Author's note:
Thanks to SJS for the kind reviews and making me notice that this is indeed set during the film in the second and now this chapter. big duhhhhhh sorry for any confusion…my original thought was to have this start pre movie and then procede throughout scenes of the film. So there you go.
This chapter rated hard R for slashy sex. ulp my first time writing it. Please be gentle! J
Feedback is good!!!
Part three.
Arthur stood still as the Bishop swept from the room.
One more mission. One more dangerous than any they had ever faced. His body heaved, his mind whirled like an eddy in a storm filled ocean.
How in God's name was he to tell his men this now? On their last day?
God. And Lancelot. He found himself raising a hand to his lips, still bruised from their earlier encouter. His body reacted strongly, and he shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his full Roman military dress. His anger and pent up rage threatened to overwhelm him…and his thoughts kept returning to one person, and the solace he could offer.
He moved at last, going to one of the tall, thin windows that edged the room. Looking down, he could see his men already drinking, playing with barmaids, and laughing uproariously. Lancelot sat with some Roman guards, playing a card game.
"Help me, Lord, to do what is right," he murmured, leaving the too warm room.
"Best of three," Lancelot told the guards he had been gaming with. It showed that his mind was not where it was supposed to be in that he was actually losing.
When Jols and Galahad called out for Arthur, he sauntered over to join the rest of the knights, and was horrified to discover that their freedom had been snatched away, just as easily as it had been dangled in front of their eyes.
Arthur's eyes were bloodshot and his face was stoic, but Lancelot could feel the pain radiating off the man in waves.
He watched in silence as Galahad followed Gawain in disgust, and tracked Arthur with his eyes as the other man walked stiffly away from the courtyard.
Infernal brooding bastard.
He trailed after Arthur finally, helplessly caught in his wake.
Burn me…and cast my ashes to a strong east wind.
Lancelot heaved as sigh as he walked slowly toward his own apartments.
I do believe I have become melodramatic in my old age, he thought as he shut the door heavily behind him.
He removed his battle armor, piece by piece. At last, clad in leather tunic and pants, he approached the small bed, sitting heavily and removing his boots.
A soft knock came at the door, so quietly he thought he had imagined it.
"Enter," he said guardedly, and was surprised to his core to see Arthur there.
"Did I forget something?" Lancelot asked sarcastically, and jumped almost out of his skin when Arthur made his way swiftly to sit by him. The other man had removed his military dress as well, and looked haggard and tired in his linen shirt and trousers.
"I need you," Arthur said in a voice not his own. It was cracked and desperate, lost.
"What is wrong, Arthur?" Lancelot replied, ready to leap up, and reached for his swords.
"Nothing…like that. Sit down."
Lancelot was used to hearing that tone of voice from Arthur in the field, but not in private.
"You need me?"
His eyes widened, and he made a little surprised oomph noise as Arthur pushed him down, his back hitting the bed.
His brows drawn together tightly, his face a mask of worry and hurt, Arthur touched his lips to Lancelot's. The Sarmatian shuddered, and sunk a hand into Arthur's sweaty, curly hair.
"Arthur…what…what are you doing?" he couldn't help but ask.
"Just shut the hell up and touch me," Arthur replied, his words and their quality surprising Lancelot into silence. This man was not his friend, nor his commanding officer. This man was someone in Arthur's skin, who smelled like Arthur, and felt like him, but the insides were different.
Lancelot wasn't sure if he liked it.
But he couldn't help but do as the man bid, and pulled him close by the hair.
He blazed a trail of lips and tongue across Arthur's neck and cheeks, while the other man shook silently and clutched at him. He brought his mouth around to Arthur's, and kissed him softly at first. He increased the pressure when Arthur responded, rubbing his fingers along Arthur's scalp.
He pulled gently at Arthur's tunic, and when he raised his arms in acquiesence, pulled it off slowly. Lancelot shut his eyes briefly at the sight of his commander's scar covered torso, and fingered one lightly.
"You have so many," he whispered sadly.
"No less than you," Arthur answered, his green gaze shuttered from Lancelot's view by the flushed skin of his eyelids.
There. There was the man Lancelot would die for. He met Lancelot's gaze, his eyes a deep color, fired by hopelessness or desire, the knight wasn't sure.
"Arthur, maybe we shouldn't…I don't want you to regret anything come daybreak," the Sarmatian said, releasing the other man from his grip. Arthur smiled sadly, shaking his head.
"Not possible. I told you I need you…and I do. Just please, for once, do as I ask without questioning my motives?"
