Title: "Legends"

Summary: Arthur has one more rite to perform before he can go forth with his chosen destiny as King, but how can he perform it if it means severing his last ties to the friend who knew him best?

Rating: PG

Author's Notes: I haven't been reading that many fics, aside from those of my favorite authors, so I'm not sure if anyone's written a story with Arthur following through with Lancelot's favor, if he died in battle. I could also be wrong, but I think this fic has pushed me over the 100K word mark in this site!

Dedication: To Ashley A, who got me started in this whole silliness to begin with! ;-)

Arthur gazed down from the edge of the cliff and out into the expanse of the sea. He closed his eyes and felt the salty tang of the sea air waft around him whipping his hair and cloak all around. Guinevere was right; there was something about this isle that called to him. He doubted he could have found the peace that he now found here on this cliff anywhere in Rome. He sadly shook his head thinking that if he had somehow returned to Rome, he would have truly been a stranger in a strange land. All the upbringing he had had with the man that had taken the place of his father would have immediately marked him as a dead man. It's doubtful he would've even survived excommunication; he probably would've been killed as quickly as his teacher and friend, Pelagius. Arthur straightened and looked clear across to the horizon. The sun had yet to rise, but he could feel a power in the air so close to the tide.

I swear to you, Pelagius, even if your followers are rounded up and killed all over the world, even if all your teachings are erased from the face of the Empire and scattered like dust to the four winds, I will hold true to what you have taught me, old friend. Your name may be anathema to the Church, but it and your beliefs will flourish here, on this isle!

His hand drifted from his chest, which he held in his oath, to a large pouch slung over his shoulder and he had to wince slightly. He had to mention casting to the wind, hadn't he? Slowly, reverently, he took out a large urn from the pouch and gazed at it. Far below him the waves of the sea crashed onto the cliffs. The rocks below weathered every strike, though the waves kept coming; neither side appeared to be winning. Appropriate, he thought, that it should mirror his own struggle: his word given to his friend and brother set against the love he had for that same person.

Arthur had converted to Christianity early in his career as a Roman soldier – no pagans ever made it very high up in the Roman military hierarchy – so he believed in the sanctity of the soul. However, standing there, gently hefting the urn made him wonder. All that Lancelot ever was, from his brooding, fiery eyes, to the easy grin that had won over – as well as broke – so many women's hearts, resided in here. Arthur respected all of his knights' beliefs. He may not have shared them, but every one of them had something higher than themselves that they believed in. Whether it was ancestor worship or totems or God, it did not matter: they all had something that got them through every battle they ever fought. There was, however, the devoutly Christian side of Arthur that quietly despaired that Lancelot did not believe in a soul. Would his doubts condemn him to an afterlife of misery? Lancelot had died a hero...that much was certain, but now Arthur wondered how his best friend – the one who knew him best – would be remembered.

His reverie was broken briefly when a gentle hand touched his shoulder. He looked over and felt a surge of emotion equaled only by the waves crashing below. Guinevere looked deeply into his eyes, and put a caressing hand on his cheek.

"You have to let him go, Arthur," she said quietly.

Arthur's eyes widened at hearing those same words spoken months before in a very different conversation.

It had been several days since the victory at Hadrian's Wall. Snow had fallen and the battlefield was still littered with bodies. Fortunately, the cold preserved them so there was no worry about possible plague...or even the smell. The sun was low in the sky, almost stubborn in its slow trek setting in the horizon to the west.

Arthur stared out into the fields with a heavy heart. Although cold and getting colder as the sun set, he barely noticed. The numbness in his heart offset any physical discomfort he was currently feeling. His eyes flickered to Badon Hill and even from here he could see the scored of mounds that marked all the knights that had died in the hundreds of years that Rome held Britain. Arthur's father was buried there...as well as the almost one hundred knights that had died under his command.

All those knights sacrificed to the uncaring altar that was Rome.

Even from here, Arthur could make out the newly made mounds that indicated the last of his knights to die – some under the servitude of Rome, and some by their own free will: Dagonet, Tristan...Lancelot. While the first two were buried according to Sarmation tradition – with their swords plunged into the mounds – the third merely had two short swords crossed and stuck to the earth. No body was buried, since it would have been contrary to an earlier wish:

"...grant me a favor: don't bury me in our sad, little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and cast my ashes to a strong, east wind..."

