The Grappling Hooks of Friendship
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.
(Hamlet 1.3.62-3)
This is a late, short speed-written birthday present for Gargoyle13, a champion writer and beloved friend. Based off a mention that Dagonet is the 'dad' among the knights.
Also features my OCs from my suuuuper long fic 'Tristan's Slave', however it is not necessary to read that, it's all fairly self-explanatory. A note, though, to those who have not read 'Tristan's Slave': my OC Kation is, in fact, a girl in disguise and it is not common knowledge.
Rated T for language. Because… knights.
Every day after Sabbath, Arthur held the weekly kit-inspection. Dagonet, always one to be prepared in advance, was calmly sharpening his sword on the day before the Sabbath.
Most knights left their kit-check to the very last minute, with only a few exceptions. Tristan had his effeminate-looking, extremely violent slave Kation who was constantly sharpening knives and fletching arrows. If you paid him or promised him a favour, he'd also check other knights' kit over. The little creep always remembered exactly who owed him money or a favour. And he always collected. Dagonet did not understand why Tristan—of all the knights to exercise the privilege—had bought a slave. Especially one like Kation, who managed to creep Lancelot out the first time they ever met. The effect had yet to wear off. Still, the inscrutable Halani seemed genuinely happy (as far as one could ever tell) and that was all there was to it.
Dagonet ran the whetstone along the blade slowly, thoughtfully. Taking care to make even strokes that were always at a consistent angle. This was more than just practical equipment maintenance, it was a chance to think, to reflect on matters and to see his way forward. Everyone knew that this was his 'quiet time'. His moment of privacy.
Everyone knew this.
Snick—snick—snick—
"…I'm not going to apologise, because I didn't do anything wrong," a familiar voice drawled.
"Hm!"
Dagonet did not look up as Gawain and Galahad entered the Sarmatians' barracks. Gawain liked to play 'elder brother' to just about anyone who would submit to his strictures and scolds. Still, he was useful to have in your corner, even if he did answer for you.
"Hello lads…" Dagonet said softly.
"Dagonet!" Galahad exclaimed, marching up to him. "Kindly tell this overbearing—!"
"How are you both?" Dagonet continued, as if he hadn't heard Galahad's impetuous words.
"We're fine," Gawain said, answering for them both. As usual.
"You know you could put a notch in that before kit inspection," Galahad pointed out, nodding to the sword in Dagonet's hand.
"Just so," Dagonet answered, finally looking up at them and raising an eyebrow inquiringly.
"Uh…"
Gawain nudged Galahad, who nudged him back a little harder than was necessary.
Then Galahad took up the reins of his previous conversation with sudden alacrity. "Yes, so, this insufferable—"
"Such big words, looks like you've been hanging out with Kation again," Gawain muttered, looking away.
"Sh-shut up!"
Dagonet gently laid his sword across the oilcloth spread out across his lap and cradled the whetstone in his hands, turning it over and over as he cleared his throat. Just once.
Both knights immediately turned to look at him.
"There's arrows that need fletching and tipping," he reminded them.
Taking the unspoken cue, the younger men abruptly left to fetch back the necessary items and tools.
Dagonet returned to examining his sword, it was razor sharp but he was worried that the grip was wearing a little thin. As he lifted it up to examine the shagreen he heard the voices of three more people walking into the stables.
"Look, we've got to—"
"The kit inspection! I bloody fucking know!"
"Language!"
The golden-headed twins Cador and Dinadan rounded the corner, closely followed by Bors who was in charge of watching his eldest son for the day while his lover Vanora attended to the baby.
"Bloody fucking!" squeaked Gilly, jumping up and down around his father rather like a puppy.
Bors' fulminating glare sent the twins into whoops, their argument forgotten as they delighted in the toddler's cursing.
"Papa! Bloody!"
"No, son, don't use bad words," Bors pleaded, putting a hand on his son's head. Gilly kept bouncing.
