Author's note.
Title: Loyalty
Rated PG
No pairings
Summary: Three Knights and a Leader. Their thoughts on loyalty, and each other. Written for the Loyalty challenge at King Arthur Fan Fiction.
Author: Ashley
Feedback: Yes please I live for it.
Dagonet.
I was never one for small talk, or much talk at all for that matter. He understands that. He doesn't press me, or force me to participate in silly discussion that has no meaning for me.
I come from a rather large family, and being the youngest boy, not much was expected from me. When I met Arthur, I was a cowed, weak thing, my face hidden by my hair, fresh scars from beatings from my father etched into my skull.
All the others pointed, and whispered, and wondered about the wounds. He never said a word about them.
He stopped in front of me, sizing me up. I had looked into his eyes finally, trembling, railing at my fate. To have to serve under Roman rule…and under a Roman whelp that seemed younger than me! Add insult to injury, and you have my attitude on that day. Most of the others had formed bonds on our way to the Wall, and were eager to fight, to play at war.
I knew what war was. I bear its scars to this day.
"What is your name?" he had asked, a straightforward tone to his voice.
"D-Dagonet," I had answered, and I think some of the others gasped aloud at the fact I actually could speak.
"Dagonet, have you ever used an axe?" Arthur had asked me then.
"Yes…to chop firewood," I said. He had nodded.
"See the Weapons Master, and tell him I said for you to get the axe he has hidden. He will tell you he has no such thing, and you must answer that Arthur knows where it is, and if Arthur has to come and get it, he will not be pleased." He smiled a conspiratorial smile after that, and had moved on to the next knight.
I followed him with my eyes, and stood a little straighter after that.
Over the years, my outward appearance began to match the person I became.
I shaved my head, wore my scars proudly, and became a monster with the axe. He never once questioned my ability, or doubted. He only trusted, and believed.
It was the first time anyone had ever done that for me.
I would die for him now. I would die for any of them.
I became the man no one else had ever given me the chance to be.
Bors.
I fight for one man. Not for some lofty, trumped up kingdom in a country I will never see.
I fight for my freedom, and to get the hell off this accursed island.
I fight because it is what I was born to do, and it is the thing I can do better than any man alive- no matter what that broody ass Lancelot says.
I am a devil, a beserker, a crazed, demented madman with a killer left hook and a deadly sword.
I love my bastards, and wish to see them grown up and with bastards of their own…which is not an feeling I had ever thought I would have.
Bah.
I fight for Arthur, because he fights for us. For all of us.
And that's reason enough.
Lancelot.
Once, after a particularly bloody battle, Arthur told me during an arguement, "you can't force a man to be what he isn't." I had answered him with some platitudes about training, and accepting your lot in life. He had looked at me with a dark expression in his eyes, and had said no more.
I had found him in his tent later that evening, afraid I had angered him, and had kneeled next to him.
I touched his shoulder, speaking quietly. "I ask your pardon, my brother, if I have offended you in any way. You know I value your opinion highly. I just don't…I can't accept the idealistic view you have."
He had sighed then, motioning for me to sit next to him. I rose off the floor, seating myself on the makeshift bench he was resting on, papers and various forms of communication spread on the table in front of us.
"You could never offend me, Lancelot," he said, resting his head in his hands. He looked weary, his eyes bloodshot, stubble coating his chin.
He had paused a moment before continuing, gathering his thoughts.
"I was raised with the idea of free will…and the concept that all men were created to do what they choose to do. God has a plan for us all…and we follow that plan. My duty is to be here, leading you knights. Your duty-" he broke off, turning his head in his palm to look at me.
"Herein lies my problem, Lancelot. You had no choice. You were forced to be here. That goes against everything I believe, everything I was taught. And yet here you are, and you still fight for Rome like wild animals, to the death."
I had interrupted him. "You are wrong about one thing Arthur," I said. He had sat up straight, staring at me like all the answers in the world were to come pouring from my lips.
"We don't fight for Rome. We fight for you."
"But why?" he asked, his voice rough and dry, emotion burning in his countenance. I ached for him, and wished that I could explain it better.
"Because," I had shrugged. "Because you are you. Because you aren't a typical Roman officer who beats his foreign charges into submission. Because you trust us, believe in us, and treat us like men. Not like cattle bound for the slaughteryard at any second."
He shook his head.
"I don't do anything differently than any good man would do, Lancelot," he said, and a bark of a laugh had escaped my throat.
"You call yourself Roman?" I chuckled, the irony of the statement lost on him.
"You may believe what you wish, Arthur, but I have no other explanation for you," I had said, standing in the small space. "You are like no one I have ever met. And I doubt ever will. You inspire loyalty like I've never seen…and I find myself willing to follow you to hell if needs be. Don't ask me to try and understand it…I've tried, believe me. I cannot. I only know that all of us, all your knights, feel the same. Don't ever think any differently."
He slammed his hand down on the wooden desk, a small cry of despair torn from his lips.
"God help me, I do not deserve it," he whispered, pain evident in his bearing.
I walked to him, placing my hand gently on his bent head.
"Only you deserve it, Arthur," I murmured.
My hand had vibrated slightly with the motion of his silent weeping. Too many men had been lost that day.
After a moment, I withdrew, leaving him to his confusion and melancholy.
He knew where to find me, if he needed me. He will always know where to find me…and I will always be there when he does.
Arthur.
The urn is incredibly light. How can one tiny clay jar hold so large a life?
I look out over the white cliffs, waves crashing into the shoreline below. Bors, Galahad and Gawain stand like statues behind me.
Bors holds the large, gleaming axe, shined to perfection.
Galahad, the deadly, beautiful crossbow.
Gawain, the double blades, now silent, their magnificence hidden by the leather scabbards they rest in.
We say nothing. We don't need to.
My eyes burn, my body aches, but above all else, my soul is shadowed, and black as a pitch night, free of stars.
They loved me, trusted me, believed that I would do right by them. Treated them like men, he had said.
Don't ever think any differently.
Why? Why did they follow me? I told him, I commanded him, to leave, to live the freedom they deserved. And yet, they followed me straight to the gates of Hades and right on through.
What did their love get them? Death. Destruction. The only freedom they will have now is in the memories of those they left behind.
I watch the sun begin to set, glaring at it, hating it. For the end of the day…means the last day I had with my friends. And I let them die.
My brave knights…I have failed you. I neither got you off this island, nor shared your fate.
And that's the whole point, isn't it?
I failed. I failed in my promise.
I don't fail. I am Arthur. I cannot.
And yet…
"Arthur," Gawain says softly, nudging me. "The sun is almost gone."
I shudder briefly, the sadness a heavy weight about me. A familiar and welcome cloak.
I take the lid off the jar, and fling the contents into the open air, above the sea, out into nothingness.
The others lay the weapons at my feet, at the edge of the precipice.
They will stay there, free.
The other turn at last, Bors raising his flask to the sky, one last toast, before chugging down the remains.
"Arthur…you coming?" Galahad asks, concern in his young face. So young, so much life left. Another pair of smiling dark eyes gaze into mine; a calloused hand rests in my hair for a moment, offering comfort.
I hold back an unmanly sob, cursing my life, and my choices.
"Yes," I say, wheeling around, feeling Galahad clap me on the shoulder. I smile at him, while I break and crumble apart inside.
What is loyalty? Do I deserve it? What makes me so special, so different than other men?
They can never tell me, now.
Fin.