A/N: You. Are going to fucking hate me. I did not foresee this at all. I didn't plan it out from the start of this fic. But alas, this is the way it ends. Please, none of you go kill yourselves after reading this. I don't want to have anymore blood on my hands.... (Hee.)
Again, sorry for the delay, although at least it wasn't as long as last time. If only I could paint, I would make one fucking incredible beautiful painting of one particular scene in this chapter. Anyway, I hope this okay. If you want to come on over and wash a whole bunch of motherf-cking anti-depressants down with some heavy booze after you read this, you are totally welcome.
Please Read and Review!!! You give me a reason to live!!! (Although, I just killed like half of you with this....) Love you!! (I hope this shows it, hee hee.)
And remember: NO SLASH!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 8
With the guards having fallen silently, they slipped through the gate unbeknownst to any of the people who resided in Hadrian's Wall. One by one, they filed into the archway, not yet stepping into the square where they might be realized because of the dead grass. Instead, they crept along the walls on either side, carefully stepping on the stones, and the silence was undisturbed. Though their ways were barbaric, they were not incapable of stealth, as their enemies would assume. No, they continued undetected, their weapons hidden and their sepia cloaks barely swishing at their feet. Their faces did not glare out yet, since they kept their heads bowed enough to hide in their hoods. Some disappeared into the Wall, slipping in from all sides of the square, and the rest sneaked away around a corner.
Galahad somehow got to his feet. The anxious healer had scuttled away for a moment, and he was left alone. The crowd had dispersed and retreated back into the wall, leaving the Saxon corpse where it lay. The desertion now filled the world with an eerie silence that he could almost see hovering through the air like a mist. A faint wind brushed through the square, batting at white feathers that were mysteriously gathered on the ground. He staggered, nearly falling to the stones but steadying himself. Tremendous pain clouded his eyes, and he gave a short bluster of a cough. Blood flecked the air and coated his lips anew. He remained where he was for a while, breathing heavily in his hunched position. The remnants of tears were nearly gone on his face, and his curls hung thickly above his eyes. He refused to surrender to the pain. Conviction urged him on. He needed to mend the broken before it was too late.
Leaning on the walls, he scraped along the stones, feeling as if every step took the last of his strength and seared through his back. He stopped every minute, heaving against the wall, his face gleaming with sweat. Each cough brought more blood. He kept his eyes on the empty space of the square, willing himself on. One more step. Almost there. Can't leave before fixing things. He dragged himself further. His callused fingers gripped the wall stones and his chest heaved against them, his legs quaking and threatening to give way. He gripped the corner at last, his fingers shaking regardless of the fact that they were digging into the stone. His face was severely contorted in a grimace of pain and determination, sweat beading his skin and already soaking the curls that fringed his face. His teeth shone in their grisly baring. With a grunt of toil, he heaved himself over and stumbled out into the open.
At last, Galahad collapsed in the middle of the square, curled on his side and gasping in vain for oxygen. Blood splattered the dirt anew beneath his lips, and his muscles grew taut and rigid in his fit. "Gawain," he choked. He writhed in the dirt, taking fistfuls of earth in his clenched hands, blood dribbling from his lips. His throat seemed to have closed up, and he could not utter his friend's sweet name again. He only wanted to see Gawain, just one last time. Visions came unto him with his eyes yet open, memories that only made him regret further. He was too young for life to snatch itself away from his grasp. He wanted to go home. "Gawain," he grunted. The elder knight was laughing in his memory, a silent laugh that still lit up his soul. Had it really come to this? Was his life to be ended in such disappointment? If closed his eyes, he could see the visions more clearly, but he didn't want to lose sight of the world when it was his last chance to see the earth and the sky and the light. Suddenly, he was a little boy, no more than four years old, curls bouncing as he ran into his mother's arms, beaming as little boys do. Yet it was not his mother he wanted now, in his final hour.
