Title: Signs of Passing

Author: Nevoreiel

Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Marks to track the winds of time are not the most significant.

Disclaimer: All familiar characters and situations are Copyright by Touchstone Pictures, etc.

Notes: Written for the Scars challenge at "knights500". The number of words in this ficlet was very important to me, it's a homage to AFI, because I could.

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The ground was cold and wet as Lancelot and Arthur rolled around, unmindful of the rain pattering against their skin and the thunder booming from the sky, threatening to crack above them.

It was all teeth and tongue and agile fingers with no room for discomfort. It was silly and dangerous and they did not seem to care.

Heaving with elation, Arthur pinned Lancelot beneath him, sinewy arms held firmly to the soft, fragrant earth. Their armour strewn about them, the knights were shivering, their shirts sticking unpleasantly to their skin, cleaving to straining muscles.

"Not here, not now, Lancelot," Arthur gasped, unable to resist from fitting his hips to Lancelot's, irregular curves and angles melding together.

"I will not wait and you cannot." Lancelot was smirking but lifted his hips all the same, begging wordlessly for more.

Groaning with frustration for he knew the words were true, Arthur let his body reign, mouth hot against Lancelot's offered neck, Lancelot's stubble scratching his cheek. Mouth hungry and grasping, hands on wet flesh, Arthur was startled to feel raised scars on one lean forearm. They felt hot to the touch and, in shock, Arthur drew up, leaving a dazed Lancelot on the ground before him.

Arthur felt every drop as it fell upon his head, staring mutely at Lancelot who stared back defiantly.

"Do you not want me to explain?" When Arthur did not respond, Lancelot proceeded, "Each cut stands for a year. Each year brings me closer to freedom – freedom that's so very dear to me."

"As dear to you as I am?" Arthur asked, figers straying to run over the thin silvery threads, some barely visible in the gloom, some fresher.

Lancelot furrowed his brow, words pouring out in a heated rush, "You are burned into my memory, etched into my heart, and fused with my soul." Raindrops gathered, quivering before sliding off the tip of Lancelot's nose. Lancelot took up Arthur's calloused hand and pressed it to his deeply beating heart. "Your mark lies here."

End

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A/N: Feedback appreciated.