Arthur closed his eyes as he could still hear his friend, his brother, speak those words in what felt like a lifetime ago. Arthur had complied with that wish...to a point. But as he held the remains of his friend, he found it difficult to follow through with the later half of that favor. He'd kept putting it off for this reason or that, but it still nagged at his mind, as if he felt he was betraying his friend's memory.

A slight rustle to his right caused his eyes to widen and his grip on Excalibur to tighten ever so slightly. When he peripherally took notice of who stood a foot or two away from him, he reluctantly relaxed his grip on his sword.

It would not do to try and later explain to Guinevere why he almost ran through his future father-in-law.

A wry chuckle was all Arthur heard. "Yes," Merlin said with a smile. "It would be an inauspicious beginning to a country as well as a marriage, would it not?"

Arthur turned slightly to see the Woad shaman standing next to him, also gazing out into the field. Though marriage had barely been discussed, Merlin had been the one to suggest the union of Arthur and Guinevere. Much still had to be done first, and it looked as if spring would be the ideal time for a marriage. It was with no small sense of irony that Arthur would eventually be related to his then-most hated enemy. He didn't even bother asking how Merlin knew any of his thoughts; Guinevere's father was uncanny in that respect.

"You will forgive me, Merlin," Arthur said. "I still find your presence a tad...unsettling, especially on this side of the Wall."

Merlin nodded, as if expecting no less. "Change can be difficult, Artorius. But it is necessary if one is to thrive."

Arthur said nothing for a moment then turned to regard the Woad. "So...why are you here, Merlin?"

The older man pursed his lips, as if debating with himself, then said, "Will you hear – or at least listen – to what counsel I have to impart to you?"

The edges of Arthur's lips twitched in mild amusement. "My wanting to or not has never stopped you before, magician."

Merlin gave a wry shrug and then slowly swept his arm to encompass the whole of the field in front of him.

"What do you see out there, Arthur?" he asked quietly.

Arthur blinked at the question but turned to look to follow Merlin's arm. "I see...a battlefield...the dead..." He struggled to find some other meaning in what he saw, but couldn't, especially not when his eyes went to the cemetery again.

Merlin nodded. "It is those things, yes, but I also see it as the past." Arthur frowned in bemusement, but said nothing. Merlin continued, "The past can serve us as teacher, Arthur. We learn not only from our own mistakes but from others as well. We learn and we move on. But it can also hinder us...keep us from the present and stop of from what awaits us in the future. Our destiny or fates...call it what you like...will forever be denied if we look too longingly into the past."

Merlin turned soulful eyes toward Arthur, who felt as his very being was laid bare to the man. He tensed slightly as a hand gripped his shoulder.

"You carry a heavy burden in your heart, Arthur."

The Roman swallowed. "What?"

"When you are ready," Merlin started, "go to the place where one life will end and another will begin. Go there, just prior to sunrise and then – only then – will you find peace." The hand left the other's shoulder. "You have one final rite to perform, Artorius. Do not let his sacrifice be for naught."

In the fading light, Arthur's jaw opened slight, but he could hear Merlin walking away. He turned and saw Merlin at the foot of an archway already shrouded in shadows. Only Merlin's head could be seen and with the last glowing rays of the sun burning in his eyes, he gave one last counsel:

"You must let him go, Arthur."

And the sun disappeared in the distance.

It took some time for Merlin's words to sink in, but Arthur finally realized what he meant when he stood side by side with Guinevere, right there on the cliff as they both were declared man and wife, and he was declared King. It was there that his life was ending, not as a man, but as a Roman. His new life was now that of King, and it was here, in this same ring of stones next to the sea where he stood, waiting for the moment to do his final duty for his friend.

Spring had finally come and green grass had reclaimed the land. Off in the distance, the last of the knights – Gawain, Galahad and Bors – watched while Arthur and Guinevere waited at the edge of the cliff.

Arthur stood there, looking deeply into the eyes of his wife and again, seeing the same penetrating stare he'd seen in her father. Sheepishly, he looked away after hearing her speak the same words her father had spoken.

