Author's notes.
Excalibur, the mask of command, and how friendship shapes a young man's life.
A look at Arthur- young to old.
All lines from King Arthur copyright David Franzoni. No copyright infringement intended.
Rated PG13
FYI: Jupiter and Mars are ancient Roman gods, based on the original Greek
ones. Jupiter is the father of the
gods, and Mars, the god of war.
Enjoy and let me know what you thought.
Merry Holidays to my friend Dea. Enjoy
your fic, and luffs and kisses for you, and thank you for helping me find my
inner Arthur again.
One.
"One day people will speak the name Artorius, and liken it to a god's."
He can barely lift the huge sword. It glows in the firelight as his father polishes it carefully. He won't ever tell little Arthur where he got it- a gift from a lady, he says.
"Uther, don't fill his head with tales," his mother says, gently admonishing, placing a kiss on the top of his father's head, the short hair so like the Caesar's of old, Uther's men have taken to calling him that.
And they're only halfway joking.
Eight year old Arthur is highly impressionable, and tries to steal a touch or a look at Excalibur every chance he gets. His father takes him to the yard at night sometimes, and by torch light shows him how to use the great blade.
When his mother dies, it is to the sword he runs first, knowing that only it has the power to save her.
He is too late.
He sinks to the ground, his knees buckling, the fabric of his child's tunic wetting through from the muddy ground.
If he had only had the strength to lift the mighty thing.
He can hear his father's voice.
They will liken it to a god's.
Tears streaming down his ten year old face, he highly doubts it.
Two.
"These are the men? They are boys," Arthur says, from his regal post atop his white charger.
Decimus snorts. "You're a boy, Artorius. Don't forget it."
Arthur glares at the older man, and approaches the group of twenty huddled Sarmatian youths.
He dismounts, and stands in front of them, Excalibur hanging at his side, his plumed helmet under his arm.
Eighteen years old. World weary already.
The marks that will decorate his body in fifteen years time have begun to accumulate- marks of battles fought since he was fourteen, and oh so green.
He can lift the sword now. His biceps don't feel the weight of the steel anymore, not when he cleans the blade, not when he raises it over his head and screams like a maniac as he rides down upon unsuspecting enemies.
"Men," he starts, and looks them over.
Some clustered together, some standing apart, and aloof. He's not sure what to think of this bunch.
He looks at the boy on the end of the line. Curly dark hair, a sullen expression on his intense face.
It's the eyes that call to Arthur. Black, almost bottomless. Arthur gets swallowed in the pain there momentarily, then snaps back to himself. The boy is standing still, his lips in a slight pout, his arms crossed. Arthur suddenly feels a kinship with this one; he recognizes the look in the dark brown irises.
It mirrors the look in his own green ones.
"I am Arthur Castus, your commander," he says, and a short laugh is heard from somewhere within the ranks. He freezes, then cocks an eyebrow.
"Something funny, gentlemen?"
Of course, no one answers.
"Very well," Arthur nods. There is no reason to make them hate him. They don't want to be there, he knows that. He doesn't exactly want to be stuck in Britain for the next fifteen years either, but he knows the cause is just, and what mother Rome wants is what he will do, in the name of Christ.
If training and protecting homeless conscripts is what God wants from him, so be it. He is good at leading. He is loyal, and kind. They will endure him. Eventually.
"You and I will have to tolerate each other for the next fifteen or so years. I will respect you- and your ways. I will be faithful and constant, and reliable. I will teach you what I have learned here in Britain, and train you how to be soldiers in the Roman Army. In return, I ask that you give me a chance. Can you do that?"
He stands impassively, and the one on the end, the one with raven's eyes, nods finally. He nods back, and remounts his horse.
"Follow me to your new home, men."
The small chain of Sarmatians follows him- and he touches Excalibur briefly, thinking of his father and the words he had spoken.
Liken it to a god's.
Three.
"Artorius!"
Bors' battle cry embarassed Arthur when the man first started doing it- but now, it comes naturally, and he thinks of it as a rally sound, one that means his men will follow him wherever he would lead. He loves them, and they him, miserable together in this wet, snowy, dank country.
Eight years into it.
An arrow shoots past his ear, and he barely has a chance to pull Excalibur from his sheath before Lancelot is next to him, his double blades flashing faster than Arthur can follow with his eyes.
The archer is dispatched with a minimum of fuss.
He grins at Lancelot through a mask of crimson, and the other man winks at him before plunging headlong into the fray.
Screams of rage and fear assault him, and he follows his friend into the mass of bodies, whirling his father's sword like a thunderbolt from Jupiter himself.
Not that Arthur would ever compare himself to the old gods- but he likes the image, just the same. Powerful, and inspiring.
The air is thick with gore and hot breath, and he hacks and slashes his way through the Woads, painted blue with dye from a plant.
Their arrows and small broadswords are no match for Sarmatian and Roman maneuvering and tactics.
Horses shriek, and men die.
The sun dips back down into the horizon, and Arthur finds himself standing alone at the edge of the battlefield, the remaining Woads having retreated, the bodies of the fallen surrouding him.
He is suffocating in his heavy field armor, but he doesn't move. He lofts his ancient sword up to eye level, and looks with detached interest at the red liquid and matter that clings to it.
An audible sound fills his ears, and his vision tunnels. Under his red plumed helmet, it's as if he can only see one concept- conquest, command, duty.
For God. For Rome. And for his men.
Liken it to a god's.
