Authors' note: Set pre movie. Lancelot is injured, and begins to doubt.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own them.
Rated PG13
No spoilers.
Thanks to Melissa for the great review!
Enjoy!
Bullets of sweat are everywhere on his body. Blood seeps into his eyes, but it does not matter; all he can see is already tinged with red..
His blades glint in the sun, bathed in crimson wetness that makes them hard to hold. Nevertheless he continues to hack and slash through everything in front of him.
He is glorious; a proper killing machine.
The weapons he holds make a zinging sound as they whirl through the air and through Woad bodies. It is the most wonderful music he has ever heard.
A small smile slips across his bearded face, and the young warrior looks about for his comrades. He spots their commander, and salutes jauntily with one blade, not seeing the whistling arrow that is suddenly protruding from his shoulder.
He looks down at it, confused as to why it should be there, and as his knees give way, he cannot help but drop his swords. The empty sheaths on his back press a strange, light sensation against his shoulder blades.
More blood pumps onto the already saturated ground, and he is angry that his Sarmatian life source should mix with the spilt wetness under his knees.
His vision becomes spotty, and he falls to his face, knocking his forehead painfully against the earth.
A cry reaches his ears, but he can do naught but stare at the sky, and wait for the inevitible. His only regret is that he won't live to deprive more heathens of their limbs, and that the young chamber maid back at the keep waiting for him won't get her chance to enjoy his bed.
He dizzily tilts his head to the left as he feels fingers underneath it. Another set brush the hair flopping into his face away, and he looks into the green eyes of his commander.
"I am sorry, Arthur, I did not kill more of them for you," he says, disappointment and sadness creeping into his voice. He's not sure, but it seems as if Arthur has suddenly become three men. He squints his eyes, trying to focus on the real one.
"Still yourself, my friend. You are not dead yet."
Lancelot coughs weakly, and flinches as Arthur's gloved hand touches the shaft protruding from his shoulder gently.
He brushes ineffectually at the other man's probing. "Leave off, for mercy's sake. It hurts like the devil.."
"And it must come out unless you wish to lose this arm to disease," Arthur answers him. "But first, we must get you off this battlefield and home to the Wall."
Lancelot agrees, though nodding his head is a painful action. A moan escapes his lips, and his already pale face turns whiter under the coating of blood.
"Dagonet!" Arthur bellows. The bald knight is there.
"See to him. Get him back to the Wall as quickly as you are able. We will join you shortly."
Dagonet nods and lifts Lancelot with little effort, seating him in the saddle of his large black horse.
"Wait! Arthur," the younger knight calls out, and Arthur turns.
"My blades," he whispers, and Arthur jerks them off the ground where they had fallen. He shoves them through the scabbards on Lancelot's back.
"I thank you," Lancelot adds, coughing at the end. This time blood comes up with his breath, and Dagonet and Arthur exchange horrified glances.
"Go," Arthur requests. It is all Dagonet requires.
As they ride off at full gallop, the wounded younger knight stays conscious long enough to see the remaining Woads surrender to Excaliber's might.
"Good," he murmurs, and the world slips into blackness.
Two.
A roaring in his ears wakes him, and he sits bolt upright on the small bed. He looks about in confusion; this is not a room he's spent much time in. His own bunk is back down the hall, in a common room shared with the other knights.
A wave of nausea sweeps over him, and he vomits over the side of the bed, cursing himself as the stuff hits the rug on the floor.
Arthur doesn't possess much, but Lancelot is ashamed that he should ruin something that belongs to the other man. He wipes a shaking hand across his mouth, and cries out as he moves his injured shoulder. He looks at it. No arrow shaft. That's a good thing.
He peels away some of the bandaging, and sucks in a breath at the sight. He's seen plenty of wounds before, but never one like this on his own person.
There is little pus in the wound, but the skin around it is an angry red. Lines of color spread from the damaged spot toward his chest.
Infection is not something he cares to think about.
"Our pretty knight is awake, I see," a sardonic voice comes from the doorway, and Lancelot scowls at the man.
"Make yourself useful, Bors, or do not bother me. Help me clean this up," he snaps, gesturing at the mess he has made on Arthur's rug. He tries to get out of the bed, but blacks out before the other knight can take two steps.
He's sweating again. He cracks open one eye, and finds the intense emerald gaze of his oldest friend in the world wavering in front of him.
"I am sorry about the mess," he croaks, coughing. Arthur shakes his head.
"Only you would care about soiling a rug while trying to heal from a wound, Lancelot. How do you feel?"
"Like I've been run over by a carriage. And then poked in the shoulder with a branding iron. How do I look?" he asks weakly, his hand covering his mouth after coughing. He hastily lowers it, hiding the blood that spots it.
"Like a ghost," Arthur says, frowning. "The redness has not gone down as fast as the healers would like it to. I am sorry, my friend, but they have to drain it again."
"Oh gods, Arthur, please no," Lancelot begs. "It will heal."
"Not fast enough for you to not lose your arm. It is only momentary pain. I will be here with you."
"But you do not have to endure a dull knife in your skin," the younger knight retorts, then laughs shakily. "Apologies, Arthur. I am not myself."
"Understandibly so, brother. Sleep now, they will wake you when they are ready."
Lancelot grips Arthur's forearm tightly as the doctor cuts clumsily into his arm. He grinds his teeth and tries not to cry out, but a weak sob makes its way through his lips.
"It is almost finished, Lancelot," Arthur tells him, and Lancelot nods quickly. He is deeply ashamed of his cowardly behavior, but having an already angry wound cut into is not a pleasant experience. He prays it will work, and the bad humors present in it will drain off with the infection.