Then he spotted Dagonet and raced over. "Daggna! Daggna!" he yelled, his little legs pumping for all they were worth across the cobbles. Dagonet hastily put his sword down just before Gilly launched himself at the knight's chest in a full-body tackle.
"Hello cousin," Dagonet said, giving the boy a quick hug before setting him back on his feet. "Do not listen to Cador and Dinadan's bad words. Or your father's bad words. Or Gawain's bad words. Or Lancelot's bad words. In fact, don't listen to any of the knights' bad words."
"Even yours, cousin Daggna?"
"I never say bad words," Dagonet lied, not feeling the slightest bit guilty. He for one never cursed around children.
"Yes," Gilly replied seriously, nodded furiously. "No bad words, cousin Daggna."
"That's right. No bad words, little cousin."
The boy beamed at him and then pointed to Dagonet's horse, the huge black stallion Ourgios. "Can I go stroke him?"
"Of course. Gently, remember?"
"Yes!" Gilly trotted off, safely distracted while Bors and the twins bore down on him.
"Well, what's this?" Dagonet asked, getting that sinking feeling in his chest that this was going to be one of those days.
"Nothing, just avoiding that scout and his shadow. They're on the warpath." Dinadan groused.
Dagonet looked at them all. "Against the world or each other?" No one had figured out which was worse.
"No one's gone close enough to find out," Cador said, his usual sardonic smirk conspicuously absent. He was the more subtle and stoic of the twins, while Dinadan was more like Bors', being a loud, good-hearted man with the patience and temper of a bull: better left unprovoked.
Dagonet sighed. "Vanora will know," he offered.
"She swears she doesn't," Bors said. "And then she just handed me Gilly and told me that one baby was quite enough. Whatever that means," he huffed and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
Dagonet easily smothered his smile and picked up his sword again. Just then, Gawain and Galahad returned with the arrows and Dagonet had to tackle the first problem if he was to have any support for the second. "Right, well I need to talk to these two," he said quickly, jerking his chin at Gawain and Galahad, who both dragged stools over and sat down heavily. They weren't looking at each other and the silence was thick between them.
The twins smirked, mirrored expressions that disconcerted those who weren't used to seeing their synchronised movements, and walked off shoulder-to-shoulder. Dagonet knew that they would return in a few moments with items of kit which they would pretend to clean or repair in order to listen in on the gossip and fights. Those two were wholly responsible for all rumours in and out of the barracks. If there was a secret they knew it.
"Galahad," Dagonet said, eager to get this over with before there were any more interruptions.
The lad needed no prompting. "He's an overbearing idiot!" Galahad said explosively.
"What's new?" Bors muttered, examining Dagonet's axe and running a thumb critically along the haft.
"Bors," Dagonet said warningly. His cousin subsided into grumbles. "So?" he said, turning back to Galahad's red face and Gawain's cast down head. He was taking an awfully long time over splitting those feathers…
Galahad sucked in a breath to tell his tale, only to be interrupted again.
"… Tristan… we know this, you've been telling us the same thing all week." Lancelot's unmistakeable 'Voice of Whinge'. Similar to Arthur's 'Voice of Righteousness' and Vanora's 'Voice of Doom'.
"And perhaps this time you'll remember it!" Tristan snarled back, rounding the former with Arthur's best friend.
"Honestly, we've got enough on our hands without such scary nons—oh!" Lancelot beamed at everyone staring at them. He always loved an audience for his wit. "Hello there! What a gathering."
"What's this about?" Cador asked, as the twins reappeared.
Dagonet felt the start of a headache.
"Oh, Tristan here was telling me—again—that he thinks the Woads will launch a series of synchronised raids south of the Wall. Their movements are similar to reconnaissance trips that we have seen before…" Lancelot drawled the information out sarcastically.
"… Three times, which all led to full-scale war bands, we know." Everyone finished, reciting the words in unison.
Tristan didn't say anything, but his displeasure radiated from him like heat from a fire. Everyone felt it and sobered very quickly. A scout never leaves their crew, but they had ways of getting their revenge.
