Written for the Jealousy Challenge at Knights 500.
Rated PG
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
You watch as he drinks lustily with the rest of them, smiling and joining in on the jokes. His dark eyes dance, his body and limbs moving with some story he's telling.
You skulk in the corner, wishing to God and all his Saints that you didn't have to do what you are about to do.
Offer them death. Again.
Everything you ever have done was for the Church, and for Rome. You had been telling the truth when you spoke those words to the Bishop. But somewhere, in your little secret heart, where you hide the few unbecoming, nasty feelings you have, you wish you could be like him, and not care about any damn quest.
You wish you could laugh, and drink, and woo ladies til you couldn't see straight. You wish you could be the center of attention for once just because of you, not because you were giving an order. You wish you had his poise, his easy confidence, his swagger.
And that little boy you once were, the one who watched his mother burn before his eyes, who swore vengeance on all enemies of Rome, laughs at you. He points and giggles, and can't believe that this green eyed monster is the great Artorius Castus? This little, petty, downtrodden, destroyed shell is the most famous Roman commander in South Britain?
You cast one more look at Lancelot at the others, and dash all wishes to the winds.
You are not a simple knight.
You are the leader of men, loyal and true men, and jealousy has no place in your heart.
You stand, and leave the commons, the moonlight glinting on your hair and on Excalibur, which you unsheath as you reach the edge of the graveyard, and stare at its simple runic design and shortened hilt.
"To spill your own blood would be such a waste," a voice comes from the shadows behind you, and Lancelot steps into view. You smile at him, and plant the tip of the sword in the ground by your father's burial mound.
"Why?" you ask him.
"Depriving the Woads of such a pleasure is unhuman, Arthur. At least be man enough to provide them their desire," he answers, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, amused by his own wit. That green monster rears it's head a moment, but you backhand it and send it grinning through bloody teeth back to the cage from which you let it out.
"God forbid," you answer softly. He stands with you, staring at the flame on the grave flickering in the wind.
"They've broken their word, haven't they?" Lancelot says suddenly, and you shatter at the hopelessness in his tone. You can't answer.
"Final 'days' of service to Rome," he adds. You nod.
With those words, you realize the feelings you had earlier were misplaced; you try to fill your mind instead with admiration for the courage evident in this foreign man, who returns to the fortress with you, ready to listen as you try and explain the unexplainable to your men.
And you find you can do it.
Fin.
