"arthur's" note: hehehhee sorry I have to do it now
Pre movie.
Lancelot finds his double blades, and bonds with Arthur.
I hate summaries…sigh
Rated PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur or his pretty knights, as Melissa would say. ;)
Enjoy.
Don't turn awayI pray you've heard the words I've spoken
Dare to believe for one last time
And then I'll let the darkness cover me
Deny everything
Slowly walk away
To breath again
On my own
Carry me away
I need your strength to get me through this
Dare to believe for one last time
And then I'll let the darkness cover me.
Disturbed, "Darkness"
He stood alone in the commons, exhausted and blood speckled still. His precious twin blades lay silent in the scabbards on his back, testiment to every moment of his life here in Britain.
He could sometimes hear them calling to him at night as he slept, the singing of metal on metal the balm to his frantic mind. He would fall asleep to that music.
"Lancelot," a voice said behind him, and he turned, raising a hand to his fellow.
"Well met this night, Gawain," he answered tonelessly.
"Indeed we are, as we are ten less now," the blond knight said solemnly, and Lancelot nodded once.
"Aye. Ten too many. We are wasting away too quickly. I have wondered as of late what other foolish errands from his merciful church Arthur will accept on our behalf."
"We do as he commands, Lancelot. He is our leader. It matters not who tells him what to do… we are loyal to Artorius Castus, and him alone. I would walk behind him to Hell if he so asked," Gawain spoke, clapping Lancelot on the shoulder, which was meant to be a gesture of friendship.
The drag of steel on leather surprised Gawain, as Lancelot suddenly had his two blades out, held aloft. Not exactly pointed at him, but not exactly pointed away, either.
"Perhaps. And perhaps I am ready to be through following Rome's lapdog," the curly haired knight said in a dangerous tone.
"I take my leave of you, friend," Gawain said, sarcastically pushing the title given to the other man. "If you are feeling like it, come and sit with us by the fire and drink a spell. There are several lonely ladies who have asked about your whereabouts-"
"Later," Lancelot said, the word sounding as if it could shatter diamonds. Gawain raised one eyebrow, and turned on his heel, leaving his fellow soldier as he had found him, alone in the snowy yard.
The blades in his hands trembling, he dropped his arms to his sides, and cursed himself for being callous to Gawain. The man had done him no wrong.
Arthur, however…that was another story.
He hadn't the energy to confront the commander just yet, and had been hoping some time alone in the yard would improve upon his mood. No such luck.
He let go a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and sat down upon a small bench. Looking at first one, then the other of his two swords, he began to clean them methodically, removing the grime and gore, then polishing them til they gleamed.
The swords on his back and the armor on his body were the representation of everything he owned in this world.
And he didn't know if that should make him happy, or utterly miserable.
Considering the source of the weapons, he thinks the latter.
He had been on one of his first raids with Arthur, a mere boy of sixteen, and they had been ambushed by Woads a few leagues south of the keep.
Arthur had been amazing to watch, hacking and slashing his way through bodies, his horse rearing and charging at the slightest touch from Arthur's knees.
Lancelot had almost been run through by a wild woman Woad, her hair an unkempt mess that hung in her face, her stealth almost being the death of him.
He had leapt off his horse to face her, defending himself with a sword from the fortress, and a small Roman style shield. She had come at him, screaming and demented, whirling two shining and screaming blades around her head.
He had thought they glowed red in the sun, like the eyes of a monster.
Youth and quickness had kept him alive, and at the last moment he had managed to cleave her head from her body. She dropped like a stone, the two swords falling to the ground with a reverberating clang that had shaken him so hard he almost felt his teeth rattle.
The battle around him slowed to the speed of a turtle's crawl, as he found himself entranced by the swords the woman had dropped. He had crouched next to her body, expecting her to leap at him, and when she hadn't, he had reached out one shaking hand to touch the blade nearest him.
An almost electric shock ran up his arm, and he had gasped aloud, for the thing had actually spoken his name. The swords had called to him, and had told him to pick them up, for they were his by right of blood.
So he had done as they asked, and had not been parted from them since that time.
Now an aged man of twenty seven, and his blades still flashed and cut and took out Woad lives in the second it took for their master to whip them from the scabbards that crisscrossed his shoulders.
His maintanance work done, he stood, releasing a breath into the night air, the fog from his mouth floating upward toward the cloud free sky.
The day should be clear in the morning. And with it, his mind. He should be ready to meet with Arthur by then.
