Author: Ashley

Title: Felt Like A Lifetime

Rated: PG for now. Harder later.

Summary: Post movie AU. No Guinevere. Lancelot survives. Arthur and the knights rescued the Honorius family, and Arthur chose to stay at the wall for the sake of his beliefs.

Given their papers of freedom, where will home actually be?

Pairings: Implied G/G, A/L

Disclaimer: movie versions.

Feedback is welcomed and craved.

Archive: Yep.

One.

Most of the time Arthur could convince himself not to think of it.

The last sixteen years of his life; a large blank. He preferred it that way. The concept of euphamisms seemed to have been created for Arthur alone in those situations when he was forced to speak of it, and he had become a master of vague storytelling.

The senators and sycophants who had first swirled around him upon his return to Rome had gradually slacked off when they realized Arthur wasn't looking for any advancement, or favors, or anything really.

They all scratched their heads, puzzled; how could a man who had spent fifteen years in a godforsaken foreign backwater like Britain not want anything for his service to the Empire?

There had been whisperings of Arthur's bad reaction to the death of his mentor, and a defiant Arthur turning his back on Rome, staying longer than his required term to help fight a large Saxon incursion. There were also whisperings that a few of Arthur's knights had died in that battle, and he had never forgiven himself for it. All the same, no matter who tried to worm the true story out of him, they were all met with the same result.

Euphamisms, faint smiles, and the back of Arthur's head as he walked away.

The house Arthur had taken over had been bequeathed to him by Pelagius, which he had discovered upon his return.

It was small, outside the main city, but big enough for him and the few people he kept to help run it. It contained a small apple orchard, and a good sized stable. Pelagius had always loved riding.

The first few months Arthur had been back in Rome, he had tried, with a quiet desperation, to fit back into roman society. It was a losing battle. The things he had done, the life he had lead for so long was a hill he just couldn't climb.

And to be truthful, in his heart of hearts, he hadn't wanted to. All of the things he had learned, all of the things he had experienced while in Britain, were things he couldn't let go of. At dinners, at senate functions, all he could see when he looked at the people around him was the mortality he knew lurked behind the pretty paint and heavy jewels.

He smiled, and made polite conversation, and fended off the mothers who tried to set him up with their unmarried daughters. He was almost forty; but he was untaken and a former military commander, thus, perfectly eligible.

Each night when he returned to his house from this function or that event, he bathed, scrubbing so hard most of the time he broke his skin, the blood running down his arm or leg a comfort, a familiar sight that stilled the frantic hammering of his heart.

For fifteen years he had dreamed of returning here. Now that he had, it was not what he had expected; worse, it was full of debauchery and corruption as Lancelot had often told him it would be.

And there was another thing. That last battle, the horrid, red tinged, blurry fight that he tried so hard not to think on was something he couldn't take his mind off lately.

He had blocked out most of it for a long while; the journey home had been tedious and uneventful, and he had had lots of time to practise not thinking. It had almost worked.

Most nights on the way to Rome, he would awaken in a heavy sweat, his skin flushed, and Jols quietly at his side. The squire would hand Arthur a canteen full of watered wine, which he accepted gratefully.

His dreams were the complete opposite of his waking time. Visions of Tristan, dying under the huge Saxon commander's hand, with Tristan's own sword, made him cry out and thrash in his sleep.

The arrow that had embedded itself in his second in command's shoulder, so tiny, seemed quite huge to Arthur's sleeping mind. It was made worse by the fact that Lancelot had actually survived the wound, only to tell Arthur he was leaving as soon as it healed enough for him to ride.

Lancelot had closed up that day; Arthur had watched as his closest friend and other half had drawn away from him. Their parting had been stilted and awkward; Arthur had embraced Lancelot stiffly; Lancelot hadn't said anything except for farewell.

Arthur had watched as the other man rode away, part of him in shock, the other part angry, so angry at the way they had made their goodbyes.

He had turned when Lancelot was almost on the horizon, his face a mask, his extremities numb as he returned to the garrison, and his own packing. He wouldn't stay there; Gawain and Galahad had left a few weeks previous, Bors was taking his family away, and the others were dead. Arthur had nothing left.