Dagonet remembered a very uncomfortable, but extremely secure camp site Tristan found a couple of years ago. They had all been forced to sleep on such rocky, broken ground, with no cover from the wind or rain at all. Tristan and his slave could sleep anywhere, but that probably had more to do with the fact they were always so tired from the unsociable hours they worked.
"Tristan's right," Dagonet said. "You must all be especially careful."
"But he says this at least once every three months," Dinadan moaned. "And how many times has it happened?"
"Enough," Dagonet said sternly.
Things looked like they were about to descend into a hearty debate, when yet another unseen voice heralded the arrival of another knight.
"Give me the boots you friggin' midget slave!"
"And here comes that crazy child-soldier slave who gives Tristan a run for his money," Lancelot said, rolling his eyes.
Kation skidded around the corner, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he clutched a pair of boots to his chest. He saw the congregation at the other end of the stables in one swift grey glance and charged towards them. With a deft movement, he hurled the boots at Tristan's head before darting past Lancelot's grasping hands and shinning up into the hayloft.
"Must be heading for the rafters," Bors muttered, watching this athletic display of mischief without a shred of disapprobation.
Kation always climbed up to hard to reach places, being very good at climbing and utterly unafraid of heights or the concept of smashed limbs. Even when Jols' yearling slammed the lad against the stalls and broke his arm, he had picked himself up, white-faced and calmly remarked in a faint, high-pitched voice that he needed a splint and then possibly a hug. Tristan had obliged with the latter, much to everyone's amusement.
Galahad looked ready to howl with rage like an animal at being interrupted for a second time, and Dagonet didn't blame him. Perhaps he'd catch the boy later and talk privately.
Kahedin appeared a second later, saw Tristan holding one of the boots, while the other lay at his feet, and came to the wrong, but inevitable conclusion. He growled like an angry dog and advanced upon his friend. "You! You did this together!"
Tristan, instantly realising that Kation had deliberately set him up, dropped the boot and stepped back, spreading his hands at his side. "We are not on speaking terms at the moment," he said stiffly.
Kahedin checked in his headlong charge and considered matters. Then he sighed and bent to pick up his boots. Dagonet noted with some interest that the knight's feet were black with grime and dirt.
"How long did he have those?" Lancelot asked with interest.
Kahedin did not dignify to answer such an impertinent question, but sniffed as haughtily as one could with grubby feet and a generally frazzled appearance.
"So… why did Kation have your boots?" Dagonet asked, feeling his headache grow.
"…" whatever Kahedin answered was lost as he muttered it at his feet.
"To 'clean' them," Lancelot supplied, since he was standing closest to Kahedin and heard what he was saying. "By throwing them in the well."
"Right," Cador drawled, an eyebrow arched. "Who really put him up to it?"
"Gaheris."
The only knight yet to show up. This was because he was on a diplomatic errand to Eboracum with Arthur for the next three days. He and Kahedin nurtured a long-standing enmity known as the Great Feud, it's origins were shrouded in the mists of time and rage and no one wanted to know anymore.
"Because…?"
"Traitor!" Kahedin muttered, a little louder.
"Because…?" Dagonet repeated patiently. Gods this was like trying to get blood from a stone.
"Because he was collateral damage in the prank Kahedin pulled on Gaheris two weeks ago," Dinadan supplied, his faultless memory summoning up the damning evidence.
Finally someone was being useful. Dagonet drew in and let out a deep breath slowly. "What happened to him?"
"He ended up being thrown down the well again," Kahedin said, some of his humour starting to shine through in his grey eyes.
"So why is he at dagger-drawing with Tristan over all this?" Bors asked, thoroughly confused about the scout's part in it.
In the protracted silence that followed, they waited for an explanation. They all knew that Kation and Tristan were reason enough to send each other off into a disquietingly silent rage. And they never stopped hoping for some details.