Gawain stumbled to his friend, the wide desperation back in his eyes. He took Galahad by the shoulders and turned him on his back to look into his friend's face. Blood was everywhere again, and Galahad had succumbed to weariness in his expression. He was paler than ever before, and his lips were almost blue. "'M sorry," he mumbled. "Don't hate me." And Gawain's eyes burned, as he sank to his knees fully and his shoulders caved. He pulled Galahad into his arms, his hand vanishing into the mop of curls that lay against his shoulder, and closed his eyes. "Oh, Galahad," he whimpered. "Forgive me." Galahad wanted to say so many things, as he rested his head against Gawain's breast. He wanted to say how much he wanted to go home. He wanted to tell Gawain that he loved him. He wanted his friend to understand why he was smiling with the blood thick between his lips, that is was because he was a little boy, innocent and free. But Galahad did not say a word as the hooded figure drew back his knocked arrow, aiming for him. Gawain rocked him, and Galahad did not say a word. "Forgive me, my friend."
Lancelot's eyes shone up into Arthur's, the captain's words echoing in his head. He could no longer see the waiting faces, only the gray skies passing through him. He was standing on the edge of foundation, and only the empty, unending space of the wilds lay before him. Arthur looked as if he was on the verge of saying something, but he did not. Lancelot twitched in his friend's arms, as if thick blood was rising in his throat. Guinevere looked from one man to the other, a sense of foreboding suddenly thick in the room. What would the answer be to Arthur's proclamation of selfless love? Why was darkness creeping into her chest?
"Arthur," he breathed, before breaking into a fit more violent than ever before. His body was an earthquake in Arthur's embrace, but Arthur never let go. Lancelot arched up suddenly, his head flung back, curls thrown, blood washing the wall behind him, hand gripping a tuft of Arthur's hair. Guinevere shrank back at the abrupt burst of black garments, blood, and scarlet cloak, but Arthur said nothing. He didn't rock or hush or make any other effort to soothe his friend, other than continue to hold him. When Lancelot finally sank back into Arthur's embrace, his eyes were full of exhaustion and defeat that Arthur failed to understand somehow. Lancelot's hand found Arthur's and held it to his failing heart.
"...Love..." he whispered, and Arthur understood.
As Bors turned a corner, his eyes grew in disbelief when he was met with a band of hooded men. They finally lifted their heads to leer at him from the shadows of their hoods, and he let fly a shout of alarm when he saw they were the last of the Saxons. The knight brandished a knife from his belt, the only weapon he had on him, and the barbarians didn't move as he charged at them. He stabbed the first man's shoulder, and the others only stepped back and watched. He realized the mists had returned, as the Saxon fell to the ground and he looked around with wild eyes at the circle that had been formed around him. One by one, they drew their swords.
Arthur's eyes glimmered. A deafening silence rang in his ears, as he stared with parted lips and an expression that was the embodiment of devastation. Just as it was with a wound, he did not feel the pain at once. Shock numbed him completely, as Lancelot's curls lightly bounced against his brow when his head fell to face away. He didn't feel his core quaking as it made to explode in the next moment, like a brilliant supernova. He couldn't even see Lancelot properly anymore, wasn't sure what he saw. He had left his body, failing to notice Guinevere slowly look up at him in tremendous fear. Her eyes gleamed wide, as she waited to see what he would do next, but he didn't make a move. Lancelot hung dead in his arms at last, limp as a wilted flower, waiting to fall apart completely. His limbs were relaxed in Arthur's embrace, his head turned away from Arthur's chest, his lashes curled against his cheeks and shut forevermore. Blood was still left on his face, a ribbon streaming from the corner of his mouth. She could see Arthur's lip quivering dangerously and didn't dare move, now like a rabbit caught by the hunter's eye.
She didn't hear the creak of the door, didn't turn around. Somehow distracted from the catastrophic tragedy that now shredded through his inner flesh, Arthur looked up from his reverie but could not cry out in time. Failing to warn his lover, Arthur sat frozen as the first hooded Saxon drew a hand ax from beneath his cloak. "No!" he cried, but it made no difference. No sooner than a breath after, the ax flipped across the room and sent Guinevere arching back magnificently, like a marble sculpture. Her hair seemed to float in midair after her head flung back, and her arms barely resembled outstretched wings in the way they were lifted. For a moment, she remained still in her pose, before slumping forward and hiding her face under her hair. Her fingers were half curled, as if caught in the middle of grabbing fistfuls of sheets. Her body lost the tension and grew as loose as Lancelot's. Somehow, he did not see the bloody ax, only the white silk of her gown and what was exposed of her back, the milky skin he had caressed in passion only hours before.