So he had gone home.

The morning he had left, Jols handed him a small parcel wrapped in a tattered piece of cloth, and had left Arthur alone in the stables to open it.

What it had contained had almost reduced Arthur, a master of stoicism, to rough tears - a single note, which read "I'll never forget," and the small lion pendant Lancelot's sister had given him.

This particular day, Arthur stood, half clad in breeches and boots, shoveling manure into a pile.

He enjoyed the work; it allowed him to him sleep at night, and chased away most of the dreams. A year in Rome, and he had figured out a way to make his existance one he could stand. Not the lofty dreams he had had of his future when he was young and Pelagius had been alive. Just a life. For now, he was alright with it.

The sound of hooves and the clattering of carriage wheels snapped him from his reverie, and he straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow with his discarded shirt before pulling it on.

"Commander!" Jols shouted, then winced as Arthur frowned. "Arthur," he corrected, "Lady Ligeia and her daughter are here."

Arthur's brows drew together even further. "Now? Today? I thought you said they were coming on Thursday."

Jols shook his head, and shoved Arthur away from the pile of fertilizer. "It is Thursday, Arthur."

Great God. Arthur hastily wiped his hands on his pants, and shrugged. He didn't care what he looked like, but to noble ladies, the notion of a member of the equestrian class doing his own chores would seem outlandish, if not downright crazy.

Arthur heard female voices, and made his way to the front of his house. Smiling mechanically, he approached the two women, and bowed his head.

"Lady Ligeia, Lady Olivia," he said, greeting them. "I apologize for my appearance; I lost track of time. Please, come inside."

The older of the two women tilted her head, and smiled at Arthur. A genuine smile. She was tall, almost as tall as a normal sized man, and had dark hair that had been braided artfully around her round face. Arthur liked her; she was educated, and pleasant to speak with. She never asked him to talk of his past, and he appreciated her for that fact alone.

Ligeia and her fourteen year old daughter Olivia were the closest neighbors Arthur had, their horse farm being about two leagues from his land. At first he hadn't wanted to get to know the widow, but she had pestered him constantly, bringing over food, visiting him on holidays, and generally making a nuisance of herself. Arthur had finally relented, if only to get her to back off, but when he allowed himself to actually get to know her, he found to his surprise they had many ideals in common.

"Digging in the dirt again, Arthur?" she laughed, and he raised his eyebrows, spreading his hands. "Guilty as charged. Don't let your mother fool you, Olivia; spending time outside is one of the few joys left in this day and age."

The young girl blushed, and stammered a reply. Arthur wasn't quite sure, but he had the vague notion she had a crush on him.

So he merely smiled, and gestured for them to enter.

Several thousand leagues away, the snorting bay mare tried her best to buck off the rider currently trying to tame her.

Cursing loudly, the man atop the horse finally gave up the ghost and allowed himself to be flung off, grimmacing as he landing squarely on his arse.

"Lancelot," Galahad shouted, "you're getting better by the day!"

Muttering under his breath, Lancelot limped away from the mare, and his eyes shot daggers at Galahad. "You're not so old that I can't still best you, so I'd keep your mouth shut, young sir."

"Not so young," Galahad shot back, but left Lancelot alone. The other man hadn't been the same for a long while. Galahad had a general idea what it was – but the only person he had voiced it to was Gawain, and neither of them thought bringing it up was worth the thrashing they would surely receive.

"Or at least he'd try," Galahad murmured, and began to edge closer to the horse, reaching for her rope as Lancelot stomped off to his wagon.

The night was gorgeous as usual, and Lancelot was full. He lay on his back on a soft rug brought from the garrison, why not take some things, he had earned it after all, and toyed with the small dagger he kept in his boot.

The incident with the horse today only proved to him what he had been avoiding dealing with for several months now – the person he thought he was, or thought he would become when he got the chance to return home, had abandoned him. Lancelot, the knight, the sarcastic, silly, talented sword master was nowhere to be found.

Instead, Lancelot, the empty, broken, shell of a former warrior filled his skin, and he hated every minute they were together.

