A/N: Another King Arthur plot bunny, inspired by the lyrics I used. I'm pleased with the way this turned out, actually. Lancelot angst, hee. Please R/R! You know it gives me a reason to live... Oh, and if you haven't already, please drop by my other King Arthur fics. Thank you for everything!
Disclaimer: King Arthur film property of Jerry Bruckheimer. No, I don't own Lancelot, meh.
I Want Tomorrow
Lancelot was left alone again, defeated in Arthur's wake. Was it not the way it always was? He could never claim victory over his captain. Arthur was too stubborn, too valiant. The Sarmatian's words had fallen on deaf ears once again, despite his plea on behalf of his feelings and their friendship. He had believed that his rare display of vulnerability would stop Arthur cold, that because he hardly ever let his guard down, this time when he suffered to, it would be enough persuasion. He had been mistaken. Arthur had only refused him in the gentle manner that was nature to the Roman, his explanation sufficient but no less painful, his eyes unwavering in their gaze, though Lancelot's had glinted in shards. Arthur would not turn away. Lancelot could not understand. The knight wished his heart would break, instead of remaining in tact, only aching beyond endurance. His neck was yet warm where the Roman's hand had been. His own hands were empty. Arthur had slipped through his fingers like water.
As he stood alone, he could not hear the life surrounding him. Arthur's boots crushing dead grass failed to make a sound. The stars suddenly died, like snuffed out candle flames, and the skies turned to black that fell over his face like a veil. Why was his heart clenching in his chest, like someone was squeezing it? Why did he feel as if he was being strangled? Why did Arthur do this to him? He couldn't think beyond his despair, and he couldn't keep his tears from springing forth, on the edge of his lashes. He was a knight. Those tears should not be twinkling like pearls. He should not care about Arthur. He should not have let himself become attached. He was damned by his own humanity. His shoulders failed, caving in defeat, but he was not aware of his image. The night had been ruined by one man, and the mirth that had been so long awaited and refreshing was now dead.
What would he do? How could he leave Arthur to face death alone? He was supposed to be free, damn it. He was supposed to be happy for the first time in fifteen years, but his closest friend prevented him. Was he expected to mount his horse in the morning and ride away? Was he expected to turn his back without a second thought? He couldn't return to his homeland unchanged by the years. He couldn't return to the life that had been stolen from him so long ago and forget the memories. He could not rid himself of the death or the bloodshed, the lost comrades or the pain they induced. He could not forget the victory or the defeat, the glory or the passion, and he could not forget the beauty of certain hours, certain moments. He couldn't leave Arthur in Britain. His friend would forever abide in his heart.
Lancelot wandered back to his room with a lost look in his eyes, only restraining the tears because he was too shattered to release his emotions. He had forgotten about the others, though they were just as distraught by their captain's decision as Lancelot. No, he could only dwell in his own devastation, for he knew what tomorrow would bring. Why despair when the morrow would announce liberty? It seemed unreasonable, but Lancelot could never be free from the pain of losing Arthur. Again, he was denied his freedom, and he was beginning to believe that only death could give it to him. Why not die with Arthur tomorrow, then? The Roman's words reverberated throughout his soul, his request that the Sarmatian live out his freedom for the both of them. Such tender words, Arthur, thought Lancelot, too noble for any man. His shoulder hit the door, and he leaned against the wood, heaving with grief.
"Arthur, why are you doing this?" he uttered, but his question went unanswered. He clutched his chest, the pain failing to subside, his breath labored and despised. The torch flames flickered throughout the Wall, and heavy dread wafted in the air. Whatever justice had resided in this place was approaching execution. Whatever shadow existed in the world would come at dawn. Lancelot was defeated. He could find no hope any longer. Arthur was committing suicide, and the world was preparing somberly with him, as he lay out his task with unnatural humility. Was Lancelot the only impulsive fool who was fighting not to seize the Roman and drag him to Sarmatia? He managed to lift the latch open and stumble into his room.
