Title: Like Glass
Author: Ashley
Summary: Pre movie. Reflections have a way of making one see truths.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rated PG
Disclaimer: movie versions.
Dedication: For Dea. Love you, babe.
Archive: Yes.
The woods were deadly silent, except for a few bird calls in the pre dawn light.
The dark haired man crept through the foliage, his green eyes intent only on his destination.
Tristan was never wrong about landmarks. And Arthur had followed every last one.
Wait…
There.
He burst through a small thicket of brush, and forgot to breathe for a moment.
A small pool, with an equally small waterfall, decorated the wooded area. Arthur had been in Britain almost all his life, and had never seen anything of this beauty and stillness.
It immediately immobilized him, and he shut his red rimmed eyes momentarily, just feeling.
The leaves crackling under his feet, the sound of rushing water, the smell of moss and dampness filled him, and allowed him to release his shoulders, which had been rising to compete with the height of his ears.
He let loose a little groan, and rolled his neck.
Eyes open, he followed the small path down to the edge of the pool, sliding only once on the slick rocks surrounding the place.
Clad only in tunic, breeches and boots, he sat on a large boulder near the waterfall, and blinked, trying to urge moisture into his eyes.
His heavy battle armor was in the garrison, currently being worked on by Jols, who had grumbled at Arthur when he saw the state of the heirloom cuirass Arthur wore every day.
"At least I'm in one piece," Arthur had answered. "If not for this, I might not be."
Jols had merely fingered the dent in the metal, and taken the piece away for hammering.
Arthur noticed the man hadn't said anything about the size of the dent, or the fact it sat directly over where Arthur's heart resided in his chest.
Some of the knights, however, had mentioned it. Repeatedly.
Sighing, he toed off his dusty boots, and sank his sore feet into the lapping edge of the pool.
"Ah!" he couldn't help but shout. The water made his skin prickle with it's cool temperature, but after a moment he got used to it, and let his body sink back onto the rock, where he resembled nothing so much as a great cat taking a morning nap.
The sun had begun it's trek across the sky, and Arthur shivered lightly as the rays reached his spot. He smiled to himself, wiggled his feet, and kept his eyes closed.
They burned, and he rubbed a hand across his face, wincing at the state of himself and his disheveled appearance.
He began to sweat after a while, and forced himself to sit up, and remove his linen tunic.
Leaning forward, he dropped it on top of his discarded boots, and caught sight of himself in the water.
He leant more, entranced by the image. He didn't think he'd looked in a mirror lately except to shave, and that was so perfunctory he didn't see himself really.
A man of late twenties stared back at him. Dark wavy hair, a few curls sticking out at strange angles. Tanned skin, green eyes, and stubble. Black bags under his eyes he couldn't do anything about that made him seem older.
He raised a hand slowly, and touched his cheek. He smiled.
The man in the glass like surface smiled back at him, but Arthur had the sense that man was smiling only because he was expected to.
He cocked an eyebrow, and so did the other.
He grimmaced. Same deal.
He clutched at the small gold cross around his neck, and the rippling reflection did it as well.
His eyes dropped to the man's torso, and he sucked in a breath at the sight of so many scars that decorated it's pale surface.
At first he thought they were exaggerated by the movement of the water, but then he realized that the water wasn't moving that much.
His fingers traced the largest, one that curved artfully from belly button to left nipple.
It was still puckered and slightly red, and a thought rose unbidden from his memory.
If I don't watch your back, Arthur, you'll be killed. Why weren't you focusing?
Perhaps because I was more worried about the arrow that had been protruding from your leg, Lancelot.
He had been trying to hold a normal conversation with the knight at the time, made almost impossible by the fact that he had been strapped down to a table in the medicus' tent, a horribly evil assistant leaning over him, wiping Arthur's blood off his torso as he stitched the huge saber wound closed.
He didn't really remember much of that battle, only that he had seen Lancelot go down under fire, and had focused on nothing except getting to his friend before Lancelot had deposited his life's blood into the cold British soil.
He hadn't seen the screaming Woad who had sliced open his belly with his shining blade until the sharp edge of it had already carved a wicked smile into Arthur's torso.
Arthur dropped his hand from his skin, and stared one last time at the man in the water.
The eyes were too green, too deep, too intense. The face too sallow, too slender, the jaw too set and proud.
He kicked his foot, and the glass disappated into ripples.
He stood, kicked off his breeches, and dove into the pool, a silent scream of frustration and impotence echoing where only he could hear it.
Eight years into his service, and he had accomplished but two things that he dwelled on:
He had turned a bunch of boys into some of the best fighters in the land.
He had turned the same group of innocent conscripts into killers.
His head burst from the water, and he scrubbed his body and hair roughly with his hands before climbing out to sit on the rock, naked and breathless.
He spread himself out like a lizard, soaking up the heat and quiet of the morning.
He cracked an eye when a shadow covered him, and raised his eyebrow.
"You're blocking my light."
The other man plopped down next to him on the rock, and kicked off his own boots.
"Can't have everything we want, now can we?"
Arthur crossed his arms behind his head, and said nothing.
The muscles of his stomach clenched when a light finger traced the same scar he had been examining earlier.
"It's healing well," came the soft voice.
"Yes," Arthur agreed. The hand didn't leave his skin; rather, it spread itself out, each finger resting on a rib.
"Finding new and more secretive places to brood?"
Arthur finally sighed, and tilted his head to the left, so he could see the other man's eyes.
"I wanted a swim."
Lancelot frowned, and idly moved his hand around Arthur's stomach, touching each scar in turn.
"You wanted to guilt yourself into a state."
"And as you've remarked in the past, I can do that just fine no matter where I am. I wanted a swim, that's all."
"And was it satisfactory- commander?"
Arthur moved his head back so he was staring at the sky again. A hawk wheeled by, and he knew the others were up and about.
No. Because I doubt myself.
"Yes," he answered, and said no more.
Arthur knew Lancelot knew better, and silently thanked whatever power made the man keep his mouth shut.
Lancelot's tongue snaked out, wetting his lips, and he lay on his side, one arm holding his curly head up so he could keep Arthur in his sight.
When Arthur didn't speak again, and merely stayed still, his eyes focused on the bird above, Lancelot slid over, his hand resting on the other man's chest, and nuzzled his face into Arthur's neck.
Arthur's left hand moved from behind his head, and threaded itself lazily into the knight's thick hair, his fingers soaking up the heat from Lancelot's head.
"We should get back soon," Arthur whispered softly.
Lancelot nodded, and threw a leg over Arthur's.
"Yes," he answered, his voice muffled by Arthur's warm skin.
"Before lunch," Arthur added, and tensed only slightly when the other man's mouth began it's entrancing touch on his throat. He had to try twice before the next sentence came out in any semblance of sense.
"…perhaps after lunch."
Lancelot's dark brown irises met his own green ones, and he started as he saw his reflection again in their depths.
Except this time he didn't see the flaws. He only saw himself. Arthur.
And he saw the deep love and admiration the other man had for him.
And he was humbled, and ashamed all at once.
"Like glass," he murmured, and shook his head at Lancelot's inquiring look.
"Come here," he said instead, and accepted the other man's heat, and warmth, and distraction.
He shook when Lancelot touched his scarred gut again, but this time, it was with pleasure.
The little pool flowed on, rippling truth telling powers forgotten.
end.