"I know," he said quietly, staring down at the urn. "It is...very difficult to let go. But I know what has to be done. Besides," he looked out, as if gauging the breeze, "I am waiting for a strong wind. It is what he wanted."

Guinevere's eyes flickered past her husband's shoulder and she said, "Then perhaps we will have help finding one."

Arthur's eyebrows rose a little in confusion until he heard a screech behind him. He whipped his head and a small, beautiful hawk landed on a stone pedestal nearby by.

"Isolde," he breathed, recognizing Tristan's bird that he set free just prior to the battle. It ruffled its feathers and gazed at both at Arthur and Guinevere with unreadable eyes.

"Perhaps," Guinevere said, "that is the help you need, Arthur?" She slowly came forward and – to everyone's surprise – stroked the glossy black feathers of the bird. It squawked a few times, but appeared to tolerate her ministrations.

Arthur was about to speak when suddenly a huge updraft of air rushed up, catching his breath away and whipping his hair. Isolde screeched and Guinevere stepped away as it felt as if she were in the middle of the tempest. The hawk unfurled its wings and with a final shriek, leapt into the air, circled once, and flew east just as the first rays of the sun pierced the dawn.

Excited, Guinevere looked to Arthur, who was breathing heavily in the seething storm around him. He looked from the urn to the sky.

Now!

He twisted the cap off and with a scream of his own he tossed the contents into the air. The ashes hung there in the updraft for a brief moment then lifted away high up into the sky, the individual motes dancing in the burgeoning sunrise. Arthur stared, as the hawk and his last hold on his friend faded into the horizon. He looked down one last time at the urn, and, without a second thought, cast it into the sea.

"Goodbye, my friend," he quietly said, as the gale began to calm down. Guinevere came up and entwined her fingers with his, also staring into the blazing sunrise. He then turned and then led her to walk through the circle of stones.

"Guinevere?" Arthur asked quietly.

"Yes, my husband?"

"Should we – when we – have children...I would like our first son to be named Lancelot."

He glanced over at his wife who merely nodded and smiled. "I expected no less from you, although I did wonder if you'd say anything within the next few months."

Arthur kept walking for about two steps, and then his head snapped over to his wife.

"The next –" and his eyes caught hers twinkling as she looked down. Arthur's eyes followed until he saw her hands pressed on to her lower abdomen, and then they widened a bit in realization.

"You...you are...are you certain?" he asked incredulously. Guinevere gave Arthur a tolerant smile, the type of smile women had been giving men since time immemorial, especially in these circumstances.

"A woman knows these things, Arthur," she said indulgently, and before she could utter another word Arthur took her in his arms and, laughing ecstatically, twirled her around.

Some distance away, Gawain, Galahad and Bors watched the jubilant couple.

"What do you suppose that's about?" asked Gawain.

Galahad shrugged. "Must be a Woad thing."

Bors, who was munching on an apple, looked up and then went back to eating. "She's with child," he said simply. Gawain and Galahad turned to him and two sets of eyebrows went up.

"And just how would you know anything about that?" Galahad said with a slight leer.

Bors looked up and with a leer of his own said, "When you have twelve little bastards –"

"Eleven," Gawain interjected smoothly.

"—you'll know as well when your woman is expecting," Bors finished.

All three looked over to see a joyful Arthur and Guinevere walk over to them. Both were congratulated on their happy news and Bors even mentioned that he was proud that Arthur was hopefully following his sterling example on having a large family.

Guinevere looked at him in mock exasperation. "One child at a time, Sir Knight!"

All laughed in good spirits and then Arthur clapped each of his men on the shoulder.

"My Knights," he said proudly. "Although I will miss you all, this news does alleviate the sadness I will bear once you've left for Sarmatia."

Bors' eyes fell and he looked away, uncomfortably aware of the pointed stares he was now getting from Gawain and Galahad. The looks did not go unnoticed by Arthur. Although they had 'officially' been given their discharge papers months before, the surviving knights had decided to stay a little while longer only until the wedding and no surviving Saxons had returned. Arthur loved each man as a brother, had spilled blood with them...he understood how much they all wanted to go home. His home...his Rome...never truly existed. He truly hoped and prayed he can make this place a home for him, his wife and (he smiled) for his children. But for his knights, their servitude was over and they could go on to fulfill whatever dreams they wanted.

