Author's note: AU story development from here.
Anger is one of those emotions that Lancelot doesn't ever expect to take him over like it does.
When it happens, it fills his body with lightening, making his limbs dance like a puppet on a string.
His blades acted almost of their own accord, and one was thrust into the priest's belly before Arthur could order him not to move.
The prison stunk of rot, mildew, and hopelessness. It was all Lancelot could do to not vomit. As it was, his face twisted with the smell and feel of the place, and he was happy to throw his torch into the snow when they exited at last, Dagonet carrying a small boy they had found as the only living prisoner.
The priests had been guarding dead bodies. They had been praying over dead pagan bodies.
Lancelot spit disgustedly onto the ground, and mounted his horse without a word to Arthur, who was eyeing him with something like pity. He couldn't bear to see that look on his commander's face, especially when it was directed at him.
The owner of the estate, the Roman pig they had been sent to rescue, threw a fit of monumental proportions, and only stopped when Arthur threatened to tie him to his horse and drag him back to Hadrian's Wall himself. Lancelot had to smirk at that image…and he could actually see Arthur doing it, given his mood.
Tristan rode ahead, scouting for any raiders and the quickest way back to the Wall. The route they had taken was cut off by native warriors, besides, leading a group of British refugees and their ex-owners through a tight winding woodsy path was not the ideal way to travel.
The little boy they put in the wagon with the Honorius family, and Dagonet rode with them, to assure of good behavior by the family, and also to ensure the boy would be well cared for.
Lancelot was surprised to see the tender side that came out of the older knight around the young boy. He didn't know much of Dagonet's past, but would not be surprised if some sort of younger brother was involved.
The night came on quickly, and they were almost half way to the Wall.
Lancelot had managed to avoid Arthur up until now; the other man rode up next to him, the wind tossing his dark hair about, his cheeks burned by the elements. His stubbled face carried a coating of ice, as Lancelot was sure his own did.
"Those trees," he yelled over the nighttime gale that the gentle breeze had become, "We will camp there for the night. Round up the wagons and see to their safety."
He turned his large white charger and galloped off, plans clouding his mind, turning his eyes a smoky green that hid his feelings quite well.
Lancelot sighed, saluting Arthur's back.
"Aye, commander."
Gawain's arrow flew perfectly home, and dropped the bastard Roman Marius Honorius in his tracks.
The remaining few members of the man's personal guard surrendered quickly enough to Arthur, who only had to put his hand on Excalibur's hilt for them to acquiesce.
Lancelot just held onto his crossed swords, which rested comfortably on his shoulders.
Dagonet raced to the little boy, Lucan, and took him up in his long arms. The boy buried his head in Dagonet's neck, sobbing in fright and happiness that the knight was alive.
Tristan had exquisite timing as usual; his horse scattered a few of the guards as he rode up, pulling to a stop right in front of Arthur and the others as they heaved the body into the family's cart. Arthur would not allow them time to bury him here.
"Anything, Tristan?" Arthur asked his scout. The dark man shook his head, his wild locks flying about his face.
"Dead villagers – there are two relatively large settlements close to here. Arthur, if we continue on this path, we should be back to the wall within half a day's ride."
"So be it, then," Arthur said, grateful for the scout's almost otherworldly talents.
He turned to Lancelot, who had resheathed his blades, but before he could open his mouth, Lancelot nodded.
"We'll be ready within the hour, Arthur," he answered the unvoiced question, and strode away toward his horse.
Arthur followed him with his eyes, worried about the slump of his shoulders and the tightness in his body.
He mounted his own horse after a moment, and set off at the head of the slowly gathering train.
Tristan was true to his word, and they were indeed back at the Wall by nightfall. The Bishop was overjoyed to see the return of most of the Honorius family. The refugees the knights had brought back with them wandered throughout the camp, some confused, some just happy to be in out of the snow.
Lancelot disappeared as soon as the Bishop had handed out their papers, following in Arthur's footsteps; the older man had left in disgust earlier.
Lancelot tread softly down the corridors toward Arthur's room; he increased his pace as he neared his destination. He had a feeling the commander would be there, and knocked softly when faced finally by the dark cherry wood of the door.
"Enter," came from inside, muffled by the organic barrier between them.
Lancelot pushed through the door, and found Arthur seated at his small table, the room lit by a small lamp.