He knew, he felt to his core what it was. And he was damned if he would even think the man's name. Lancelot had left, no promises, no words of love or loyalty. He had made it a clean break. What could they have done? Gone to Rome together? Lived somewhere in Britain, just the two of them, doing what, raising horses? Training children in the art of war?

The thought of it made him snort, and he flung the knife down in disgust.

"He chose his own path," he said outloud, to the stars twinkling overhead. "I'd not stay and get in his way. No, not me."

So…why was he so miserable if he had made the right choice?

Lancelot had returned after a month of hard riding to his family's ancestral lands…and found them all wiped out. Mother, father, dead. Sister, married off to some foreign lord and living beyond the Steppes.

Brothers, dead or married as well.

He had been torn then; what to do? This was home, Sarmatia. But it hadn't felt like home. Not to his soul. Not in the night, when he awoke with wetness on his face and a clenching in his gut that no drink or food could ease.

He rubbed at the scar over his heart; it burned occasionally. He missed the familiar weight of his lion pendant, but he knew that he had left it with the right person. It was the only gesture he could have made without open communication. He couldn't face the other man with the gift. He wasn't sure if he could have left. It had been hard enough not to clutch at him, to stare into those eyes, so mesmerizing in their brightness.

Lancelot had had to bite at the inside of his cheek when Arthur had embraced him to keep from falling at the other man's feet and begging Arthur to come with him.

Instead he had gotten on his horse, and gone home.

He was on the verge of drifting off to other places when Gawain and Galahad had shown up. Happy for the distraction, Lancelot and the two had become traveling companions, going as far east as the highest mountains, and were currently camped the furthest west they had ever been, outside of a city called Brigantium. The extra horses they had bought along the way, although Lancelot was certain Mithras was playing a joke on them with their latest acquisition.

Gawain and Galahad had been content up until now to travel aimlessly with Lancelot; however, the closer they got to Italy, the closer they got to Rome, they became restless, and wary. Lancelot didn't blame them, he too felt the weird tug of the city. Arthur had spoken of it so many times, and in such awe that Lancelot felt he would be remiss in not visiting it.

The one time Gawain had mentioned it, though, Lancelot had shut down, not speaking for hours. Neither of the other two men ever spoke of it again, but were not surprised when they noticed in their travels that Lancelot was leading them southwest, and toward Rome.

The stars shone, and Lancelot could hear gentle bickering coming from the direction of Gawain's tent, then shortly, the not so gentle sound of Galahad's snoring.

Sounds like a goat. How can Gawain stand it?

He forced his eyes open, and his mind to be blank and calm. He allowed the sounds of the night to soothe him, and gradually he felt his hands unclench, his body relax.

Jolting awake some hours later, the moon still out and full dawn not yet come, Lancelot rolled over, scrubbing hastily at his face.

Gawain crouched next to him suddenly, and it was only because Lancelot knew the tread of his feet that he hadn't tried to gut the other man.

"We're going there, aren't we?" Gawain asked. Lancelot met his gaze, a bit muddled at first. "What? Where – oh." He sat up, and wiped the remaining tears off his face. He hung his head between his knees, and when he spoke, it was so quietly he wasn't sure the other man had heard him.

"He won't let me be, Gawain."

Gawain nodded once, joining Lancelot on the ground. He put his hand on Lancelot's shoulder briefly, warmly, then put it back in his lap. "I know, Lancelot. You call for him in your sleep every night."

Lancelot felt he should show surprise, but he didn't, because he knew Gawain was right. He had just been choosing to ignore it.

"You two don't have to go with me," he said at last. Gawain shook his head, grinning at Lancelot. "You think we'll let you go to Rome without us? Galahad would cleave you in twain at the very idea."

Lancelot surpressed a laugh at that image, and stared into Gawain's eyes. "Last chance, brother. I'm going south tomorrow. Are you sure?"

Gawain merely cocked an eyebrow. Lancelot tilted his head. "Very well, then. Rome it is."

And Arthur.

Finally allowing himself to think Arthur's name gave Lancelot a sense of quiet he hadn't had in over a year. He rolled over, and promptly fell back asleep. He did not dream.

end one.