He didn't know why he tried. Perhaps it was because he had been trained to fight, because he had never surrendered himself in the past fifteen years. It wasn't logical, he subconsciously realized. But he didn't even think. He let go of Lancelot, flying from the bed, as if his loss did not exist. Snatching one of his best friend's orphaned swords, the Roman made one last attempt. Whether that attempt was one to save himself or to kill his enemy, he did not know, and it didn't matter. Arthur charged forth at the Saxons, the beasts who had taken everything from him, and one twinge of fury was enough. He swiped at the first, who stepped aside, and speed suddenly returned to the world after that. No longer was it a slow-motion nightmare that allowed him to see and notice every painful, Goddamn detail. Suddenly, it was an uprising of hatred and revenge and flashing blades that lashed out like fire whips, hungering for flesh like a hell-born animal. And yet, while his body functioned as it had been trained to do, Arthur withdrew into the ruins of his mind, tears bursting through the glass of his eyes like he had never cried before in his life. Some part of him, the human being he had been up until a few moments ago, plunged into inconceivable sorrow and desolation. He had come away from his body, and as his own burning tears consumed him, he watched himself fighting. He watched himself, until the last visions came unto him, just as he knew they would. All of his beloved knights smiling at him, laughing at him, alive and bright with mirth. Jokes that no one else outside the Round Table understood. Vigils at the bedside of a fallen comrade. Riding in the snow. The day they had pledged themselves unto him. Every time one of them had come to him for comfort in a time of sorrow, when they were unafraid to weep because they knew their captain understood. Every wound and every death. Every funeral. Every headstone. Every meal and every drink. Every moment he had ever shared with Lancelot.
I'm coming, Lancelot.
Perhaps he should have thought of Guinevere. Perhaps he should have thought of Rome. But the only thing Arthur could think about was his knights. He knew the others were dead. In his heart, he knew, like a mother knows when some evil befalls her child. The Round Table was waiting for their captain to commence the next meeting. He couldn't be late. The last of the Saxons came at him, and he did not realize all the others lay dead against the wall near the door, where they had been dealt no mercy by his blows. He could only see the blade of his attacker, knowing it was to be the end of him and welcoming it. Lancelot's sword struck out against his death, still defending the Roman to this moment, and the clash of metal reverberated in his ears when all other sound had faded out. The next move was obvious, and another clang sounded. But after this, the Saxon at last had the pleasure of spilling a legend's blood. His sword ripped up through the Roman's chest, and Arthur's arms lifted like a bird's wings. He took breath as his enemy sliced him open, and a laughing Guinevere flashed through his mind, her smile intoxicating him all over again. As his fingers loosened and Lancelot's sword slipped away from his grasp, Arthur staggered back. He collided with the bedside table, did not see the Saxon grinning, and his immortally beautiful mother peered over her shoulder at him. The candle flickered.
A cry broke the silent slaughter, as blue-painted Woads streamed down into the square from all around Merlin, who stood at the Wall finally. His warriors looked to be like horses, the way they galloped down, axes and blades brandished before them. In a second, the Saxon archer fell dead, his upper half hidden behind the corner since he had been turning to flee. Galahad and Gawain lay on the earth, enfolded in each other's arms, the wind stirring their hair like it had blown the feathers. They looked to be sleeping, and Merlin did not see the knights they had been, but the boys who had first come to Arthur's bidding, all those years ago. The archer had taken back his arrows from their flesh. The old sorcerer gazed down at the young Sarmatians with a look in his glinting eyes that may have been called sadness, and he did not hear the noise that arose due to his Woad warriors flooding into every door of the Wall, like hounds let loose on the hunt. He remained on the Wall until he was left in silence, abandoned by the Woads who had disappeared inside, and still he looked upon the knights.
