Author: Ashley
Title: Denial
Pre movie, no spoilers. No copyright
infringement is ever intended.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rated R
My answer to the Lyric Wheel challenge at King Arthur fanfiction, which was to
use the lyrics of "Darkness" by Disturbed in a story.
Enjoy!
Warning: Contains slash.
"Come on, deny it. Deny everything, you bastard."
Arthur increased his step at these words. What in the hell had they done now?
"Galahad, relax. I didn't touch her-"
"Shut up, you utter bastard! And stop lying! You would steal a man's wife in front of his nose given the chance," Arthur heard Galahad yell, and broke into a trot. If what he thought was happening was happening, he needed to get there now.
As he rounded the corner of the commons, Lancelot landed at his feet, his arms and legs akimbo, his lips a bloody mess.
Arthur stopped. "Knights."
All of them turned to see him there, and instantly seemed contrite, except Tristan, who sat with interest on a table, calmly drinking a mug of cider.
Galahad dropped his fists to his sides, and hung his head. Lancelot smirked, and turned over, sticking out a hand for Arthur's help in getting up. The Roman commander did not offer any. The other knight frowned, then hoisted himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his chin.
"Truly manly behavior, lads. I don't need to ask who started it, do I?" Arthur said, his voice not betraying the rage he felt.
"I- I'm sorry, Arthur," was all Galahad said. Arthur nodded.
"Get back to it," he replied, and stalked off. Galahad grinned sheepishly, then shot a daggerlike stare at Lancelot, who was following Arthur with his eyes.
"Lancelot, this isn't finished," he said dangerously, but the other man waved a hand at him dismissively.
"Really, Galahad. And by the way, don't bother with that wench. She doesn't know a cock from a sausage, although from the way she was pulling at it, I wouldn't be so sure," Lancelot threw out, and as Galahad charged him again, the Sarmatian stuck out a foot, tripping the younger knight. He went sprawling in the dirt.
Lancelot leaned in, a huge smile on his face, his teeth gleaming like predator's, a sheen of spit on them.
"Now we're finished."
He followed Arthur, and Galahad spit into the dust as the other men around him gave up holding back their laughter.
He found Arthur in the stables, methodically grooming his horse. The horse was already shining like a mirror, so Lancelot knew the other man was angry. He approached slowly, his hands held up in a gesture of peace.
"Truce, my lord?" he said, unable to keep some smarmyness out of his tone.
Arthur had him pinned to the wall before he could blink. The other man's knee was against Lancelot's crotch, and he was hard in an instant. If Arthur felt it, he showed no sign.
"What the hell was that display about?" the commander bit off, his brows drawn together like thunderheads.
"What display? I was merely defending my honor…"
"Oh, please, Lancelot. What honor? You would steal a man's wife from under nose given the chance. And to tease Galahad? My god, he's a child. You can have your pick of women here. Let him alone."
Arthur pulled back, some of his ire gone. What was it about the younger man that drove him practically to violence? Lancelot was infuriatingly, nauseatingly, arousingly fascinating. And Arthur would be damned before acting on it.
"Arthur, I'm sorry. I can't help it if the wenches find me attractive. Besides, what man would turn down a romp at any time? Especially one of us…" he let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. Arthur could fill in the blanks himself. One of us, who could be cold in the ground tomorrow.
"I don't want to come upon a scene like that again, do you hear me, knight of Sarmatia?"
Lancelot stiffened at the formality in his friend's tone.
"Yes, Arthur," he said, bitterly. "I hear you perfectly well."
He turned to go, but was held back by the expression in Arthur's green eyes.
"What is wrong?" he asked softly, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Arthur pulled away from the gesture, crossing his arms over his chest. Lancelot could hear the man's breathing, which sounded as it did when they finished with a fight. Arthur tensed, his internal struggle obvious, then something in him broke, and he faced Lancelot, his expression blank. The other knight's head cocked to the side, a silent question not voiced.
Arthur's expression cracked, and he moaned.
"I…I am undone, Lancelot," Arthur said at last. His back slumped, and he sat heavily on a stack of hay left for feeding the horses.