Dare I believe him? I know him better than he knows himself…he will regret.
When Arthur placed his warm, calloused hand on Lancelot's neck, the younger man's brain threw all logic away, and filled his mind with nothing but the fantasy in front of him.
"As you wish, Arthur. I would do anything for you, you have merely to ask it."
When he met Arthur's questing mouth again, he tried to swallow all of the other man's rage, uncertainty, and pain into himself.
He wasn't sure if he would succeed, but he would try his damndest.
He awoke to find Arthur seated at his high window, the shutter open, and Arthur wrapped in a woolen blanket that normally covered his couch.
Lancelot scrubbed a hand over his face, figuring they still had a few hours til dawn.
"Arthur?" he asked softly. A little smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth, but he did not look at Lancelot.
"I was dreaming. Of my mother," he said, and Lancelot winced. Her death was a horribly painful memory still for the other man, and Lancelot got out of the bed, dragging his own long tunic over his head for warmth.
He stood next to Arthur, who was gazing out at the interior of the fortress, dried tear tracks on his face. Lancelot ached to wipe them away, but he dared not touch him.
"Arthur," he started again, gently. "Do not torture yourself, my friend. She would be so very proud of you."
"And my father?"
"As the Bishop said, the very image. But Arthur, you are your own man, and you have made your own destiny. You must let the pain and the power of the past go."
Arthur turned to face him, his eyes like bruises set deep in his face. Lancelot could not help himself, and traced a fingertip across the man's cheekbone. Arthur did not push him away, but he did not respond either.
"And you men? I offer death at every turn. And still you follow me. You follow me, you fight for me, beside me, you drink with me, love me," he said this with a modicum of sarcasm, "and die for me. I do not deserve this, my knight. You have been loyal to the point of despondency…and on the day you are to be freed, I drag you to danger once more. How can you possibly love me? How can God, or anyone, forgive me?"
Lancelot grabbed Arthur by the face, and forced him to meet his brown eyes. The green ones that stared into his own filled with tears, which spilled over to meet the tracks from the ones that had already run down the older man's cheeks.
"How could we not? You are the only man, the only person here in this gods forsaken country who has ever shown us a tiny bit of decency or caring. You have watched us grow, taught us to fight, made men of scared and homesick boys. You fight for our rights, you make sure we are comfortable and well fed, hell, you make sure we have enough denarii to take care of our horses and armor. Damn it, Arthur, you are our one true friend here. Most of us have been gone so long, we don't remember home. You are our home."
Arthur gasped out a sob, and dropped his head to his knees, which were drawn up to his chest.
"I am your mortality, Lancelot," he whispered.
The Sarmatian sighed angrily, and vaulted himself up onto the seat next to Arthur. He leaned next to the other man, transferring his body warmth. Arthur tremored, then lay his forehead on Lancelot's knee, which was bent as well.
"Stop it, Arthur, and forget all of this for one night. I beg you. We are all here, with you, always. I am alive," he added furiously, dragging Arthur's hand against his chest, placing it over the thumping of his heart, "to which I mostly owe to you. I don't regret knowing you. Give me leave to make you forget. Let me grant that gift to you."
"I…God, Lancelot," Arthur said, raising his head. The younger man decided to risk something, and reached under the blanket wrapped around Arthur, who hissed at the sudden contact.
"You. Are. Alive. You feel, you love, you care. Don't turn me away."
Arthur arched against his hand, and the light in his eyes fired to life again. Lancelot rose to his knees, getting as close as he could to his friend.
He tilted his face so that it met Arthur's, their foreheads together, their eyes locked as he touched the other man gently at first.
"Oh.." was all Arthur could manage, as Lancelot smiled at him gently; his ministrations were obviously having the effect he wanted. They stared at each other; neither man speaking or moving as Lancelot stroked and coddled and fondled the other man into oblivion.
"God," Arthur croaked, and spilled warmly into Lancelot's hand.
At last his eyes slipped shut, his head dropping away from the knight's.
"We…I love you, do you see?" Lancelot said, his breath a hot caress that woke Arthur's ardor impossibly.
The older man didn't respond, merely leapt off the window seat, dragging Lancelot with him.
"Make me forget," Arthur repeated Lancelot's own words when they reached the bed. He smiled a lopsided grin, his whole being filled with passion for the man in front of him.
Damn the rules. Damn his thoughts, and most of all, damn his own conscience.
"With pleasure, Arthur," Lancelot replied, his dark brown gaze like liquid amber in the torch light.
They did not speak any more that night.
End part three.