should God smile favorably down upon them, they would finally be rewarded with that ever-elusive peace they had so long fought to attain.
Faithless heart's a sailor, blowing in the sails
Believing he is moving as if the wind had failed
Faithless heart's a sailor, blowing in the sails
Across the field the opposition had assembled. A tall imposing figure mounted on a jet-black stallion hurled taunts at the well-disciplined knights in an attempt to turn the advantage towards his company of rag-tag farmers and peasants. The champion, that solitary figure on the graying roan, took his place before his men and slowly, deliberately unsheathed his gleaming broad sword.
I'm a man without ritual, I'm a man without desire
A man without ritual who's looking all the time
Still a man without ritual is always out of line
He looked over his shoulder at his armored warriors before turning his attention to his foe, absently fingering the worn ebony beads secured to his belt, his lips moving in silent prayer.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus ventris tui, lessus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae."1
The Black Monk reverently kissed the gold cross hanging on a golden chain about his neck before slipping it back beneath his maille hauberuk. Raising his sword he drew a final cleansing breath, lungs burning from the wet, stinging air before releasing it in a blood-curdling cry as he spurred his charger over the sodden turf.
The battle was met.
Still I'm a believer in the mystery train
I am a receiver in the mark of Cain
I am a believer in a grace of rain
I am a believer in a grace of rain2
1 "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death."
2 "A Grace of Rain" Words and Music by John Stewart. The Secret Tapes II (Homecoming, 650, 1987; Neon Beach Homecoming, 700, 1990).