"Did you leave him down the well?" What was wrong with Cador? The man did not seem to notice his incurable desire for juicy secrets led to so many people willing and ready to beat him soundly for his misguided efforts. Dinadan wasn't much better, but at least that twin had a better sense of survival.
"I didn't notice he was gone until the next morning." Tristan said reluctantly.
"And you compounded the offence by…?" Lancelot said, drawing it out with wry humour and some admiration.
"I forbade him from going on patrol," Tristan said. "He's too sick—caught a cold down the well."
"And you actually thought you could enforce this edict?" Lancelot drawled. Kation was notoriously uncontrollable. "When you were the cause of it?"
Dagonet resolved to catch the slave later and force some remedies down him.
"Shut up," Kahedin and Tristan said together.
Just as Lancelot and Bors looked ready to leap into the verbal fray, Cador redirected the focus to the original combatants. "Anyway," he said loudly, "what's got Galahad in such a pucker? His mouth looks like an arsehole and is probably full of sh—"
"Cador!" bellowed at least three voices, at the same time as Galahad screamed 'Shut up!' in very shrill accents.
Dagonet had leapt to his feet and levelled a terrible glare at the twin, who looked reasonably quelled as he shrugged at Galahad. "Beg pardon," he muttered, staring at his boots.
"Right," Bors said, taking up the role of arbitrator while Dagonet continued searing Cador's downcast head with a reproachful look. "So boy," he said, "what's got into you?"
Galahad, scarlet from rage and embarrassment, went white then red again and his head snapped round to glare at Gawain, who had stayed suspiciously silent the entire time. "He…" Galahad swallowed audibly. "He took it upon himself to ask a girl out for me."
There was a moment's stunned silence as everyone stared at Gawain's hunched form.
"Should I give him my respect or pity?" Cador whispered loudly to his brother.
Dinadan grinned and shook his head. "It's a dilemma isn't it?"
It was a grave insult indeed, compromising Galahad's masculinity and also suggesting that Gawain had such easy success with women that he was in a position to pass them off onto his scrawny young friend.
"Did… did it work?" Lancelot said, his voice trembling with suppressed mirth.
"Like you're one to talk!" Kahedin snarled, a regular victim of Lancelot's smile-and-grab abductions of his own conquests.
"Of course not!" Galahad wailed, throwing down the arrowheads and jumping to his feet. "She—she laughed us out of the tavern." His lower lip trembled. "I'll never be able to go back in there again. I was almost sick with shame."
Looking for sympathy he'll never find in this company, Dagonet thought, but was too late to intervene another round of teasing.
"Only almost?" Tristan asked incredulously, wearing his wolf's grin and carefully forgetting his own troubles for a moment. Galahad's stomach was notoriously weak.
"Don't worry about it lad, just don't go in with Gawain," Bors advised. "My Van' won't let it get to you."
"Oh, so now he's got women fighting his battles? Even better!" Dinadan laughed, clutching his sides.
Galahad looked in danger of bursting into flames or tears—Dagonet wasn't sure, and certainly didn't want to find out—so he quickly intervened. "Apologise," he said, frowning down at Gawain.
Gawain's face set and they could all hear the word 'never' hovering just out of earshot. Of course, Gawain was certain that he had been doing his young friend a favour and wasn't sorry in the least.
"I will keep you both here all night if I have to," Dagonet warned, looking between them both. He would not let them near alcohol until this had been resolved, or one of them would end up in the medical wing with terrible wounds. A long silence dragged out as everyone watched Dagonet and Gawain enter a silent battle of wills.
Gawain blinked. "…"
"What was that?" Dagonet said. "I'm not sure Galahad heard you."
"Sorry," Gawain said a little louder.
"No you're not. I know that look, I've seen it before." Dagonet said sternly.
"Alright, alright! I'm sorry! Gods!" Gawain exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation. "Happy now?"
Galahad pouted, but his colour lowered into a flushed, unhappy pink that was safer, if far from perfect.
