A/N: Ok, this is a one-shot. It's my first King Arthur fic. You know what's
funny? I haven't seen the movie yet! I saw the scene where Lancelot begs
Arthur to turn away from his course, but I have not seen the movie, though
who doesn't the story of Arthur?
There is NO SLASH IN THIS FIC. They are only best friends, and obviously,
from the film, they had a very close bond. Shit, I can't wait to see
Lancelot die...Hee hee. Anyway, hope you enjoy this! Please R/R! Thank
you!
My All
I had begged him. I had begged him to turn away from his frenzy- driven pursuit, and he had refused to listen. He had told me to leave in his stead, without him. How could he ask that of me? I did not believe in his cause, but I loved him. I had loved him. Could he not see that? Did he not believe in its truth? He almost angers me, yet that night I could find no emotion but bitter regret. Did he not see the pain in my eyes? My heart was ripping from my chest and I could not find the tears. His hand was warm on my neck, bidding me to look at him. Part of me didn't want to, to save myself anymore pain. He would die; I could feel it in my chest.
"For the sake of our friendship, please, I beg you." I had never known such desperation. He had called me friend. That, at least, reassured me. It gave a hope, however small it was. He would not listen, however. He would stay the course. I could not sway him, I, Lancelot, his best friend. I could not sway him.
He and I had always been so different. He was Roman at heart, and I was undoubtedly Briton. I have always been the more impulsive one, I admit that. He wanted peace. I did not know a life outside of war. The most important thing to me was our friendship, while the most important thing to him was the cause. I knew he meant me no harm. If there is one thing that Arthur openly declares, it is his need for my protection. He has always been my big brother, protective when I was too rash, caring when I had no one left in the world. It always seemed as if I was the one that needed him, but we both had always known that he needs me just as much as I need him. I could see it plainly in his eyes, whenever I reminded him of my fate to die in battle.
"Don't say that," he answered, one night. I was seventeen years old, and he had been watching over me for five years. At the age of twenty- one, he almost seemed half-father to me, and he did that night, by the dwindling fire. I had suppressed a sigh, my chin resting on my folded hands, which settled on the hilt of my sword. We had both stared into the fire for a while, before I gathered the gentle fortitude to ask him why my words bothered him so.
"You are young, Lancelot," he had replied, turning to me. "You have a long life ahead of you, with no need to be burdened with death."
"But I am not the one that finds it a burden," I had said wearily. He had not met my gaze at those words.
"Perhaps you cannot understand," he had begun. The flames had crackled, sparks bouncing off and disappearing. "Just know that in my heart, you are no ordinary warrior, Lancelot." His eyes had met mine that time. I could feel my heart burning inside, my eyes glowing into his. "In some way, every soldier is alone. Some have a family waiting for them. You and I both know we have none." He had scarcely spoken about his family or his childhood, and I had never pressed him to speak of it. We both shared pain relevant to that. "You are all I have," he had admitted softly. Our eyes were the same color at times, dark and deep, though mine carried an intensity that he never quite had. They had marred in that moment. "Maybe you cannot understand, maybe you do not feel the same way." He had looked away, as if in some mild pain or discomfort. "But I will not bear to lose you to a foreign pack of savages." I could sense his temper rising, the way he breathed familiar to me. "I'll bid you ride with me, on my horse, if I have to. You will not stray into death or danger, not under my care. You are too valuable." His last words were a murmur. He masked his fear and his worry with anger. I did not what he feared most – losing me or his love for me being unrequited. It was quiet again for a time.
"You're all I have too," I said softly, as if it were the only words he had spoken. He turned his head to look at me, his face seeming older and battle worn already. I did not bother to smile. I only allowed him a moment, before I rose to retire for the night. As I passed him by, I paused at his back, my hands clasping his shoulders.
Even with that memory, I had doubted his love for me that night, when he had bid me go and refused my pleas to follow. But he had called me friend. I could ask him no more than that. I had known him too long to doubt him. I feared for him – did he not understand? It was the same fear he had for me when we were young, that night by the fire. But he refused me all the same. He left me anguished, his hand running across my chest, my own hands grabbing it for a moment, before he disappeared into the night. He made me afraid. I did not fear death or injury or even defeat, yet he made me afraid. He caused me pain, as well. Did he not see my pain? Did he not see my fear? Was my desperation not clear in my eyes? Or did he simply not care? I had to believe that he did. But could I leave him then? I wanted to leave more than anything in the world and go back to my life. I did not believe in his cause. Yet I could not leave him. I knew in my heart that I would not see him again if I did. For him, I would fight for something I did not believe in. I would fight a pointless battle. For him, I would do anything. I would protect him by all means, even if he thought he was protecting me.
And here I lie dying, in his arms. I do not feel pain, nor regret. Stop weeping, I want to whisper to him, smiling. His tears are bitter and countless. I will not die completely. I will be with you forever, Arthur. I can feel myself smile, and he must not understand. But can't you see, my friend? You lived. You lived, Arthur. That's all I wanted. I would ask him for forgiveness, for the pain and betrayal I caused him by stealing Guinevere from him, but I already know he had forgiven me. I already know that if I would only live, he would give me his princess and all of the world and perhaps the moon, too. I nearly laugh. Arthur, Arthur, my dear friend. You have already given me the moon. Here you are, weeping and stroking my black curls across my brow, and you have given me the moon. You have given me peace – something a warrior can only dream of. I can leave you now, knowing you'll be all right. You live, and you shall live on, after my ashes are scattered. For a time, you will hold my heart in your hand, Arthur. But you must then let me go, my friend. You must let me go.
