Author's note:
Let me apologize in advance for the amount of angst in this. I just can't help it.
Spoilers: High
Summary: My first foray gulp into first person POV Lancelot. Let me know how he sounds. This little vignette takes place right after Arthur has decided to stay behind and fight the Saxons alone.
Rated PG
Feedback does a body good!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, unfortunately.
Enjoy!
"Arthur, for the sake of our friendship, I beg you! I beg-"
"I cannot follow you."
He had dared…dared! to touch my neck, and then had left me standing there, dazed and enraged, with only the cold air and her gaze to comfort me.
How dare he do this. How dare he make me feel this way, argue in front of everyone, and then turn. me. down?
I who know him best of all? Apparently not. I would never had thought he would have chosen certain death and a fool's errand over freedom and loyalty. To stay and fight, when the tiny bit of Roman Calvary that was left has turned tail and run? To be the only one fighting for a country and a cause that are not your own?
Arthur. Gods curse the day I ever met you.
And gods damn me for loving you, and for being willing to walk into Hell behind you.
No one ever showed me as much trust, as much compassion, as much devotion as he did. And I hate myself for leaving.
But I don't stop packing my saddle bags. I don't rush to his quarters to try and talk him out of it.
The time for talk is done. I have no words for him if he isn't able to do what I ask for the sake of our friendship. I have no other thing to bargain with.
For the sake of our friendship.
And still he said no.
All my actions have led me to this moment.
How can he be so sure? How can he know this is what his God has meant for him to do all along? Up until a few days ago, he was just as ready to leave as the rest of us.
Now, everything he believed in, and stood for, has been ripped away. His reasons for doing what he has done are all but trash at the foot of mighty Rome.
Ah, Rome. Breeding ground of fools. Place of insanity and chaos. An empire that has grown too fast and far to be able to be controlled any more.
We have fought for fifteen years to defend an outpost that is being abandoned by the very men we were forced to serve. I would be infuriated, but I'm past the point of even caring anymore.
The only life I have ever known, can even remember, is this one. And the only things and people I care for are here.
But the only thing I have ever dreamed of in this hell was the right to go and make my own way. I may not know where home is, but I know that what's important is that I have the right to choose where it shall be.
All of us do. We have all fought and bled and destroyed for Rome, and now when we have the chance to live, the one of us who needs to go is the one that is staying.
I stop packing a moment, and listen closely to the sounds of the massive Saxon army preparing for war in the morning.
They will slaughter everything in their path, regardless of what little resistance the Woads can provide.
In all my years serving as Arthur's lieutenant, I have never once hesitated to believe in any cause that he believed in. Not until now. And it unnerves me horrifyingly. My stomach rolls suddenly, and the remains of the small dinner I had eaten come rushing back up.
I cough hoarsely, wiping my hand across my mouth. With trembling fingers I lift the jug of cider someone had left in the stables, and take a swallow. How can I not know the seriousness of what am I about to do? I am going to leave Arthur behind to fight a battle I have no wish to join in on.
I am going to leave him behind.
I am going to leave.
I am.
I flex my cold fingers, and hastily shove the rest of my gear and clothing into the packbags. Tristran has procured us a cart to hold the rest of our armor; it's too large a collection to carry on single horses.
I suddenly cannot stand to be in this place for a moment longer, and stand, leaving my bags halfway done in the corner of the stable. No one would dare touch them.
I do resheath my two blades, and quit the building.
There is a small square room at the corner of the east and north walls, that is normally used for quarters for spare legionaires. Tonight it's empty of them. Not surprising.
It has an excellent view of the land to the north, and I enter, stooping low to avoid knocking my head against the low brick entrance.
I stop when I realize I am not alone.
I make to leave, but he raises his hand, and I stay.
"They are making ceaseless preparations," he says finally. I nod.
"That is what you do before a war, Arthur."
"Indeed, Lancelot."
We say nothing, he sitting on a small stool looking out over the treetops at the Saxons, me standing in the doorway, trying to swallow down any comment that wants to rip it's way out of my mouth.
I have said my piece. I'm leaving, and he's staying. And I will give my own head to the Saxon's before I bring it up again.
"I was thinking," he says softly, and I raise an eyebrow.
"Aye? Are you sure you ought to be doing that?"
He shoots a glance over his shoulder, and any other man might have run squealing from the room like a shoat. But oh no, not me. Not Lancelot the brave.
I square my shoulders and cross my arms, leaning against the wall. I gesture at him to continue.
"I was thinking about the first time all of us were gathered here."
"With the Bishop?" I ask. He shakes his head.
"No. I refer to all of us. All one hundred knights. The first day we all sat in equality at the round table, and we had all held aloft our cups, and had pledged to be brothers in arms until we were all but dust."
I can't help the small smile that creases the corner of my mouth.
"A lifetime ago, Arthur," I state.
"I can see it like it was yesterday, Lancelot," he murmurs sadly, the only light in the small room the light from Saxon fires. The orange glow flickers around us, making our skin seem to burn.