"Victory!" screamed Arthur's killer, once he had gone out into the corridor and the few other Saxons who were out in the long corridor turned their heads toward him and gave shouts of mirth. Yet their triumph was abruptly interrupted when Woads flew in, like great floodwaters, washing them away in a fury of blue. The other citizens and guards who resided in Hadrian's Wall started to come forth from their rooms, awakened at last, shrieking in terror. The Saxons who had managed to reach them had already murdered some in their sleep. Though they had never been the Saxons' enemy, their lives were spent simply because the barbarian conquerors enjoyed the sport of killing. Now, however, they had trapped themselves in the Wall, and the Woads persisted raiding it, flowing in and out of every room to kill whatever Saxon they could find.
Merlin, however, did not take up his weapons. He had come down from the Wall, leaving Galahad and Gawain untouched, and began to search for Arthur. He trudged amongst his rushing warriors, looking every year his age, and none disturbed him. All the doors were left flung open, and he glanced into every room, ignoring the wailing women and children and the cursing men. He stepped over bodies, not taking the time to look if they were one of his Woads or a Saxon. When he did not find the room in that corridor, where the narrow windows let in pale streams of light, he continued on to the next and the next, until at last he spotted the captain struggling on the floor in one of the rooms. The old man did not hurry to the Roman's side, only approached as if he had the rest of eternity. Contrary to nature, Arthur yet lived. The Saxon had stabbed him several times, though Merlin could not see each wound, but the blood was testimony enough. He grunted in his struggle, trying to pull himself up onto the bed, where Lancelot and Guinevere lay dead. Blood was running from the Roman's mouth in alarming abundance, and the old man knew Arthur only had a few moments more, if any at all. Yet he stopped in the midst of it all, standing in the same place where Guinevere and Arthur and Galahad had stood when Lancelot had yet lived. He looked to the bed, his eyes flashing for a second, and from out in the corridor, the Woads shouted Guinevere's name in unison. He knew it was a call of mourning, a call for her to bless them in their quest for Saxon blood, which they took for vengeance now because of her death. The ax lay on the floor near the foot of the bed, and Merlin could guess what had happened, looking at the gash in her back.
"So it has come to this," he said, as Arthur blustered and toiled in vain to lift himself to the bed. His lips gleamed in likeness to Lancelot's, drenched in sweet blood. His hand shook fiercely on the table, and though he lifted himself for a moment, he only ended up collapsing again, swiping the table as he went, knocking the candle down. But it was all right. Guinevere's lantern still burned on the wall.
"The end of an age has come," Merlin said grimly. And miles down the Wall, more Saxons set the place alight, driven into madness by the blood lust that had been more than fulfilled. Through the corridors they flew, at that other end of the Wall, cackling at the sick joy of their massacre, where already the innocent civilians and soldiers of Rome lay dead. The Woads were coming for them as swiftly as they could, but already, too many had been lost. And even now, the bodies burned into the ashes that Sir Lancelot of Sarmatia had always wanted.
Arthur choked on a bloody cough, his strength replaced by a cold that not even his own blood could warm, though the crimson coated his body now. He reached for Lancelot's empty, upturned hand that lay on the sheets, staining the fine lines of his friend's palm with his blood. And for a moment, he rested. For a moment, he sat on the stones, heaving against the bed and the table, with his hand clasping the lifeless one of his beloved brother. He could see the fields of heaven, and he knew his heart was failing. If only it failed like Lancelot's, he would have no complaint.
Merlin squatted down on a patch of clean stone, eyeing Arthur with a stifled sigh. The Roman glanced at him briefly, the old man who had been his enemy for so long, who had cost him too many knights, the one who had led Guinevere and the one he had fought for only a few days before. This sorcerer had taken from him almost as much as the Saxons had. And yet now, as he was speeding toward death, he could hold no grudge against him. He looked away, his hand loosening in Lancelot's and reaching further, up the Sarmatian's wrist. Again, he tried to lift himself up, using the table, and Merlin let him struggle for a minute.
"What is it you want, lad?" he asked the Roman finally. And Arthur stopped his efforts and grew still for a while, staring at Merlin narrowly as he panted for short bursts of air. They remained in their fixed gaze for a minute, the elder man waiting patiently with eyes set under a drooping brow.
"Lancelot," Arthur burst, coughing afterwards, blubbering the name with a mouth full of blood. And strangely, Merlin chuckled to himself, his eyes never leaving the Roman.
"Strange you would say that," the Woad remarked. "He would have said freedom."
