Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. The only thing I could possibly own would be a King Arthur DVD.
A/N: This story is dedicated to my beta reader, Ashley A.
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Damn the foul weather of Britain! Lancelot cursed under his breath in the cold rain.
His cloak was dripping wet, and the chilling wind bit through the useless clothes and right to the bone. He tried his best to suppress the urge to cough, but he could do nothing to stop his body from shivering. His head felt like lead, and there was a pounding between the temples. His throat hurt as if he had just swallowed burning coals. All these unpleasant feelings reminded him of the worst hangover he had ever had, following a drinking contest with Bors.
I must be ill, Lancelot deduced. Camping in the wild under all kinds of dreadful weather had been a part of their lives for several years, which made him almost forget that the legendary Sarmatian knights were, after all, only human.
He curled in on himself, and tried to pull the cloak a little tighter. Suddenly, agony burst in his side. He sucked in a breath, the world spun crazily in front of his eyes. Unconsciously, he gritted his teeth to prevent the moans that tried to escape his lips.
The pain subsided after several long moments. He carefully pressed his hand against his left side, just above the belt. There was a long and deep wound, evidence of the gruesome battle three days ago.
Lancelot had thrown one of his swords to kill an enemy who had snuck up behind Galahad. At the moment of distraction, a blade had found its way to his side. After the battle he had bandaged the wound himself. Since the bloodstain on his dark clothes was almost invisible, the others had no idea he was injured and he had no intention to inform them at all. He was the only one wounded and even Bors, the most impulsive one among the knights, remained unscratched. That made his pride suffer more than his body.
"Are you all right?" Arthur's deep voice startled him out of his thoughts. He was a bit surprised, for he did not hear the other man's approach. In this dark night Lancelot couldn't make out the Roman's expression, he could only see those bright eyes gazing intently at him.
"Of course!" He answered casually, but his body decided to shiver at that exact moment. Arthur's eyes darkened a little, and Lancelot could almost see the dark brows knit together and the lips press to a thin line.
A callused hand touched his brow, the unexpected contact making him shudder. Then he heard Arthur say in a low voice, "you burn with fever." A pause, then "Why did you not tell me?" The worry and concern lurked under the surface of his usual calmness.
Lancelot chuckled. "What is the point of telling you? You can do nothing about it. We are only one day's ride from the outpost. Once we get back, there's nothing that can't be cured by enough liquor and beautiful women."
Arthur sighed, but didn't press the matter. He quietly sat himself beside Lancelot, shielding the sick knight from the bitterly cold wind.
After a while the rain stopped. A full moon broke through the thick clouds, and it's silver light spread over the damp grass.
As an eagle cried high in the night sky, Tristan burst into the camp from the woods. He shouted, "Saxons are coming this way. They must have found our track."
"How many?" Arthur simply asked, as he stood up.
"About thirty," the lone scout said with an excited glint in his eyes. It was not too big a number for them to handle, and killing Saxons was definitely good sport for a cold, rainy night as far as Tristan was concerned.
"Knights!" Arthur proclaimed coolly, "Arm yourselves. We fight!"
Lancelot pulled himself up slowly, careful not to aggravate his throbbing wound. As he notched an arrow on his bow, he overheard Gawain and Galahad muttering darkly about the ever-present Saxons. Lancelot smirked at them, "At least the damned rain has stopped."
Before the enemies got into sword-range, nearly half had been felled by the deadly arrows of the knights.
Lancelot tossed his bow to the side, drew out his twin blades in a flash, and came face to face with a heavily built, brutishly ugly Saxon. He gracefully sidestepped the club swung at him. With a speed almost too fast for human eyes to follow, he thrust the blade deeply into the opponent's abdomen. Without sparing a glance to his fallen enemy, Lancelot freed his sword, and turned to face the next one.
The battle was soon over. Thirty leaderless straggling Saxons were no match for the mighty Arthur and his great Sarmatian knights.
Lancelot was leaning against a tree, panting. The wound in his side ached terribly, the blood loss and high fever having weakened him significantly. Whatever strength he had left had been spent in the battle. Now he even doubted if he could get on a horse without aid.
Suddenly his eyes caught movement on the ground and Lancelot felt the blood freeze in his veins. A wounded Saxon grabbed a crossbow and the arrow was pointed at Arthur's unprotected back. Terror gripped his heart like beasts' sharp claws, and he screamed. "ARTHUR!!"
Lancelot knew in his heart that Arthur wouldn't be able to avoid the arrow. With a miraculous burst of speed, he flung his exhausted body at Arthur, right in the path of the deadly shot.
White-hot, searing pain exploded both in his side and back; he lost consciousness before he hit the ground.
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The arrow that was meant for Arthur's heart was embedded deeply in Lancelot, under the right shoulder blade.
As Dagonet held Lancelot's limp form, Arthur worked cautiously to strip the wounded knight. He was shocked to see the crimson stain on the side of Lancelot's tunic. After the fabric was pulled away, the deep laceration on the muscular lean waist was revealed, blood rushing out in a torrent.