"Now, come and get the horses in with me. It'll be dark soon," Lancelot offered, gallantly walking over to clap Galahad on the shoulder. It was a nice gesture, which would give Galahad the opportunity to regain some dignity and also calm him down. When upset, the knights would always turn to the horses. It was in their blood.
Gilly, who had been forgotten in all this drama, suddenly squealed in delight. "Kitty! Kitty!" he exclaimed, pointing to the shadowy rafters above his head. And Gilly only called Kation 'Kitty', because it was the nickname assigned to him by Gawain and Kahedin. It had caught on very quickly.
Tristan, turning just his head to look over his shoulder like a bird of prey, immediately understood. He turned back to Lancelot and Galahad. "Let Kation do it," he said. "The fresh air will strengthen him."
Dagonet knew that it was the last thing needed for a cold, but couldn't gainsay Tristan's edicts for his own slave. Also, it was common knowledge that half the paddock was ankle-deep in mud.
Tristan's eyes narrowed dangerously when a pert raspberry was blown at them from the shadows. That sort of response is not learned, it's primal.
Kation must have balls the size of Britannia to do such a thing.
But Bors, losing patience for further shenanigans, marched over to Gilly and scooped him up. "Get off your bony ass and fetch those bloody horses in!" Bors bellowed up at the rafters.
There was an explosive sneeze and some dust trickled down through a shaft of light. There was a scrabbling sound and then Kation appeared on a cross-beam above the horses' stalls. With a swinging jump, he landed neatly on the cobbles beside Bors and surveyed them all warily. "If id's all de sabe ta yoo, I'd ratha bot," he said around a very blocked nose, folding his arms over his chest. The tip of his nose was very pink and his cheeks were slightly flushed.
"A slave should not turn their orders into a debate," Kahedin said reproachfully.
"And why did you switch allegiance? Usually you side with Kahedin in the Great Feud," Lancelot asked, always curious about how Kation's mind worked.
Kation shrugged, unconcerned. "Noble woz last year—id's money 'dis year."
Lancelot looked smugly vindicated at this pronouncement, while Gawain, Kahedin, the twins and Galahad didn't manage to keep the appalled look off their faces.
"How much, you little viper?" Kahedin said through gritted teeth. "What's your price these days Jo—Jew—oh hell, what's that traitor's name? The one who betrayed Arthur's god?"
It rather took the sting out of his remark. Unimpeded by the death glares or homicidal body language, Kation smirked, certainly in possession of the answer, but refusing to say a word. Tristan, despite being at odds with Kation himself, also looked amused.
They were clearly from the same monstrous mould.
"Please, keeb talking. Id helps me build my self-esteeb," Kation remarked, looking at his stubby nails in feigned interest.
The twins, however, wanted to know the person Kahedin was referring to and began suggesting names.
"Joseph?"
"No, something else."
"Julius?"
"No, there was more than one of him—Jew name," Kahedin said, distracted.
"More than one of him? So it was two people who betrayed Arthur's god?" Lancelot looked bewildered and Bors was shaking his head sadly at such a sorry excuse for a religion. It was clear to Bors that a god who was stupid enough to be betrayed wasn't worth following.
"No, they were all friends and one of them did a shitty thing at dinner," Kahedin said, now absorbed in the problem. Everyone was now joining in.
"Spit in the wine?"
"How about 'John'?"
"Eat all the pie?"
"No, not that."
"Jacob?"
"Did he steal something?"
"No, he took money for it—that's why Kation's like… like him," Kahedin said lamely.
"Jubal?" Dinadan said, plumbing the very depths of his brain. "… Judas?"
"Yes!" Kahedin exclaimed happily. "I knew that!" He rounded back on Kation. "And as for you, little Judas—"
He balked at Kat's sardonic look of 'Oh really?' and then recovered and soldiered on. "How much did Gaheris promise you? I can assure you that you shan't get it."
"Silver, if I recall," Cador added wisely. "Very pretty ornaments for such a pretty boy."