"He is my freedom." Another mild coughing fit wracked his pierced flesh, and he grimaced painfully as the blood came up. Merlin gave a steady nod, his mirth having faded away as if it had never come. Without a moment's more hesitation, he straightened and carefully lifted Arthur to his feet, sagging under the weight of the Roman. Arthur gave a sigh of immeasurable gratitude, as he was lowered on to the bed, beside his gloriously fallen Lancelot. Merlin stepped back from the sacred bed of myth and looked upon the Roman with a respect that Arthur would have never guessed he would.
"May your greatness live," he said. "Forevermore." And unexpectedly, the Woad presented Artorious Castus with Excalibur, his legendary blade that indeed would never be forgotten. Slipping it gently under Arthur's right hand, Merlin returned the sword to its rightful place, over the Roman's heart. And Arthur looked wearily at him, grateful and with no regrets left to him.
"Long live King Arthur."
And when at last the surviving Woads began the toil of clearing away the destruction of the wall, one of them came across a scrap of parchment. It was wrinkled and stained with age, three of its four corners singed by the flames. Amongst the shambles of Sir Lancelot's room, it fluttered audibly on the stones, drawing the blue warrior's attention. He knelt down and took it delicately in his hands, narrowing his eyes at the elegant script. His eyes followed the lines, until finally softening in a way that would have made his comrades wonder. After a moment's pause, the young Woad folded it carefully, tucked it in his satchel, and turned his back on the lifeless bodies.
To you, Artorious Castus, I pledge my servitude,
For so long as you shall need it of me,
And I vow before God to fight for you, defend you,
Protect you, and do the bidding of Rome
Until my time is ended.
I, warrior of Sarmatia, pledge my allegiance to you,
And promise, with all my heart, to forever be
Your knight.
Lancelot was laughing heartily, the sound of his mirth echoing throughout eternity, as he finally reached his captain. His arms encircled the Roman, and Arthur caught a glimpse of a smiling Guinevere in the distance, before Lancelot began to spin him around in circles, still in the Sarmatian's embrace. There also were Galahad and Gawain, standing close together, their hands clasped between them as they watched their captain and his best friend. Dagonet grinned with folded arms, as Bors chortled beside him, a deeper and thicker laugh than Lancelot's. And farther up the hill, though not as far as where Guinevere stood at the top, Tristan peered over his shoulder at them, smirking in that way he always did. The lady's gowns of white silk fluttered in the breeze, as she stood watching her lover and his friend spinning below. A wistful smile graced her lips, and at last, she turned away from them, a white mare's tail whipping up behind her as she disappeared down the other side of the hill.
Still smirking a secret smile, Tristan turned his back on his comrades at last, springing up into the air even before he reached the top of the hill, the wind catching his sleek wings as he cried out in his hawk's voice. Bors tagged Dagonet and fled away, finally getting Dagonet to laugh, as the two followed Tristan and rumbled the earth with their pounding hooves, their bursting muscles flexing like water in their chests and powerful legs. Galahad gave a small tug at Gawain's hand, like a timid child, and the two shared a smile for a moment, before Galahad led Gawain away, and they raced up the hill laughing, leaping over the other side with their chestnut manes streaming behind them.
And at last, only Arthur and Lancelot remained, dancing in their eternal circle of explosive love. But the Sarmatian did not keep them spinning forever. He finally stopped, his dark eyes flashing jubilantly at Arthur, who was surprised that he wasn't dizzy. Lancelot read his thoughts and threw his head back in laughter, making Arthur grin broadly. The knight quieted and looked heavenward, up to the hill, which he had been so longing for all those years of his servitude. And Arthur looked with him, his hand still laced into Lancelot's. His friend looked back to him with questioning eyes, waiting for his captain to give him leave, even in the afterlife. And Arthur only paused to gaze deep into those twitching, vivid eyes, before smiling faintly, and Lancelot broke out into a wild smile as he pulled Arthur along up the hill, stumbling in their haste. They ran to the arms of peace, to the embrace of eternal liberty, and they exploded into glory and velvet, black and white bodies with four limbs, their whinnies of victory ringing throughout time even once they had disappeared beyond the horizon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-:FIN:-