A clatter made him jump slightly, and he turned, both swords ready for action. Lydia, one of the newer barmaids, stared at him agahast.
"Oh, Sir, I am heartily sorry. I'm clumsy…please forgive me," she babbled out, hastily picking up the spilled ale tankards she had been carrying.
He approached her, stepping close, resheathing his swords. He crooked a rakish smile, knowing from previous experience how well that usually worked.
"Do not worry yourself, lady. May I say, you are looking more beautiful than ever beneath the moonlight?"
He knew it was a horrible, obvious line, but the young woman ate it up. She smiled, and blushed prettily, ducking her head. He reached out a hand, and fingered the red hair that had come loose from her quickly arranged bun.
"I am Lancelot, lady. And I have never seen hair such as yours before. It is quite glorious."
She blushed even more, and inside he grinned mirthlessly. Another notch in my empty bed.
"I…I know who you are, my lord. I am Lydia. And I am beneath your notice," she stated, her voice wavering slightly at his closeness. He grasped her chin in his hand, and forced her to meet his brown eyes.
"Never say that. No one person may have the rule over another…unless they let it be so," he said darkly, thinking of a certain person with a grey-green gaze. He shook his head, willing the angry thoughts of Arthur away until tomorrow.
"I…will not, lord, if it pleases you," she answered, her green eyes looking up at his, slightly afraid and excited all at once. He recognized that look, and would be damned if he won't take advantage of it. He hadn't gotten his reputation as a ladies man for nothing.
Tonight of all nights, he needed to forget. Forget the needless death and bloody guts and lost knights. Forget the anger he held against his best friend, his brother.
"It does. Would you care to continue this conversation elsewhere…say, a little more private?"
She set down the tray of empty tankards, and accepted his proffered arm.
"I only wish to do your bidding, my lord," she answered.
They quit the courtyard, his cloak swishing behind him like ravens wings.
The morning did dawn bright and clear, if cold, as Lancelot had predicted.
He arose early, but not earlier than Lydia, all traces of her presence gone from his bed as if she had never been there.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, and through his unruly locks.
He drew on his leather trousers, linen shirt, and iron studded doublet, tucking a long wool scarf around his neck and under the front of his doublet. Dark colors suited his mood, and he knew that since the day was going to be devoted to whatever training Arthur had planned, he was ready if not spoiling for a fight.
He spared a passing glance for his blades, shining and ready in their place by the door. He left them there. A wise move in his opinion.
All of the others were gathered at the Table, drinking warm mead or chewing on bread and fruit.
Lancelot glanced at Dagonet as he passed the other man, who nodded back at him. They had worked like clockwork in the battle the day before, and Lancelot found he liked pairing up with the older knight. Easy to trust, and few words. Unlike some.
Arthur was seated in his usual spot, pouring over a map, most likely a map of the previous days skirmish.
He always did such. Post battle revisions, he called them jokingly, but was deadly serious when he discussed strategy with the other knights afterward.
"Well met, Lancelot," he said warmly, as his lieutenant took his seat near Arthur. Lancelot merely nodded back. Arthur frowned a moment, then looked back at the map.
Arthur stood a few moments later, and the other knights followed suit.
The commander looked around the Table at his decimated troops, meeting the eyes of each of his knights; Lancelot, Tristran, Bors, Gawain, Galahad, and Dagonet. All that was left of the original one hundred Arthur and Lancelot had recuited so many years ago.
"Knights," began Arthur as Lancelot knew he would. All knew what was coming.
"We mourn the passing and sacrifice of our brother knights who fell in battle. We honor their willingness to put allegiance and duty before all else," Arthur spoke, then turned in shocked silence to Lancelot, who had begun to laugh.
The other knights at the Table turned horrified gazes at their commander's closest friend, who was guffawing so loudly tears were streaming from his eyes.
"If…I hear those words…one more time from your lips, Arthur, I will show you just how little I respect 'allegiance' and 'duty' at this moment," Lancelot hissed, his laughter gone, but the tears still falling.
"Lancelot, don't," said Gawain, but Arthur silenced him, raising a hand in the air. He strode to his friend, grasping the black clad knight by the shoulder. His face was a mask of confusion and anguish.
"I don't understand where your ire is coming from, brother," Arthur said, willing every ounce of compassion he had for the younger knight to come through in his words.