He lit a candle to look upon bittersweet reminders. The bed was barely big enough for two, yet Arthur had sat beside his fevered body too many times to count in order to comfort him. The pillow sent visions up into his eyes of his friend stroking his curls, visions of Arthur cooling his fevered brow with a moist cloth and a tender hand. The coverlet had belonged to Arthur, until he had given it to Lancelot three winters ago when the Sarmatian confessed he had fallen ill because he only had thin sheets. The fur skin covering that brought him memories of Arthur wrapping it around his shoulders when they had camped in the snow, his arms curling around Lancelot's shoulders. The Sarmatian's eyes glimmered painfully as he looked upon it, recalling how Arthur had bundled his wounded body in it once, cradling him. His gaze moved to the velvet tapestry that was draped above the bed, and he felt images of Arthur chasing him around the cramped room seep into his fingertips. Their laughter echoed distantly in his head, as he looked upon the rug, the chair, his swords that were propped against it. A moving picture of the moment Arthur had bestowed those blades unto him as a boy caused him to shudder with the ache in his heart.
Lancelot brought himself to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the faded coverlet into his lap. As he searched its colors and felt with desperate fingers the love woven in its old threads, the tears returned to him anew, and they beaded his quivering lip like dew. His body shook in his black garments, only visible where the candlelight reached him, and the wound in his heart gushed again when another memory drifted into his mind like a mist. The first of the knights had fallen, and Arthur had come to him when Lancelot was off on his own, grieving. The Sarmatian had looked to his captain with silent tears staining his face, and Arthur had only moved gently into his friend, embracing him supportively.
"Why are you trembling?" the Roman had whispered, as Lancelot had buried his face in Arthur's tunic. The scent of wildflowers still invaded his senses from that moment. It was not blood or death or ash that Arthur smelled of but wildflowers. That afternoon had been gray and full of wind, as they stood beneath a looming tree away from the world, and they had allowed themselves to be comforted by each other. His fingertips graced the coverlet and his heart was slowly torn by images of weeping into Arthur's tunic, breathing into Arthur's wildflower scent, Arthur's arms around him and Arthur's fingers entangled in his hair. The Roman had been the only thing to keep him from drowning that day, so many ages ago. His friend's arms had been his comfort for so long, and now he was expected to survive without them.
Lancelot bowed his head to the coverlet and sobbed, finally surrendering to his own emotion. He had been defeated again. The candle flame sputtered ritually as he began to rock back and forth in his despair, trying to find the wildflowers in the coverlet. He could only smell the balm they used to dress wounds with, and the pieces of his eyes fell into the cloth. Arthur wasn't here to comfort him. This time, his shoulders trembled untouched. Slowly, he shifted to lie on the bed, curled up with the coverlet in his face and his hands and his soul. Lancelot wept alone in the candlelight and the darkness. Not a whisper swept through the folds in the tapestry. The chair was empty, and the rug was bare in absence of his boots, which he had not bothered to take off. His blades were abandoned, never to be used again in his lifetime.
When morning dawned, Lancelot's tears had left him. He numbly touched down on the rug, staring into empty space in thought for a moment, before he began to pack. Being a warrior, he did not own much, but he pushed the coverlet and fur skin into his leather sack. What other clothes he owned were added too, and he tied it up in resignation afterward. Over the garments he wore, his armor was buckled on again, and he picked up his swords with a heavy heart, sliding them into their scabbards on his back. When he stood at the door, hesitating to leave in order to look at his room in Hadrian's Wall one last time, the sight that stared back at him was dismal. All that he was leaving behind was a stripped bed, a table empty save for a melted candle, a chair, and the tapestry. Lancelot slipped away, not bothering to wonder who would replace him there.
His sack was strapped to his horse's saddle, and he mounted without a word, though he was again in the company of his fellow knights. Smoke stacks rippled into the sky from where fires were lit, and the evening fog was only beginning to dissipate. The skies were a canvas of orange and gold melted together with a pale gray, and it should have been beautiful to ride against. Lancelot rode along in the convoy of knights, his head hanging in defeat and despondency, not bothering to speak. His comrades were equally grim, and the hoof falls of their steeds were the only sound to accompany them. Lancelot refused to think of what lay behind him, of the Woads waiting in their savage warrior garb, or the Saxons on the other side. He was going home. He was free. He should rejoice.
Yet his eyes turned heavenward in the next moment, as Bors' bellow echoed in his ears and Arthur's silhouette reminded him of a mythical god. In the following breath, it seemed, he was suddenly beside his friend, grinning wordlessly.