Galahad quickly pressed a piece of clean cloth over the wound, murmuring with a grimace. "I remember seeing him getting injured three days ago. But when I asked him, he simply said I was mistaken." Taking notice of Arthur's suddenly darkened expression, the youngest knight added immediately, "He got wounded while saving my life."
So being ill was not the only thing he kept to himself. Arthur was furious with Lancelot. Most of the time he admired the sense of honor in his most renowned knight, but he feared the unequaled pride of Lancelot would be the death of his dearest friend.
"Damn you, Lancelot! You arrogant devil! " Arthur cursed loudly. Being Christian and a Roman aristocrat, Arthur was never heard to utter a single blasphemous word. The knights were shocked by his outburst; even the usually indifferent Tristan stared at Arthur wide-eyed.
Arthur took a deep breath and calmed himself reluctantly. There was no time for him to lose his temper. The arrow must come out. He gripped the dark shaft of the bolt firmly, and other knights took the cue. Gawain placed a dagger's sheath in Lancelot's mouth in case he bit his tongue. Dagonet held Lancelot's upper body securely, while Bors and Tristan pressed his legs to the ground.
Holding his breath, Arthur swiftly pulled the arrow free. Hot blood spurted out with a vengeance, staining the Roman's face scarlet.
They managed to stem the blood and bandage both wounds. Arthur took off his cloak, wrapping it around Lancelot.
The unconscious knight was white as snow, the dark eyelashes contrasting sharply with the pallor of his face. The bloodless lips pressed together tightly, no longer crooked into his trademark smirk. Arthur gazed upon that handsome young face, wondering how the famous Sarmatian knight possessed such an air of innocence. Then he suddenly realized, though Lancelot had been fighting as a knight of the Roman Empire for over five years, he was only eighteen years old.
Dagonet said quietly, "He's lost a lot of blood, and he still bleeds inside." Gawain lowered his head and let out a sigh. Galahad tightened his jaw, eyes glittering with tears. "We will not be so lucky to be rid of this swanky devil. He soon will be up and about, and harassing other's women," Bors grunted, his voice thick with emotions. Tristan stood indifferently nearby, yet his usually cold eyes softened when they fell upon the fallen knight.
"Knights, ready the horses. We ride back," Arthur said quietly but firmly, his face completely calm despite the great anxiety he felt within. Lancelot's wounds were too grievous; the sooner they got back to the outpost, the better chance he would have to heal.
Arthur mounted his horse and held Lancelot securely in front of him. The knight was deeply unconscious now, the dark head lolled against the Roman's broad shoulder. Sending a quiet prayer to his God, Arthur kicked his steed forward. The knights rode after him into the darkness of the cold night.
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Blood red sun drove away the morning mists as the high wall of the outpost finally appeared in the distance.
Arthur nodded towards Gawain and Galahad wordlessly, and the two knights rode ahead of the group to prepare the healer for the arrival of the wounded.
Arthur could feel something warm and wet upon his chest. His brow furrowed, Lancelot's arrow wound was bleeding again. He muttered desperately into the Sarmatian's ear, "Just hold on, Lancelot. The outpost is near."
Lancelot moaned weakly, having neither the strength nor the breath to speak. The jostling of the horse had brutally jolted him back to consciousness, and the agony flared mercilessly in his chest, denying him sweet, painless oblivion.
The Roman soldiers and the people gathered around the gates to welcome the return of Arthur and his knights. Soon the sound of cheering died and some women screamed, as people caught sight of an injured Lancelot in Arthur's arms.
Arthur shook his head in mild amusement despite his fear for the knight's life. Lancelot's charm with women was just as legendary as his skills wielding weapons.
By the time they got Lancelot to the healing chamber, the young knight had once again fallen unconscious. The healer cleaned his wounds, applied some salve to help the torn flesh heal, and re-bandaged his torso with clean linens.
Since Lancelot had already lost a critical amount of blood, the healer dared not risk bleeding him to lower his high fever. The only option left is to bathe the injured knight with cold water.
Vanora closed her little tavern and came to the fortress with two young women who were doubtlessly admirers of Lancelot. They took turns looking after the wounded knight, as the other Sarmatian knights were incapable of such a delicate task.
Time crawled as everybody waited anxiously for Lancelot to wake. No laughter or jesting could be heard at the round table, though the knights spent most waking time drinking there. Arthur hardly left Lancelot's side, praying vehemently to his God for his best friend's survival. Yet days passed, the fever showed no sign of breaking and the injured knight was lost in pain and delirium. The Roman began to wonder if his prayers were heard at all.
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Lancelot felt as if he was under deep water when he slowly returned to consciousness. Unknown weight pressed his limbs, preventing any movements. Suddenly an acid fire burned its way through his joints, forcing a gasp of air out of his overtaxed lungs.