You were all I ever had. You were enough.
Lancelot's eyes were watching the snow blankly, as Arthur cradled his lifeless body and despaired. I loved you, thought the king. I loved you, my brother. My Lancelot.
My All
I had begged him. I had begged him to turn away from his frenzy- driven pursuit, and he had refused to listen. He had told me to leave in his stead, without him. How could he ask that of me? I did not believe in his cause, but I loved him. I had loved him. Could he not see that? Did he not believe in its truth? He almost angers me, yet that night I could find no emotion but bitter regret. Did he not see the pain in my eyes? My heart was ripping from my chest and I could not find the tears. His hand was warm on my neck, bidding me to look at him. Part of me didn't want to, to save myself anymore pain. He would die; I could feel it in my chest.
"For the sake of our friendship, please, I beg you." I had never known such desperation. He had called me friend. That, at least, reassured me. It gave a hope, however small it was. He would not listen, however. He would stay the course. I could not sway him, I, Lancelot, his best friend. I could not sway him.
He and I had always been so different. He was Roman at heart, and I was undoubtedly Briton. I have always been the more impulsive one, I admit that. He wanted peace. I did not know a life outside of war. The most important thing to me was our friendship, while the most important thing to him was the cause. I knew he meant me no harm. If there is one thing that Arthur openly declares, it is his need for my protection. He has always been my big brother, protective when I was too rash, caring when I had no one left in the world. It always seemed as if I was the one that needed him, but we both had always known that he needs me just as much as I need him. I could see it plainly in his eyes, whenever I reminded him of my fate to die in battle.
"Don't say that," he answered, one night. I was seventeen years old, and he had been watching over me for five years. At the age of twenty- one, he almost seemed half-father to me, and he did that night, by the dwindling fire. I had suppressed a sigh, my chin resting on my folded hands, which settled on the hilt of my sword. We had both stared into the fire for a while, before I gathered the gentle fortitude to ask him why my words bothered him so.
"You are young, Lancelot," he had replied, turning to me. "You have a long life ahead of you, with no need to be burdened with death."
"But I am not the one that finds it a burden," I had said wearily. He had not met my gaze at those words.
"Perhaps you cannot understand," he had begun. The flames had crackled, sparks bouncing off and disappearing. "Just know that in my heart, you are no ordinary warrior, Lancelot." His eyes had met mine that time. I could feel my heart burning inside, my eyes glowing into his. "In some way, every soldier is alone. Some have a family waiting for them. You and I both know we have none." He had scarcely spoken about his family or his childhood, and I had never pressed him to speak of it. We both shared pain relevant to that. "You are all I have," he had admitted softly. Our eyes were the same color at times, dark and deep, though mine carried an intensity that he never quite had. They had marred in that moment. "Maybe you cannot understand, maybe you do not feel the same way." He had looked away, as if in some mild pain or discomfort. "But I will not bear to lose you to a foreign pack of savages." I could sense his temper rising, the way he breathed familiar to me. "I'll bid you ride with me, on my horse, if I have to. You will not stray into death or danger, not under my care. You are too valuable." His last words were a murmur. He masked his fear and his worry with anger. I did not what he feared most – losing me or his love for me being unrequited. It was quiet again for a time.
"You're all I have too," I said softly, as if it were the only words he had spoken. He turned his head to look at me, his face seeming older and battle worn already. I did not bother to smile. I only allowed him a moment, before I rose to retire for the night. As I passed him by, I paused at his back, my hands clasping his shoulders.
Even with that memory, I had doubted his love for me that night, when he had bid me go and refused my pleas to follow. But he had called me friend. I could ask him no more than that. I had known him too long to doubt him. I feared for him – did he not understand? It was the same fear he had for me when we were young, that night by the fire. But he refused me all the same. He left me anguished, his hand running across my chest, my own hands grabbing it for a moment, before he disappeared into the night. He made me afraid. I did not fear death or injury or even defeat, yet he made me afraid. He caused me pain, as well. Did he not see my pain? Did he not see my fear? Was my desperation not clear in my eyes? Or did he simply not care? I had to believe that he did. But could I leave him then? I wanted to leave more than anything in the world and go back to my life. I did not believe in his cause. Yet I could not leave him. I knew in my heart that I would not see him again if I did. For him, I would fight for something I did not believe in. I would fight a pointless battle. For him, I would do anything. I would protect him by all means, even if he thought he was protecting me.
And here I lie dying, in his arms. I do not feel pain, nor regret. Stop weeping, I want to whisper to him, smiling. His tears are bitter and countless. I will not die completely. I will be with you forever, Arthur. I can feel myself smile, and he must not understand. But can't you see, my friend? You lived. You lived, Arthur. That's all I wanted. I would ask him for forgiveness, for the pain and betrayal I caused him by stealing Guinevere from him, but I already know he had forgiven me. I already know that if I would only live, he would give me his princess and all of the world and perhaps the moon, too. I nearly laugh. Arthur, Arthur, my dear friend. You have already given me the moon. Here you are, weeping and stroking my black curls across my brow, and you have given me the moon. You have given me peace – something a warrior can only dream of. I can leave you now, knowing you'll be all right. You live, and you shall live on, after my ashes are scattered. For a time, you will hold my heart in your hand, Arthur. But you must then let me go, my friend. You must let me go.
You were all I ever had. You were enough.
Lancelot's eyes were watching the snow blankly, as Arthur cradled his lifeless body and despaired. I loved you, thought the king. I loved you, my brother. My Lancelot.