"Bite me," Kation shot at him, before turning back to Kahedin. "He paid me up front, actually," and named a handsome sum that made Lancelot whistle. "And for more dan just the boots." Kahedin turned puce and advanced on Kation who ruined the effect of his set-down by sneezing explosively again.
Tristan cleared his throat in an intimidating manner, causing Kahedin to pause and glare at him. "Let me do this one thing," he begged. "I know he's your slave, but I must do this one thing…"
Tristan shook his head slowly and caught Kation's eye. "Go fetch in the horses," he said.
Kation took the hint and his eyes gleamed with pure wickedness. "I will not be merciful," he warned and was gone from the stables. Dagonet had never seen someone move that fast in his entire life. Frankly, between that and the unsettling expression, it scared him a little.
Tristan turned back to Kahedin and sighed. "Let's not split up," he suggested.
Kahedin nodded vehemently and turned to the twins. "You aren't safe either," he said. Then seemed to seriously consider the matter. "No one is safe."
Gawain shook his head. "Shouldn't have let him get tossed in the well. I wanted to strangle both of you for that," he added.
"He knew the risks!" Kahedin argued.
"He was in the well all night!" Gawain exclaimed. "He is sick!"
"That he certainly is," Lancelot said sadly, tapping the side of his head.
"Stay out of this, you!" Kahedin and Gawain roared together.
"And you—!" Gawain added, rounding on Tristan. "How could you? How—could—you?!"
"Easily, he's only little." Tristan retorted, and with that he turned around and walked out of the stables, leaving Gawain spluttering with rage and the rest of them trying very hard not to laugh.
Then they saw Kation walk past the entrance to the stables, stalking after Tristan.
He was carrying an un-tipped spear shaft, a shepherd's crook, a bucket, a coil of rope and a live cat, who looked very confused.
"That can't be good," Dagonet said with a smile.
Gawain and Kahedin—fight forgotten as survival instinct kicked in—shared a look of dawning horror and launched themselves off the bench to chase after the slave.
No one pranked Tristan and survived unmutilated.
The twins grinned at each other and gave chase, not wanting to miss the fun.
Dagonet almost hoped that they didn't catch the lad—whatever he had planned for his vengeance upon them, it was sure to be humiliating, painful and amusing.
There were sounds of a scuffle, the cat yowled and was seen streaking back the way Kation had come.
"… The damage wouldn't be permanent!" came Kation's high, angry voice, slightly muffled.
"You're unnatural!" Gawain retorted.
"What's the matter? Scared?"
"Of you? For once, yes!"
Dagonet sighed heavily, but didn't move. Matters had resumed their usual brand of chaos and mayhem and there was nothing he could do to stop it without being dragged in. And the last thing he wanted was to be directly involved in their collective madness. He sighed, shrugged helplessly at Bors and sat down again. He picked up his sword again and then fished about in his bag of supplies for a new length of shagreen. Bors watched him and then sat down on Gawain's abandoned stool and dandled Gilly on his lap.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dagonet saw Lancelot smile at Galahad and mouth 'horses' at him. The lad smiled and they grabbed several halters and lead-ropes before walking out with far more composure than anyone else had managed to achieve.
Except Tristan.
Tristan never lost his composure.
He probably had sex wearing the exact same face of stoic indifference.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, Dagonet felt sorry for Kation. Tristan must be one hell of a lover.
Bors stared at his cousin in silent thoughtfulness, as if finally realising something. "You are probably the only thing preventing a sort of free-for-all murder festival," he breathed.
Dagonet shrugged and smirked as he wrapped the uncured leather around his sword hilt.
There was another reason why Dagonet always set this particular day aside to tend to his weapons and kit. The knights knew where to find him.
Sometimes it paid to be known as a creature of habit, but flying the flag for common sense took a lot of stubbornness in this crowd.
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.
(Julius Caesar 4.3.85)
So, happy birthday, hope you had a great day and I am so sorry it's late.
Big hugs from me.
~L.