blindsight, n., the ability of a blind person to sense the presence of a light source.
Title: Blindsight
Author: trinchardin
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairing/s: Tristan/Lancelot, slight Gawain/Galahad
Category: Angst/Romance
Rating: PG13
Summary: [Third in Blind Trilogy] Tristan regains his bearings.
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.
He does not apologize. It is not that he is too proud to admit a wrong. No, he is more afraid of what comes after, be it acceptance or rejection. He cannot think straight as it is, and every trail seems to lead back to Lancelot. Yet, he manages to stay away, finding sanctuary in the surrounding woods or scouting trips. It is dangerous, and he can never sleep soundly, but it is the same in the fort and among the other knights anyway. At least, the Woads he knows how to deal with.
All thoughts of the younger man are ruthlessly reined in, and he finds other things to observe. It is tempting to chance a look, but as with all weaknesses, he has trained himself to resist. Now, the tables are turned. He has made encounters rare and pretends not to notice. But, when it cannot be helped, he is all too aware of the other's glances, scorching anger that has died down to embers of hurt and confusion. Arthur already notices this, and his disapproving looks are another thing to be ignored. Of the others, perhaps Dagonet suspects something as well.
Yet, despite all his measures, Tristan fails. In battle, he has to be fully aware of each and everyone. It is not a matter of knowing that friendly fire isn't, for his arrows have never failed to hit their intended target. No, it is simply a necessary knowledge of each knight's situation on the field, so that he might aid them if need be. Nothing can change the fact that they are brothers-in-arms, sworn to protect each other. In those moments, his emotional defenses are down, and he is entirely susceptible to his protective instincts. Lancelot's presence stands out, an intangible yet undeniable light in the darkness of the dead and dying around them.
So, when an battle ax is aimed at Lancelot's back, he steps in its way without a thought. It catches him in the chest, his armor not enough to protect him from the impact of the blow or the rough biting edge. Pain courses through his right side, but not before he has sent a blade at the attacker's throat. This will take time to heal, and he may not use his arm for days, but he has no regrets.
In the aftermath, Lancelot finds him leaning against a tree, tending to his wound. Without a word, the other takes on the task, face pale and lips a drawn line. It is almost as if he is the one in pain - perhaps, it is partly so. His hands try to be gentle, but his fingers tremble and Tristan's skin sings at the touch.
"What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't."
Their eyes meet then, but only because Tristan cannot turn away, not when the other is so close. He surrenders to temptation. His uninjured arm reaches to touch the smooth planes of a face mapped out in his mind, and Lancelot leans into his callused hand, though the dark eyes are half-lidded, wary of the unexpected tenderness.
"You cloud my judgment."
It was no apology. Far from it. 'Twas a blunt statement sharpened by the accusation it held. Lancelot heard it for what it was, and accepted with bowed head, eyes no longer willing to look into his.
"So, what happens then?"
The uncertainty of the whisper made Tristan pull away, resting his head back to look at the darkening sky. It held no answer, but he did not expect it to. He already knew what it was after all. They only had so much time given to them, sparring with death as they did. One should not ignore the gifts of the gods for they might take offense, and your life and happiness with it. When he lifted up the other's face for a soft kiss, hands clutched at his blood-stained tunic in response, bringing him closer, skin rasping against skin.
Though caught in the other's sweetness, the edges of his consciousness called out a warning. His sharp senses felt the newcomer's presence even before the crackle of wild brush sounded. Yet, he recognized who it was, and his lips paused waiting for his companion's judgment. For a moment, his heart stilled, but it revived at the hard yank on his braids and the fierce kiss spiked with the cooper of blood. He met this force with a soft curve of lips. As the sounds of a clumsy retreat faded, he wondered in amusement if they'd done someone a favor.
Later, when they returned together, no one said a word. Perhaps it was because Bors was already fast asleep. Arthur and Dagonet just exchanged knowing looks, and Gawain was too intent on trying to watch a drowsy Galahad without being caught. The long-haired warrior caught Tristan's smirk though, and a slight flush of the cheeks betrayed him before he turned back to Galahad. Then, the fire was banked for the night, and everyone started to settle down. As he did so, Tristan could sense Lancelot at first watch. The warmth of his presence and the feel of those dark eyes on him were the last he knew before sleep came.