"You don't understand?" Lancelot answered incredulously. His hand went to the small dagger at his waist, and all the other knights in the room simultaneously pulled their own weapons, save Tristran, who continued eating an apple, calmly watching the show.
"Hold!" Arthur shouted, and they obeyed. Tears of rage were pouring down the curly haired knights face, and he held the small dagger in his right hand, fine tremors making it jump like a frog in his grasp.
"Leave us," Arthur asked in a soft voice. The other knights hesitated, not sure if that would be the wisest course of action.
"Please," Arthur added, and they did so, shutting the large wooden door softly behind them.
Dagonet was the last to leave, passing by the two men, one of whom was breathing heavily and crying, the other of whom was staring in incomprehension at the former.
"Be well, friend," he said quietly, touching Lancelot on the shoulder briefly. Then he was gone with the others.
The second Dagonet had gone, Lancelot ripped his arm away from Arthur's hand, and practically ran from the other man, stopping when he was behind an empty seat at the Table across from where Arthur stood. He banged his fist down on the heavy oak several times, a muffled sob escaping his lips each time.
The last sounded more like a battle cry.
"Lancelot, for God's sake, what is wrong? What has befallen you to make you speak in such a manner?"
The younger knight threw his head back and cried out.
"Arthur, my brother. You who know me best of all. I cannot. do. this. any. longer. My life, my whole life has been one endless bloody battle…and to what end? Freedom I may die before I receive? The slight hope that I may one day have my own life, my own family, my own destiny free of this place?
"How do you do it? How do you recite their names each time as if it were a list of ingredients in a recipe? I burn every time, Arthur. My heart burns, and my soul gets heavier and heavier at the end of each mission. There are seven of us left, my friend. Seven. Seven pathetic and lonely knights left to pick up the pieces of what was once the job of one hundred. And we fall each time. How are we to do this for two more years and be expected to live?"
"God is on our side, Lancelot. He will look after us. Our cause is righteous and just, and we do this for Him, and for Rome, and yes…for freedom we may never see," the other man answered, tears standing in his own eyes now that he understood the cause of Lancelot's pain.
"I would walk through hell if it meant you were never to feel this again, Lancelot. But we must soldier on, we must do this. If not for us, for the cause, for Rome, and for the others memory and honor. We will not let them have given their lives in vain. We will see the stories of their lives carried home to their families. They deserve that much."
Lancelot's knees gave way finally, and he crumpled to the ground. Arthur rushed to his side in a flash, his hands on Lancelot's shoulders.
"God? Who's God? Not mine, I can assure you. I had no choice in this Arthur. You know why I stay? Why I do what I do every day?
"For you. And you alone. I obey you, Arthur, because there is no one else in the wide world like me as you are. We are twin demons. And I cannot be without you if I am forced to live this life. But each day, after each battle, I die inside. Just a little every time. And it makes me sore afraid that one day I may wake and go into battle, and forget why I'm there…and end up doing something I would regret."
Arthur kneeled next to the other man, and met Lancelot's forehead with his own.
"You will never have to do this alone. I promise you this. I will always be here," he said brokenly, no other words coming to his mind, which was defeated by the notion of his brother knight's pain.
"I will hold you to that, Arthur," Lancelot said, shakily. He swiped angrily at his face.
"I am not a child, and yet look at me here, on the floor sobbing like one." He pulled away from Arthur, and stood, all heat gone out of his voice.
"There is no shame in the truth, Lancelot. Never think that for a moment I would want you to be anything other than the man you are."
"And what manner of man am I?" the knight asked.
"The only kind to be. The kind that you can trust with your life, and your soul in the same breath," Arthur answered, sincerity and emotion ringing in his voice. Lancelot looked at him, smiling a crooked smile through the wetness on his face.
"Aye? Well if it be the truth, I shall keep to it. You have my oath on that."
That night, as the others sat by a roaring fire, drinking ale and teasing the barmaids, Lancelot sat alone in the corner, his swords rising over his back like a malevolent shadow. In truth, they were an excellent representation of their owner.
Sharp, deadly, but beautiful. And ever ready to do what needed to be done.
He knew that it would take his death for him to be seperated from them, and from this little group of men he had come to view as his family, now.
Sarmatia may have been the land of his birth, but Lancelot knew where his true home lay.
His twin demon turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder at Lancelot, quirking an eyebrow at him. Lancelot raised his clenched right fist to his left shoulder, saluting his friend.
They each turned back to their respective thoughts, the snow just beginning to fall outside in the darkness.
Fin.