Lancelot couldn't move. He had never heard such words from his captain before. It was disconcerting at best.
He kneeled next to the older man.
"I pray every night. I pray for guidance and understanding. But still my men fall, and still I return to the fortress every time with blood on my hands. Foreign blood, blood of my knights. I offer one thing, Lancelot. Death at every turn. And I can't abide the sight of myself anymore. I can't look at my own skin. If I were to scrub myself ten times a day, it would still be there. How is this brave? How is this leadership? Answer me that. Don't turn away from me, brother. What am I?"
Lancelot's eyes burned at the despair and grief he heard in Arthur's voice. His skin prickled, his guts twisted like the flags on the keep's butresses.
"You are Arthur. You are our commander, yes, but first and foremost, you are a man. A good man, a man I am not sure whether I am worthy of fighting with," Lancelot answered, and Arthur shook his head violently, wetness staining his tunic, his tears of rage tracking through the dirt still there from the days skirmish.
"Don't ever say that. You are the best of us all," Arthur choked out, his hands on the other man's shoulders. Lancelot rose up on his knees, and put his hands on either side of Arthur's face. The stubble bit into him, but it was as sweet a touch as a bolt of silk.
"I need your strength to get me through this," Lancelot spoke, "We all need your strength. Every man here. We fight for you, Arthur, not for some misguided idealistic version of home, or certainly not for the glory of the Empire," he added, laughing slightly.
"I am weak, Lancelot. I am not fit for your love," Arthur said, his voice a whisper.
Lancelot leaned forward, and kissed Arthur gently, at first on his forehead, then his cheeks, then, after hesitating only a mere fraction of a second, his lips, which were dry and cool to the touch.
"You are the only one fit," he answered.
Arthur was stunned. Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought Lancelot would return any such affection he had entertained only in his mind.
"I…oh, God," was all the captain could get out.
"Your God will still be there, Arthur. It would be a greater sin deny yourself a love you deserve," Lancelot told him, one fingertip following the sharp line of Arthur's cheekbone.
The older man shuddered, and shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them, his knight was there, on his knees in the dirt, his mind and heart open for Arthur to seize willingly.
"I don't know what to do," Arthur replied after some length, and Lancelot stood, drawing him to his feet.
"I will show you…if you wish it."
The hesitancy on the knight's face was all it took for Arthur to throw out his worry like so much trash. He grasped Lancelot's chin in his hand, and pulled the man to him.
Their lips met slowly at first, soft and questing.
Not for long.
Lancelot was panting heavily, and Arthur dropped his forehead to other man's shoulder.
"I wish it."
The heat rising off the knight's body was searing against Arthur's own skin, and he looked about wildly, glancing at the ladder that lead to the hay storage area on the second floor of the stable.
Lancelot's brown eyes followed his gaze, and he barked a laught so loud Arthur jumped.
"I couldn't think of a better place," the Sarmatian said, the natural flirtiness in his voice making something quicken inside Arthur's body, a tightening of muscles that spirled outward, ending at his groin.
He did not answer, but dragged Lancelot behind him, almost knocking the ladder over in his haste.
They lay wrapped together. Not in a lover's sweet embrace, but the tired, sweat soaked tangle of limbs Arthur had only previously associated with the aftermath of battle.
They did not speak, but rather communed without words, one comforting, one trying to accept.
To accept his destiny, his role, the hand that fate had dealt him.
He was a dealer in death, a spectre hidden by a sickly-sweet smell, one no one would notice until it was too late, and his scythe had gathered them in.
He trembled silently, and Lancelot's arm tightened around his chest. The other man was snoring quietly a few moments later, and Arthur found he liked the feel of the warm breath on his back.
He dropped off eventually, the image of dying men and flame still foremost in his mind.
However, it was forced to share its space with a new image…that of the tiniest spark of hope, that perhaps, in the end, he would be able to thow off his death's head, the guise of command, and find the one he was searching for every moment of his life.
That of plain, everyday human.
He gripped the hand that lay on his bare arm, and allowed a brief smile.
Finis.