"I can hear the laughter ringing in my ears, can taste the strong wine we had drunk. I can see them, every single one, and I hear the cries of loyalty and brotherhood. I can feel your hand, clapped warm on my shoulder, and I can see your face as it was ten years past. Before we started dying. Before we bore the burden of messy ruin. Before things became unclear."
I sigh, and without meaning to, cross the room and sit next to him on the only other furniture in the room, a large wooden chest with a flat top.
"Arthur…a lot of things have passed since then. We are not who we were. We cannot be. We have done too much, seen too much, lost too many. I understand your melancholy, but my friend, you cannot save ones who are already gone by staying and fighting this battle. This is not Rome's quest any longer. It is Arthur's. And you are the one who makes it so. If you die in this, it will not redeem them, or bring them eternal rest. All it will do is deprive the world of a person it sorely needs. And a person who has earned the right to do as he chooses."
Damn it. Damn my tongue, and damn me for letting it slip. I run a hand through my hair, and stare out the window, not daring to meet his intense green gaze.
"It is my quest," he says, pain and distress evident in his voice. I wince inwardly at the sound. "It is, my brother, because it must be. There is nothing left for me. How many times have I led you into Hell, only to emerge unscathed because I knew what I was? I am a knight. What else am I made for? For so many years I did what was requested of me by my seniors for the church and for Rome. I did it, because I knew through my whole body that what I was being asked to do was right, because the church requested it. I was doing my duty for God. And He in His infinite mercy and wisdom required many horrible things from me. He required that I lead people I loved into certain death. He required that I make killers out of young boys conscripted into a war they had naught to do with. And I did it, Lancelot, because I am a knight, and that is what I do. And now that so many things have been made clear to me, now that my entire reason for existing has been shaken to the core, what else can I do? I must fight. I must make all the death, all the sacrifice and loyalty, and above all, all the deeds be worth something. For if they aren't, by God, then what am I for? Why have I spent the last fifteen years defending a desolate outpost from enemies who I now have no reason to hate? Tell me, Lancelot, make me believe, so I can go with you. Can you do this? Please, for the sake of our friendship, I beg you."
My heart shatters at the repetition of my earlier words. I open my mouth, all sense driven from my brain, my guts twisting like rope and my vision spotty. I have never heard such anguish from any man, let alone the one seated next to me.
My eyes burn, and I swallow hard the bile that has risen up my gorge. The worst thing is…I cannot tell him what he wants to hear. I know, for Arthur, this is the only thing he can do.
I do not know what I would do in his place. I have always known what I wished to do the moment I was freed.
As long as Sarmatia stands, or as long as I draw breath, I will go home. Even if I know no one there anymore, or there's naught for me to do. I have spent the time here fighting, not for Rome or for some unknown diety, but for my fellow knights and for the closest thing I have to a brother in this world. My path is clear before me.
Then why do I feel like an utter bastard, like a traitorous fiend who's only goal is to do what he desires, putting only himself first?
"Oh, my brother," I answer finally, my voice cracking from the strain of not weeping, "I would pray to any god you wished that I could."
I leap up, and make to pass through the door.
He calls out my name, and I turn.
"I will see you again," he tells me, and somehow I know he is right. I nod once, and cross my right arm across my chest, touching my left shoulder with my fist. I tilt my head toward the ground, and he smiles briefly before turning back to the window, and the night sky.
"Aye, Arthur. I have no doubt of it," I whisper, and flee the tiny space and my large emotions.
I stop only when I've reached the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the wall, my lungs heaving and my fingers flexing uncontrollably. I have the urge to slash and hack anything that dares get in my way. I pull one blade from the sheathes across my back, and the sharp metallic sound is a welcome noise to my ear.
I stride toward the commons in the center of the keep, and almost run Gawain over as he makes his way into the same area.
"Lancelot, come, drink with us," he calls after me, but I keep going.
The moon flashes on my weapon, and I finally reach my destination.
The practice target we use for archery is kindling in a few seconds.
I pant harshly, eyes rolling in their sockets, sweat pouring off my brow.
I fling my sword to the ground, and raise my head to the sky, a howl of agony and fury spliting the night. I do not care who hears me.
As soon as the rage takes me, it is gone, and suddenly Tristran is there, one light hand on my shoulder.
I meet his gaze, my eyes red and wet, and he cocks his head to the right.
"Come join us, friend. The table is cold without you there."
I allow him to lead me away, my deadly blade once more in its scabbard where it belongs. For now.
For the sake of our friendship, I beg you.
Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Tristran and I sit quietly around a small table at the edge of the kitchen, drinking silently.
They all stare at me, but I ignore them, content to stew in stillness with my own morbid thoughts.
Bors nudges me, and I look up. The others have their mugs raised, and Bors says two simple words.
"To Arthur."
I slowly raise my own, and join the toast.
It is the only thing I can do.
Fin.