"Gods, Arthur, it's freezing in here," the Sarmatian voiced, rubbing his hands together. He crouched in front of the dead fire, and proceeded to light it as quickly as he could. He built it as high as possible, then stood warming his body.
The two men said nothing for a time; the younger with his eyes closed, the older studying his missives and maps spread about the table.
Arthur moved at last, pushing his papers away, a sigh of frustration echoing throughout the room.
"When do you leave?" he asked softly, not meeting the other's gaze.
"Gawain and Galahad are packing now," Lancelot answered, "not sure about the others."
"And you?" Arthur added in a tiny voice so unlike him, it made Lancelot's eyes snap open, a look of disquiet decorating his angular face.
"…why do you ask?" he asked, not willing to answer that question. He stepped away from the fireside, and crouched down next to Arthur, who was wringing his hands. Lancelot placed one of his own now warm hands over the other man's, gently extricating them from their twisted puzzle.
"You're cold," he said, accusatorily. Arthur met his eyes, shadows making his normally handsome face look crooked and bare.
"Am I? I can't feel it," Arthur answered wonderingly. The knight pulled his captain to his feet, and dragged him to the fireplace, plunking him down on a sheepskin rug laying there.
"Stay here, Arthur – I mean it," he threatened, his worry jumping a huge notch when Arthur merely nodded.
Lancelot grabbed two mugs sitting on the service by Arthur's bed, filled them with hot wine, and returned to the other man's side, sitting with him.
"Drink this," he ordered, and handed the cup to Arthur. He watched as Arthur drank, content after the older man finished the whole thing.
He sipped at his own, staring into the flames, then looking at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.
Arthur had pulled off his boots, but still rested on the floor in his armor, which was definitely not comfortable, as Lancelot well knew.
He put down his cup, not saying anything, and proceeded to walk around Arthur, unsnapping the pieces of armor gently, putting them to the side.
Arthur allowed him this, the skin on his arms puckering when the wrist guards were removed, the last thing to go.
He shuddered lightly, and Lancelot sat back down, pulling Arthur to him. He came willingly, a soft breath escaping in a whisper that sounded like Lancelot's name.
"Rest, Arthur," Lancelot murmured, stroking the commander's hair back lightly. "Stay with me."
His eyes fluttered shut as tears leaked silently down his face, soaking into Lancelot's trousers. He could care less. Arthur could stab him with Excalibur and he would welcome it.
"You were right, Lancelot," Arthur said quietly after a while. "I was a fool to think I could change anything. I have spent the last fifteen years of my life fighting for a Rome that was destroyed in my mind in a matter of minutes. My beliefs…everything I have battled for, every life I have claimed, in the name of the church and Rome…my God. What was it all for?"
Lancelot shook his head, trying to shush the other man. "You fought for us, and for our lives. It was worth it. We owe everything to you."
"But you shouldn't have to!" Arthur yelled, sitting back up, facing Lancelot, fire in his countenance and bile burning his throat. "Rome is abandoning this place. Leaving it to the Saxons, or the Gauls, or whomever decides to attack first. Galahad spoke the truth – you risked everything for naught."
Lancelot placed his hand on Arthur's chest, which was heaving with his emotion. "I risked it all for this…for your heart. And would do it again were I given the choice. Am I to return home? I honestly don't know. But tonight, Arthur, I will be here, where I wish to be. I don't care about anything but that. Romans, Britons, anyone else be damned. I am here with you. And the fifteen years I spent at your side made me the man I am – a man I can respect when the day comes to an end. It was worth it."
Arthur gaped at him like fish caught in a net. Lancelot just gazed back, nonplussed. He knew Arthur, knew him better than anyone. He knew what Arthur would be thinking…and he knew how to be there for him.
"Do not worry so, my friend," he added. "You may have our loyalty, but you do not own all of our actions. We will do as we please, myself included. Let me stay here with you. At least for tonight…I would be remiss in my actions to leave you now."
Arthur nodded at last, and Lancelot's entire body relaxed with the performing of that one gesture.
Lancelot stood, pulling the other man with him.
He pushed him toward the bed, shoving him under the covers with only a mild protest from Arthur.
"Quiet…let me care for you, yes?" Lancelot said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
Arthur just sighed, and allowed him ministrations.
The commander and the knight stayed together long after the fire finally burned itself out.
End.