It's a battle of tongue and teeth and it was only a matter of time until it happened. He tried to reason with himself that this was wrong, that he should be resisting his fearless leader, even as he stuck his hand down his pants, even when he reached where no woman had been for months. But he couldn't think straight , couldn't think that this was wrong when it felt so right, especially when Arthur sank to his knees, pulling his pants down as he went, his hands moving to Lancelot's thighs.
I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees.
No man fears to kneel before the God he trusts.
And, oh God, why did it have to feel so right? He didn't believe in Arthur's God, or his moralities, but even he knew this was wrong. But there was something so terribly right feeling about his, abut having Arthur on his knees before him, like he had seen him so many times, only now praying to a different god.
Lancelot dug his fingers into Arthur's hair, trying desperately to bring him closer without seeming forceful or wanton. Even though he had had many women do this, many of the tavern whores who would gladly spread their legs for a knight, he admitted that Arthur's was far better at this than he should be. Despite being the cad he was, he would've never imagined the hedonistic pleasure of having his friend on his knees before him. He hadn't ever considered it until during their fight, had had pressed Arthur rough to the wooden barrier and kissed him. Lancelot didn't even think about it until he had his lips to the other man's, his hands still fisted in his shirt, till he found himself catapulted into primal need.
His own release came quickly, too quickly for his reputation, and he slipped bonelessly to the stable floor, amongst the mud e and the muck, Arthur resting next to him on the other post, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. If he wasn't so tired from the fight, from being offered his freedom only to have it snatched away again, and from being groped and manhandled by his best friend, he would've returned the favor, at least moved toward him. Instead, he slumped against the post, eyeing his companion with a look somewhere near thankfulness and trust. He couldn't call it love. Not yet.
Arthur gaped for a second, obviously trying to say something poetic, but nothing came to mind. Sad, really, for someone of Arthur's intellect. Even the Greek affliction couldn't put into words what had just happened. When he couldn't find any words to express himself, Arthur rose silently and made his way out of his barn.
Lancelot didn't bother to follow him.
It wasn't till that tart of a Woad appeared that he realized the incident in the barn might have been more than just an incident.
Guinevere was beautiful and graceful, her movements, ever when Arthur cradled her close to his body after pulling her limp from the monk's hideaway, she was elegant. In other days he might have tried to make her his own, but now he mostly was filled with fear that she might take Arthur away from him.
Quickly, thought, that fear rose to be something else. She looked at him like he was worthy, like she would take him as her own, no matter what his own decisions. With Arthur, there was a similar look, though she seemed to look at him with more respect. Arthur, she understood, was the kind of guy who married. Lancelot was the guy you fucked hard against a stable wall, the kind of guy with which passion was truly possible. Guinevere knew that and so did Lancelot, but he wasn't sure that Arthur knew the score.
So when he spotted Guinevere in the forest, bathing with the Roman woman in the cart, he stopped to watch. He didn't even bother to look embarrassed when she locked eyes with him, her nudity barely concealed behind a backlit sheet of thin cotton. He could make out every detail of her thin physique: her slight ribs sticking out from her underweight body, her gentle collar bond and the rise of her leg. He wished he could say that it was more than a physical attraction, that he found something about her wit entrancing. He didn't. With Guinevere, it was purely physical. She was merely a comrade in arms, another one of the soldier, only one he was more likely to sleep with.
She excused herself from the company of the Roman, wrapped in a royal red blanket, hair still wet from the water that had been sponged into it. In spots, her hair had dried and rose like a halo above her. She found him next to the tree he had claimed as his own, far enough from the rest of the group to be private, but close enough so that in case of danger, he could still be of use. He twin swords were by his side; his eyes dark and focused on her.
She caught his gaze, her body languid and loose, before dropping her load to reveal her own nudity. He took her like he would an y common whore, but perhaps with slightly more deference to her station as future queen. He could tell already from the way his friend looked at her that they were going to be together. He was just going to have her before him. In some was, this would make the coming betrayal hurt less.
Guinevere let her take him as roughly as he wanted, her back cut on the rough ground and bark under the tree. And though both could be lax and admit it later, it was indeed passionate. He had never felt this wonderful with a woman, could never imagine experiencing these highs with one of the common whore behind the tavern. Her hands slipped underneath his half opened tunic scouring trenched into his back. Pulling him closer until her head was cradled against his neck and her teeth nipping along his collarbone.
With their best efforts, they only managed to hold off on their releases for so long, her legs wrapped around his waist, gasping for air like he had strangled her, his own body sated and limp. She pulled herself out from under him, her serpentine body sliding until her back hit the tree and she was like a posed goddess, naked before the sky and him.
Is there nothing about my county you find beautiful?
There was plenty he found beautiful about her country. Her. Arthur, born of this land and Rome, but still very much from here. And though he would loath to admit it, there was much he was going to miss when he traveled home to Sarmatia, when this wretched mission was over. He would go home and wait to die. Men like him didn't deserve to have children, no matter how much he joked about Vanora's children being his. He had taken too many sons from their mothers to be allowed his own.
"In Greece, not long ago, the stories say that the Spartan soldiers, the best soldier in the world, would share their beds with their comrades in arms, despite gender. It was supposed to promote camaraderie," she smiled, pulling the cloak around her self, though he wasn't sure that the nudity bothered her, "Will you protect me like your brothers now, Lancelot? Now that you have had my flesh?" her eyes flashed with merriment and a little fear, "From the hordes of lonely Saxon men?"
"Don't worry, I won't let them rape you," he smiled, the smile that he used to get women into his bed at the fort, the smile that many women had seen, but few truly deserved.
"And I will afford you the same courtesy," she walked back to camp, probably to find Arthur. He wished he could feel bitter about his turn of events, about how both of his lovers might one day take pleasure from each other, but Lancelot had never felt that he deserved the love of one person. How could he fault two who thought they might make it work?