His thoughts were interrupted as Gawain loudly cleared his throat while still looking at Bors, who was getting redder in the face from what looked like embarrassment. Finally, annoyed, Gawain elbowed the knight, who finally spoke up.

"Yes...well, um...Arthur...!" Bors burst out, and then quieted down again. The knight sighed and looked over at Gawain, who nodded. "Well...we've talked things over and...and if you'll have us, we'd...like to stay."

Arthur looked from one knight to another, clearly confused. "Stay? But you all had plans to return back to your homes. Bors," here he looked into the knight's eyes. "You always talked about taking your wife and children away from this island."

Bors shrugged. "I know...but I figure, you would need us more, especially if you've just made king. Besides," here he leaned in closer to whisper. "Venora'd kill me if I turned down the possibility of being a governor here."

Arthur laughed at that. Bors had been talking about that ever since their 'freedom' seemed more and more a possibility. Well, they could work out something later. He then turned to Gawain.

"You always talked about going home and finding a wife," he said to the second youngest member. "What's changed?"

"Well," Gawain said with a sidelong glance at Bors. "If what our resident expert on Sarmatian women has said is true..." the eldest knight merely snorted. "then I guess I have a better chance of finding one here. Besides," here he looked appraisingly at Guinevere, "if your wife is any indication of what British women are truly like, what have I got to lose?"

Arthur looked over at his wife, who laughed. He then looked to Galahad, then youngest in the party, and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. For a split second, he looked quickly to Gawain, since it seemed that these two were inseparable and Gawain was always one to act as big brother to Galahad. Gawain, however, merely looked back, saying nothing. Arthur nodded and looked at the youngest of them all.

"Galahad, as the one who's spent the least amount of time here, you've always talked about all this one day being only a bad memory for you. You, out of all the rest, talked the most about going home."

"And I will...one day," Galahad interjected quietly. "What made it bad was not being under your command, but being under the servitude of Rome. Now that that's no longer the case..." he shrugged. "You need us Arthur, now, more than ever. You were there to support us when we first came here; you taught us how to fight. We should at least return the favor now that you've become king to a free land."

Arthur looked from at all three faces, trying hard to hold back the emotions roiling in his heart. "You are all sure about this?" he asked hoarsely. All three nodded. Arthur took a deep breath and slowly gave his thanks. "Your faith in me, as well as your sacrifice, will not go forgotten, my brothers."

Galahad said, "It is a shame that we are the last of the knights. Britain is still a large country, even for the four of us."

Guinevere looked from one to the other. "Then perhaps it is time for new knights," she said quietly. Arthur was surprised at the suggestion.

"What of your pledge, Arthur?" Gawain asked.

Arthur sighed. He'd almost forgotten that pledge he'd given what seemed like a lifetime ago. Guinevere looked confused until he explained that when the original knights were formed and he had his Round Table built, he decreed that since every knight was unique, whenever one fell in battle, their place would never be filled. Every one that passed on would be remembered by the empty chair that sat at the table. He was about to speak when a slight wind picked up and he heard Merlin's words echo in his mind:

"Change can be difficult, Artorius. But it is necessary if one is to thrive."

His eyes widened in understanding, and he knew that this was another crossroads in not just his life, but the possible life of this island.

"The pledge stands," he said slowly, "for that particular table." Everyone looked at him in confusion. "When I first had that table made, it was when we were all working for the Empire. A new one shall be made in its place, and a call will go out for those who wish to be knights."

Bors crossed his burly arms across his chest. "And I, of course, will take them to task."

Gawain rolled his eyes. "We wish to attract new knights, Bors, not scare them away!"

"Besides," Arthur said. "You did say your son, Number Three, was a good fighter. Who knows? Perhaps one day you'll be teaching him!"

Bors' face fell and he looked uncomfortably embarrassed at the mention of his son.

Gawain elbowed him in jest. "What's the matter? You look like you ate something rotten," he said, laughing.