Title: Blindsight
Author: trinchardin
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairing/s: Tristan/Lancelot, slight Gawain/Galahad
Category: Angst/Romance
Rating: PG13
Summary: [Third in Blind Trilogy] Tristan regains his bearings.
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.
He does not apologize. It is not that he is too proud to admit a wrong. No, he is more afraid of what comes after, be it acceptance or rejection. He cannot think straight as it is, and every trail seems to lead back to Lancelot. Yet, he manages to stay away, finding sanctuary in the surrounding woods or scouting trips. It is dangerous, and he can never sleep soundly, but it is the same in the fort and among the other knights anyway. At least, the Woads he knows how to deal with.
All thoughts of the younger man are ruthlessly reined in, and he finds other things to observe. It is tempting to chance a look, but as with all weaknesses, he has trained himself to resist. Now, the tables are turned. He has made encounters rare and pretends not to notice. But, when it cannot be helped, he is all too aware of the other's glances, scorching anger that has died down to embers of hurt and confusion. Arthur already notices this, and his disapproving looks are another thing to be ignored. Of the others, perhaps Dagonet suspects something as well.
Yet, despite all his measures, Tristan fails. In battle, he has to be fully aware of each and everyone. It is not a matter of knowing that friendly fire isn't, for his arrows have never failed to hit their intended target. No, it is simply a necessary knowledge of each knight's situation on the field, so that he might aid them if need be. Nothing can change the fact that they are brothers-in-arms, sworn to protect each other. In those moments, his emotional defenses are down, and he is entirely susceptible to his protective instincts. Lancelot's presence stands out, an intangible yet undeniable light in the darkness of the dead and dying around them.
So, when an battle ax is aimed at Lancelot's back, he steps in its way without a thought. It catches him in the chest, his armor not enough to protect him from the impact of the blow or the rough biting edge. Pain courses through his right side, but not before he has sent a blade at the attacker's throat. This will take time to heal, and he may not use his arm for days, but he has no regrets.
In the aftermath, Lancelot finds him leaning against a tree, tending to his wound. Without a word, the other takes on the task, face pale and lips a drawn line. It is almost as if he is the one in pain - perhaps, it is partly so. His hands try to be gentle, but his fingers tremble and Tristan's skin sings at the touch.
"What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't."
Their eyes meet then, but only because Tristan cannot turn away, not when the other is so close. He surrenders to temptation. His uninjured arm reaches to touch the smooth planes of a face mapped out in his mind, and Lancelot leans into his callused hand, though the dark eyes are half-lidded, wary of the unexpected tenderness.
"You cloud my judgment."
It was no apology. Far from it. 'Twas a blunt statement sharpened by the accusation it held. Lancelot heard it for what it was, and accepted with bowed head, eyes no longer willing to look into his.
"So, what happens then?"
The uncertainty of the whisper made Tristan pull away, resting his head back to look at the darkening sky. It held no answer, but he did not expect it to. He already knew what it was after all. They only had so much time given to them, sparring with death as they did. One should not ignore the gifts of the gods for they might take offense, and your life and happiness with it. When he lifted up the other's face for a soft kiss, hands clutched at his blood-stained tunic in response, bringing him closer, skin rasping against skin.
Though caught in the other's sweetness, the edges of his consciousness called out a warning. His sharp senses felt the newcomer's presence even before the crackle of wild brush sounded. Yet, he recognized who it was, and his lips paused waiting for his companion's judgment. For a moment, his heart stilled, but it revived at the hard yank on his braids and the fierce kiss spiked with the cooper of blood. He met this force with a soft curve of lips. As the sounds of a clumsy retreat faded, he wondered in amusement if they'd done someone a favor.
Later, when they returned together, no one said a word. Perhaps it was because Bors was already fast asleep. Arthur and Dagonet just exchanged knowing looks, and Gawain was too intent on trying to watch a drowsy Galahad without being caught. The long-haired warrior caught Tristan's smirk though, and a slight flush of the cheeks betrayed him before he turned back to Galahad. Then, the fire was banked for the night, and everyone started to settle down. As he did so, Tristan could sense Lancelot at first watch. The warmth of his presence and the feel of those dark eyes on him were the last he knew before sleep came.