He shouldn't be taking deep breaths, but he realized his mistake a moment too late. Burning agony spiked in his chest, and he fell into a painful coughing fit, which cut off his air completely. So intense was the desire to breathe, he didn't notice the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the precious air into his hungry lungs. At this point, Lancelot wished he would just pass out again, and have done with it.
A pair of strong arms held him in a sitting position, and Arthur's soothing words rang in his ears, "It's alright, Lance. Just relax. Try to breathe with me, slowly..."
Lancelot felt the Roman's chest rise and fall steadily, and after a few desperate moments he finally succeeded in matching his own breathing to that rhythm.
The tension left his body gradually, and the pain was reduced to a dull ache in his chest. Lancelot pried his eyes open, blinked a couple times to clear the haze, and the first thing he saw was Arthur's face.
The Roman was as expressionless as ever, yet genuine concern was evident in his bloodshot eyes. Weak as he was, Lancelot still found strength for some jests. He licked his lips and said breathlessly, "Such... a sour face, Arthur. No...no wonder... you are still...still single."
Arthur grabbed a piece of wet cloth and wiped the knight's chin with it. He said quietly, "Save your strength, Lancelot. You are still weak."
Lancelot furrowed his brow at Arthur's words, and was about to retort. Then he saw the crimson stain on the cloth in Arthur's hand. His heart sank and his voice failed him.
Arthur helped the Sarmatian knight lay back in bed. His throat tightened painfully at the sight of defeat in those dark orbs. He wanted nothing more than to comfort his friend, to ease the troubled mind. But no sound escaped his lips for he could not find the words. Silence in the dark chamber stretched indefinitely.
"How long have I slept?" Lancelot asked suddenly, his eyes now calm and clear.
"Two weeks." Lancelot couldn't hide his surprise hearing the answer. So this time it was really a close call.
Arthur continued, "Your high fever only broke three days ago. You are to be strictly bedridden for a month. The healer's order."
Lancelot groaned, "A month?!" He rolled his eyes and said playfully, "I should have just let you die." Arthur nodded, "Yes, you should have." The Roman had a strange, pained expression on his face.
All levity disappeared from Lancelot's dark eyes; he said with a dangerous slow voice, "You know I was only joking." Arthur met his eyes squarely and replied calmly, "But I was not."
Lancelot grabbed Arthur's arm and pulled himself halfway upwards. He gritted his teeth and barked harshly in his rage, "Damn you, Arthur! Is that how you think of me? Someone who just watches as his friend is about to be killed, and does nothing? Some barbarian who doesn't understand the word 'loyalty'? A cold-blooded killer who cares for no one but himself? Is that how you think of..." He broke into another coughing fit, but he stubbornly remained upright.
Arthur sighed, rubbing soft circles on Lancelot's back, careful to avoid the healing wound. After the knight found his breath again, Arthur wiped the blood gently from the Sarmatian's lips with his callused hand. He eyed the ruby liquid on his fingertips with anguish, no longer able to mask his emotions. He murmured, "I have killed many men. My hands are soaked by their blood. But this time, it is the blood of a friend, the blood of a brother marring my soul. Lancelot," he finally raised his uncertain eyes to the young knight, "you took a lethal arrow that was meant for me. You could have died if not for God's mercy. Who am I to deserve that kind of a sacrifice?"
Lancelot smiled faintly, the intense dark eyes seeming to bore into the core of Arthur's soul. "You, my dear friend, think too lowly of yourself. To us Sarmatian knights, you are our leader, our friend, and our brother. You are where our loyalty lies and we ride into battles with you and for you. In this foreign land, to follow you is the only purpose of our lives. Your spirit shines like a beacon in the dark days and the light gives us hope."
Arthur found it very hard to swallow the thick lump in his throat. Lancelot's absolute faith in him had made him both proud and frightened. Being half Roman half Briton, Arthur had always been a little unsure of himself. He had chosen his allegiance to the Roman Empire and had fought against the Britons. Yet the endless killing had driven him to question his own action again and again; he could only turn to his God to seek some peace of mind. He realized for the first time that the friendship and loyalty of his knights gave him more strength than his religion.
Lancelot's tired face grew paler by the moment. He slowly sank back in bed, grinning slyly, "I will not die on this cursed island, simply because I promised to return home, and I have never broken my word. It has nothing to do with your God's mercy."
Arthur smiled, "Many men who claim to be brave cower in the face of death. You, my friend, show the true meaning of fearlessness." Lancelot snorted, "Oh, Arthur, please spare me your philosophical thoughts. Try them with the fairer sex. If you even share a small portion of Bors' luck, some woman might actually fall for it." With a final smirk, the knight closed his eyes and sank into a deep healing sleep.
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Ten years later.
As Arthur scattered the gray ashes into a strong east wind, he vowed silently into the sky.
Lancelot, my dearest friend, my brother. I now stand as King of Briton, without fear or doubt. I will lead the people to unity and I will bring peace to this land. I will not let your sacrifice be in vain and I will live my life worthy of your loyalty.
Once again Arthur saw those dark proud eyes of his first knight, and the tears ran unbidden down his weathered face.
THE END.