A/N: Thank you Buckhunter and GuestM Live for reviewing!


No. 19 Knees Buckling | Head Lolling

The ground was slick with blood, the earth muddied with it. Steel clashed and pealed throughout the air in a cacophony of screeches that had been going on for hours. Lancelot slipped in the ichor, losing his balance long enough for an enemy combatant to take a swing at his back. He felt the bite of iron slice through his chainmail and across his flesh, and the blow almost brought him down. But he struggled to regain his feet and spun to block the next strike. The mud squelched around their boots as they grappled with their locked swords. Lancelot gritted his teeth as his opponent bore down on him; his strength and adrenaline were waning after so long on the battlefield.

With a rallying cry, Lancelot mustered the force to push back. The enemy soldier slipped in the mire and went down. Lancelot brought his sword point after him, piercing the man through the chest. But the momentum was too much and he pitched forward, nearly collapsing over the body. He managed to hold himself up by the hilt of his sword, and when he straightened, fire shot through his back. He gasped and almost doubled over again. Warm wetness was trickling down the inside of his shirt. He couldn't fall, though. If he fell, he knew he wouldn't be getting back up.

But there were limits to what the human body could bear, and so despite Lancelot's determined will, his knees abruptly buckled, and he collapsed onto the damp earth, rolling onto his back and blinking dazedly up at a pewter sky. The weather had matched the dire circumstance of war, shrouding the battlefield with a dull gloom.

Lancelot knew he was vulnerable, knew he needed to get up. But it felt like his limbs had completely detached from his mind, and he couldn't bring them to move. Sounds of battle sounded a ways off, in any case; the place where he lay seemed silent, nothing but the dead and dying piled atop each other. Lancelot couldn't see over the bodies to where the fighting was still going on, couldn't see who was still engaged with the enemy…who was still alive.

The pain in his back kept him conscious for a while, but eventually the adrenaline crash and blood loss made him drift in and out of consciousness. At some point, he didn't know how long, there were no more sounds of battle. There was an eerie silence hovering in the air. He wanted to sit up, to see who had emerged the victor—to make sure his friends were okay. But he couldn't muster the strength. He was cold, the chilly mud forming a shell around him, like a budding tomb ready to suck him down into the earth.

He lolled his head in the muck, bleary gaze roving over the surrounding carnage. There were swaths of Camelot red, but for the most part, Lancelot couldn't tell the fallen apart from each other. He lay there, praying to be found but fearing he would just be another faceless casualty. And what if his friends weren't even able to look for him? What if they were lying helpless somewhere among the slaughter, hoping Lancelot would come for them?

He closed his eyes and drifted some more, hovering on the precipice of letting go. It wasn't in his nature to give up, though, and so he held on by the barest thread of will.

The touch of cold fingers at his jaw jolted him awake, though his eyes only opened to half mast. Percival jerked back in surprise, looming over him. His eyes stood out wide and watery in his dirtied face. Then he turned and yelled over his shoulder,

"Over here!" He whipped back around. "Lancelot?"

Lancelot swallowed around a parched throat, words failing him. But he managed to flap a limp hand up off the ground and clasp Percival's forearm. Percival grabbed it and squeezed hard.

"Hang on. We'll get you sorted."

Gwaine appeared, looking harried and just as filthy. There was blood splatter on his face, which could have been his or not. His normally bouncy hair was plastered down in dank clumps.

"Help me get him up," Percival said, taking hold of Lancelot's arm.

Gwaine knelt down on his other side and grabbed the other, and together they heaved him upright. His head spun and his vision went dark.

"He's wounded back here," Gwaine said. "Careful with it."

Percival didn't say anything as he lifted Lancelot into his arms. Despite his care, he did brush the wound in Lancelot's back, sending a fresh jolt of fiery pain through him.

The harried pace Percival set sent Lancelot into a dizzying spiral. He barely registered being carried into a tent and laid on a pallet.

"Where's Merlin?" Gwaine asked.

"Two tents down," Elyan's voice replied.

Lancelot struggled to open his eyes again and loll his head toward the sound of his friend. Elyan was sitting on a bedroll in the space beside him, arm in a sling. There were more injured laid out behind him, moans and whimpers filling the tent. On the battlefield, the smell had been noxious, but here in this enclosed space it was even more nauseating.

He heard a commotion as Gwaine came back with Merlin, both of them running to Lancelot. Merlin's eyes were wide with relief and worry.

"He's got a cut on his back," Percival reported.

"Roll him over," Merlin instructed.

Lancelot idly felt indignant at being spoken about when he was right there, but he was too out of it to complain. And, really, he supposed he didn't appear very lucid to his friends at the moment.

When Percival rolled him up onto his side, the dizziness swept through him again and this time carried him away completely.

The next time awareness returned, it was to the sensation of a cold, wet cloth gently wiping across his face. He prized his eyes open, his vision blurry at first. The ministrations paused.

"Lancelot?" Percival called tentatively.

He blinked until the smudged outline solidified into his friend. "Percival," he rasped.

Percival smiled. "Welcome back. We were worried."

Lancelot turned his head to his right to see if Elyan was still there. He was, sipping out of a tin cup. Leon was beside him now too, propped up against a saddle with a bandaged leg extended out straight. Both of them smiled at Lancelot in relief.

"The others?" he asked. "Arthur?"

"Alive," Percival assured him. "Arthur has been busy negotiating the terms of Beriland's surrender. Merlin's been busy treating the wounded, but Gaius arrived a few hours ago."

Lancelot nodded mutely. They'd been victorious, then, and his friends were all right.

Percival resumed wiping the muck and grime from Lancelot's face, then moved on to his neck and arms. "Merlin treated the wound in your back, which looked like the worst," he said. "Gotta make sure there's no other small wounds that could get infected."

Lancelot hummed. The coolness felt nice. "Thank you," he breathed.

For this. For finding him. For carrying him home.