"No, father, anything but that," he whispers aloud, horror breaking through the mask of war that had taken posession of him for the first time.
Jupiter no longer. Mars now, a chariot of black ochre his conveyance.
"It's not what I wanted," he adds, stumbling backward quickly, the bloody Excalibur falling to the ground with a chink.
He trips over something, and lands hard on his ass in the wet soil.
A sightless, cold knight stares up at him, neck cleaved in two.
He's gone on to be with his knights, Artorius. One day you will understand. They died together, for love of Rome and the cause. We will do well to honor his memory.
He's ten years old again, and both his parents are gone. And he couldn't lift the damn sword.
"No, no no," babbles out of his mouth, his hands going to his face.
An arm is around his shoulders, and a presence flits at the edge of his snapped mind.
"Commander," he hears vaguely, and he waves a hand at it, go away.
"Arthur," breaks through.
His eyes, red with smoke and bloodshot with unwanted memories, turn to his left.
Lancelot.
"Lancelot?" he croaks, and the other man nods his head so hard the black curls bounce wildly.
Arthur reaches up hesitantly, fingering one. Lancelot tries to smile at him reassuringly, but the look doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Arthur's all right with that. The knight is trying. And he loves him for it.
"Arthur, your sword," Lancelot says, helping Arthur to stand. He feels as weak as a kitten, and stumbles about, reaching for Excalibur, tripping on more bodies.
Hot water rushes down his face, and he falls to his knees again, unable to stand.
He breathes harshly, willing himself to STOP.
With Lancelot's hand on his neck, miraculously, he does.
"The others are ready. Let's make for camp," the Sarmatian man says in Arthur's ear, and Arthur stands, gripping his sword.
The tunneling and sound are back, as is Mars.
"Knights!" Arthur bellows, and they are there. The remaining ten.
"Make for camp. Find your comrades, mark their bodies. We will send carts back for the dead."
"Aye, commander," they say, and do as he asks.
He mounts his horse, and follows Lancelot, the remembered sword back in its place, blood and all.
That night, he eats with the others, their small campfires crackling in the gloom.
The men are jovial, happy at their victory, sad at the loss of their fellows.
The Roman soldiers and captains make their reports to Arthur, and turn in for the night.
One by one, the Sarmatians turn in as well, leaving Arthur alone at the fire.
He offers to take the first watch, staring into the flames, clasping the few hands that are offered him.
Around two a.m. he lurches to the side of the ancient road, and vomits up the contents of his stomach.
Shakily he wipes his mouth, and stays hunched over, seating himself on a fallen log.
Pick it up, Arthur. It won't bite.
It's too heavy, father!
Nonsense,boy. A man's weapon – and how he uses it – is what defines him to his men. Courage, Artorius. Courage will get you far. Never forget that.
Lancelot sits quietly next to him, and wraps one arm around his mail covered shoulders.
"The first time I saw you," Arthur says, his words soft and broken, "I saw something in your eyes that changed me. It called to me. They were bottomless and black, and so full of pain it was like a physical blow. I knew then you and I were kindred. I will never forget it – til my end."
Lancelot pulls him closer, and the two men sit in silence – separate, but joined at the heart.
Four.
"Do not do this! Arthur! I beg you, for our friendship's sake, I beg you!"
"If you be my friend now, then do not dissuade me. Sieze the freedom you have earned and live it for the both of us. I cannot follow you, Lancelot," Arthur hesitates, then something hits him.
"I now know that all the blood I have shed, all the lives I have taken, have led me to this moment."
His calloused hands cup the face he knows and loves better than life itself. The other man gazes at him a moment, then nods resignedly. Arthur moves off, Lancelot grabbing at his arms as he passes.
He doesn't stop. If he does, he won't stay, he won't be able to do his duty, to fulfill his birthright.
A god's, Artorius.
Five.
The mask is ready, and drops over his face lovingly as his vision is tinged red with the heat of battle.
The ochre chariot of Mars lifts him and carries him through the fight, making him swift and deadly, Excalibur singing to him of its destiny satisfied.
When it is done, when the Saxon chief is dead, he wavers, staring at the body of Tristan, laying silently in his native armor, the scout's long curved scimitar within reach of the still fingers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Guinevere fall to her knees next to a body, and he registers that the horse next to her is Lancelot's.
He is there without realizing how he got there.
The arrow that protrudes from his second in command's chest is small and thin, a silly thing, really.
He screams his displeasure to God, who, in His infinite mystery, doesn't answer.
Lift it, Artorius. Do you feel it's weight, it's solidity? That is the weight of life, boy. Of command. Use it wisely, and it will reward you tenfold.
The name of Castus will be whispered in wonder.
Six.
His knees creak as he bends to kneel on the ground, the sea crashing against the rocks below.
The mask of war has long since faded, and the grey in his hair matches the lines on his face.
The small lion pendant he wears around his neck swings gently from the swaying of his body, and he clasps it lovingly, quieting it.
He knows what he's here to do, and he hopes it's the right thing.
Before he can stop himself, he stands back up, and takes a short run, stopping at the edge of the cliff, heaving the giant sword into the air.
It arcs in the sun, making a rainbow of lights as it falls.
It's too far away to be sure, but he never hears a splash.
Excalibur's song stops, and Arthur turns from the ocean, the empty scabbard at his side feeling strange, but somehow, right, as well.
Artorius Castus, likened as to a god.
The coal black eyes and hair, and laughing smile fill his memory, and he smiles.
No sword, no mask.
Just a man.
end.