At last the doctor cauterizes the deep cut, and instructs him to tilt his arm so the pus can drip out into a recepticle on the floor.
The curly haired knight manages a shaky sigh, and closes his eyes as the doctor positions his arm, then leaves the room, stating he will be back in two hours to check on the younger man.
He smiles in gratefulness as Arthur tilts a cup of wine for him to drink. He does so deeply.
"I will be back before the healer," Arthur says, all seriousness. "Do not get up from this bed."
"Aye, commander," Lancelot laughs, but succumbs to sleep before hearing Arthur leave.
Woads come at him from all sides, and his blades flash in the sun as he hacks through one after another. Hot blood spurts into his face, and he involuntarily licks his lips. It is salty and metallic, and not unpleasant. He is like a dervish in their midst, severing heads, slitting throats, freeing the savages from their miserable existance on this plane.
He grins wickedly, and spins his swords in an arc with his hands, daring anyone else to get close enough to die.
He looks down suddenly, and the arrow is there again, protruding from his chest. He looks up in shock to see the crossbow is held by Arthur, who faces him wearing a strange smile and full Roman military dress.
"Arthur, what…" he gasps as he falls, his blades forgotten.
"We are all such perfect killing machines, Lancelot. We don't stop to analyse who it is we're killing."
"But I," Lancelot says, and cups his hands over his chest, watching as the blood pumps out of his body with the beat of his heart. "Arthur…I would walk through Hell for you."
"You will, my brother. And you may not survive it," the Roman tells him, and as things go black, Lancelot can only protest weakly as another bolt slams into his torso.
He jerks awake, swearing. The coverlet on the bed is twisted beneath him, and his bedclothes are a sodden mess.
"How are you feeling?" his friend asks, and the younger man shakes his head, disoriented from his dream.
"Strangely better. My shoulder doesn't scream so anymore," he says soflty, his throat cracked and dry. He looks down at his wound, and is happy to see the red fading finally.
"How long have I been asleep?" he asks Arthur.
"Almost a day, actually."
"So long as that?" Lancelot murmurs. "I'm guessing I'm going to live?"
"Unfortunately for the rest of us," Arthur jokes gently, and smiles at his friend.
Lancelot begins to sit up, and Arthur stands, helping to position him upright on the small bed.
"Is everything all right? You called out in your sleep."
"Did I?" he questions Arthur.
"Yes. You called for me, in fact. I told you I was here, but you didn't wake," the other man answers.
Lancelot debates whether or not to tell his friend of his strange and disturbing dream.
"Arthur," he asks. "Why are we here?"
"Hmmm. I wonder if the healer didn't drain your brain as well as your wound," the commander laughs, but stops as Lancelot shakes his head.
"No, no. I mean, what are we truly doing here? In this life…this situation? Fighting a battle…defending a country that neither of us really belong to?"
Arthur jerks slightly, then looks his friend dead in the eye.
"We are knights, Lancelot. What else are we made for?"
"It isn't that simple, Arthur. Where would you have been had your mother not been killed? Where would I be had I not been conscripted? Would we be happier? Would we have been the men we are now? I often wonder if there is something wrong with being the perfect fighter. I know no better pleasure than fighting by your side, defending my fellow knights from death. And yet, when I think of it at length- why? What am I doing and why I am killing nameless men for a country that hates me?"
"I fully believe," Arthur starts, grasping Lancelot's forearm, "nothing for me would be different. My father was a knight. I was my destiny to follow him. This is what I was born for. I am a knight. It is all I know…and I do what God asks of me. Nothing more, or less.
"You are what your circumstance made you. But my friend, you are more than the proper killing machine you imbody. You and your fellows have a chance to do what you choose at the end of our duty. This is my life. I choose it. But I don't expect the rest of you to follow me forever. You have the chance to live a different existance…and I expect to see the tail end of your horse the morning after you receive your papers of passage."
Lancelot smiles a bit at Arthur, but notes the tiredness in his friends eyes, and the glazed expression he gets when speaking of his life. The younger knight doesn't believe much of what Arthur has said. But he doesn't voice it.
"When you are better, we have an assignment."
"Aye, commander?"
"There have been reports of Merlin sending warriors south of the wall. We must see to it that these reports are false," Arthur tells him, standing.
"When do we leave?" Lancelot asks, struggling slightly as he tries to rise from bed. Arthur pushes him back down.
"In a few days time. Plenty of time for your wound to heal, and for your thoughts to turn to less introspective matters," Arthur answers, rubbing his stubbled chin.
"One would hope," Lancelot says lightly, but inside feels a bit of ire at his friend for dismissing his concerns. He hopes as well his doubt will pass, for it might cause a judgement mistake in battle. He knows his loyalty to Arthur is unwavering, and yet…
I would walk through hell for you.
You will, my brother. And you may not survive it.
Lancelot blinks his eyes rapidly to dispell the memory of his strange dream.
"Are you well?" Arthur asks, noticing the movement.
"Aye, brother. Leave me now so I may sleep, if it pleases you."
"Indeed. Call if you have need of me," he answers, his green eyes dull once more. Lancelot's chest aches at the look on his friend's face. Resignment is not something he cares to see in Arthur.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur is gone, shutting the door behind him softly.
Lancelot sighs, and relaxes back into the bed clothing, flinging an arm over his eyes.
His dream has disturbed him greatly, and he drifts off again, thinking of bloody blades, battle cries, sweat streaked faces, mud and muck mixed crimson, and the face of his commander as he lets fly the arrow into Lancelot's chest.
For once the killing machine is silent, and the man takes its place, suffering in silence.
Fin.