Bors sighed deeply and shook his head. "I didn't want to say anything before...but...now that he's gone...."

"What are you talking about?" Gawain asked.

Bors growled, but it was a reluctant anger. "It's...Number Three. I didn't want to admit this, but...I think he is Lancelot's."

Everyone's jaw, including Arthur's, dropped with an almost audible thump! to the ground. Bors turned up his worst glare on all of them, daring any to say something. The silence did not last. A snicker broke through and Bors snapped his head to Galahad, who miserably tried to keep his mouth shut. Gawain started shaking uncontrollably while biting his knuckles, and Arthur, whose face was turning red, suddenly found something interesting to look at in the ocean. Even Guinevere had her mouth covered with a hand, though it did nothing to hide the mirth in her eyes.

Bors looked at all of them and realized it was a losing battle. "Fine! Go on, then!" he muttered.

Everyone burst out laughing. Gawain and Galahad clung to each trying hard not to fall to the ground. Arthur's face finally cracked and he laughed as loud as the rest, clutching at his side. Bors' face turned beet red but he softened a bit when Guinevere came over, patted his arm, and said, "Think of this way: he'll have two fathers now."

Bors reluctantly nodded and had to chuckle at himself as well. When everyone sobered up, they headed back towards their horses, though Gawain couldn't resist one last jab.

"Now that will definitely be a story worth remembering," he said to Galahad. Bors was about to give an angry retort, but was cut off by a thoughtful Galahad.

"Do you think one day they'll tell stories about us...about what we've done?"

Bors did a double-take and started to guffaw. "Stories?! Have you now developed delusions of grandeur?"

Galahad reddened, but stiffly said, "Is it so bad to be remembered?"

Bors waved that aside. "Even if they did tell tales about us, the problem is that given a few years, the facts always get mixed-up. Look at Arthur's sword. People are already saying that he pulled Excalibur from a stone instead of his father's burial mound...and you don't want to know what I've heard his wife being called."

Interest piqued, Guinevere stopped walking and looked at Bors. "And just what, pray tell, are they calling me?"

"The Lady on the Lake," Bors replied.

Guinevere frowned. "Why would some people call me that?"

The large knight smiled appreciatively. "How many women do you know who could stand with Arthur and his knights and face down a whole horde of Saxons on a frozen lake?" Guinevere chuckled and shook her head. Bors turned back to Gawain. "So, you see? It's already begun. Give it a few years...maybe at most a hundred or two, and people will only remember legends."

"Then, as we live and breathe, we'll keep reminding people the truth in the tales," Guinevere said earnestly. "Until our deaths, we'll tell everyone of all those who died in the cause of freedom. We'll tell our children and our children's children." She looked from one knight to another, stopping finally at Arthur. "And even if, in two hundred or two thousand years, the facts get muddled and some of the people forgotten to the mists of time, as long as people remember that there was an Arthur and his knights, isn't that enough?" She smiled. "If legends do get remembered, who better than Arthur the King?"

"Or Lancelot the Brave," Arthur returned.

"Or Bors the Lustful," Gawain murmured, causing everyone to laugh.

"And proud of it!" Bors retorted with a chuckle.

They had finally reached their horses and Arthur patted his. "We can stand here and talk of the future...or we can actually go and build it. What say you, my friends?"

Everyone started to mount their steeds. Bors took a little longer in checking his, since it had been injured in fight at the Wall. He was about to get on to the saddle when he glanced back at the circle of stones...and gasped. For a second, his gaze fell on the stone pillar that Tristan's hawk had landed on. And, for that same second, he thought he caught sight of a tall, lanky fellow with a neatly trimmed beard leaning casually on it and laughing. He blinked once and the phantasm was gone.

"Bors?" Galahad inquired.

"It's nothing," he said loudly. Then, more to himself: "Just an old wound." He shook his head and laughed. As gently as possible, he got on to his horse. The others had just started to trot away when he took one last gaze back at where he thought he saw something. After a moment, he smiled.

"'Bors the Lustful'," he said slowly, turning the phrase in his mind before nodding in satisfaction. "I like it."

With that, he trotted off after the others.

-FIN-