A/N: Hello! Wow, I haven't uploaded much lately... Anyways, I have an extremely busy summer ahead, so of course I've decided to start a whole network of fics for the 2004 movie King Arthur. The core of this is a (for the moment) trilogy of stories taking place a year before, the year of, and two years after the movie. The stories contained under this particular title (The Stories We Haven't Heard) take place from when the knights were conscripted in Sarmatia until the beginning of the movie. They will be primarily oneshots, but I'll mark those that are not. These stories will likely not intersect with the other three fics I'm planning. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: I'm only going to say this once: I own nothing you may recognize from the film, although I do own the stories themselves and what happens in them. I also am not making any money off of this.
Thank you for reading! Feel free to read and review!
"Father!" the delighted cry rang out across the plain as a ten-year-old boy with wild bronze curls and deep blue eyes raced towards the looming figure of his father on the horizon. Lot had been gone for over a week on a hunting trip with several other men from the village, and his sons had missed him.
Lot grinned broadly and scooped his eldest child up into his arms, the other two not far behind. Gawain, the eldest, was set down and the other two, seven-year-old Aggravaine and two-year-old Gaheris, were swept into a tight hug by their father.
"How are my young warriors?" Lot boomed. He was not a quiet man, nor were his boys, and their mother Morgause often complained about the lack of peace in their hut. As the boys gabbered about what had happened in the week he'd been gone, his smile faltered as he watched Gawain. The boy was small and wiry, only a few inches taller than Aggravaine, despite the three years between them. His size wasn't what gave his father pause, though; Lot knew that within the next few days, a Roman contingent would arrive in the village and take all of the boys they decided were old enough for service in the Roman military, as they did every five or six years. Lot's hunting group had seen the Romans in the next village over as they returned home, and he understood that in only a short time, his oldest son would be stolen from him, likely never to return. Their village was small, and few boys would be old enough for the Romans to take; there was Tor, a brawny fourteen-year-old, the son of Lot's closest friend, Pellinore, and Cynan, a gangly twelve-year-old and one of Tor's best friends. Gawain was the next oldest, at ten. The greatest fear was that the Romans would demand more than three boys and take Pellinore's next son, eight-year-old Aglovale, and Ywain, Cynan's nine-year-old cousin. Gawain himself was hardly old enough to be taken—to be honest, none of the boys the Romans ever took were old enough, in Lot's opinion—but he knew there was little hope that the centurions would settle for just Tor and Cynan.
When they reached the family's small hut, Lot left his sons outside to play and went in to his wife, Morgause. She stood over a low cooking fire, making dinner for the family, and offered him a busy smile and quick greeting before turning back to her work.
"Morgause," Lot murmured, kneeling beside his wife. He took her in for a moment: she had the wild tumble of bronze curls that two of his three sons (Gawain and Aggravaine) boasted as well, and the deep blue eyes that they all shared.
Morgause turned when she caught the fear in her husband's voice, meeting his gaze firmly. Without him saying a word, she understood what the source of that fear was and a hand flew up to cover her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Lot nodded wordlessly and pulled her into a tight hug. They sat by the fire until Morgause pulled away to tend to dinner, her eyes now dry but rimmed with red.
"Call the boys to supper," she said brusquely, readying dishes for them to eat off of. Lot nodded and stepped outside.
"Gawain!" he called, seeing that the boys had wandered down to the river near the hut. "Aggravaine! Gaheris!"
The three boys hurried up the sloping bank of the river to the hut, Gawain helping Gaheris up. On the other side of the river was the village proper, although over half of the tribe's members lived even further from it than Lot and his family. Dinner was eaten in silence (or as close to silence as the family ever came), the boys sensing the despairing mood of their parents and electing to keep their rabble-rousing and mischief-making to a minimum. After dinner, Lot took the boys to bed, despite Gawain and Aggravaine's protests that they were not at all tired.
Once all three boys were settled for the night, Lot left the hut to find his wife seated on the ground, knees pulled up to her chest with her arms wrapped around them, staring up at the stars. With a sigh, he sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close before he too turned his gaze to the sky. They sat for a long time together before Lot finally pulled his wife inside to sleep.
Too early the next morning, Lot and Morgause were woken by a horse galloping up to their hut, followed by a banging on the door. A disgruntled Lot flung the door open to find Tor standing on the other side, a look of sheer panic on his face.
"Romans," Lot breathed. It wasn't a question, but Tor nodded an affirmative anyways. Lot sighed but nodded, clapping a hand on Tor's shoulder before the boy spun on his heel and hurried to remount his horse and continue into the village.
"They're here," Morgause murmured, horror in her eyes as she looked at her husband.
"Get the boys," Lot instructed firmly. "Help Gawain to pack his things. I'll get Aggravaine and Gaheris dressed."
The couple moved numbly as they prepared the boys, not answering their incessant questions about what was going on. Finally, they were ready and headed down to the village. Pellinore and his wife stood together, their younger two sons and their daughter at their feet as they bid Tor farewell. The Romans were already there, a terrified Cynan among the Sarmatian boys behind them, waiting impatiently.
The Roman commander stepped forward, jabbing a finger down at Gawain. "How old is he?" he asked roughly.
"Ten," Lot growled in reply.
"Old enough," the Roman man said. "Say your goodbyes," he added over his shoulder as he rejoined his men.
"Father?" Gawain asked, voice trembling as Lot crouched in front of him.
"Gawain, do you remember what I told you happens when the Romans come to the village?" Lot asked softly, pushing his son's unruly curls out of his eyes.
"Yes," Gawain nodded. Realization dawned in his eyes: "Do you mean that I am going with them to fight?"
"Yes," Lot pulled his son into a tight hug, a lump forming in his throat. He felt tears overflow his eyes as he released Gawain.
Morgause leaned down and wrapped Gawain into her own tight embrace, sobbing softly into his bronze curls. When she released the boy, he smiled up at her. "Don't worry, mother, I'll be back before you know it."
Lot and Morgause picked up their other boys and wrapped their free arms around each other as Gawain trotted to Tor's side and took the older boy's hand before joining the Romans. As soon as the boys joined them, the Romans turned their horses and herded the group of boys out of the village and away from their families. Gawain glanced behind him one more time as they left, waving to his parents and brothers with the hand that wasn't held by Tor's, then turned forwards once again, determined to neither look back or cry.
"Gawain, here," Tor said suddenly, lifting the little boy up. "You ride Gringolet."
"I can't ride your horse," Gawain said, eyes wide.
"Sure you can," Tor laughed. "You're too little to walk to wherever the Romans are taking us. Just ride, at least for now, okay?"
"Okay," Gawain agreed after a pause, settling down onto Gringolet. He bit back the urge to look back again, promising himself that the next time he saw his family and his village would be when he returned—free—from his Roman conscription.