Author's Notes.
Pre movie. Eight years into the knight's fifteen year term.
A glimpse of life on the wall.
Arthur, Lancelot. Friends argue, and forgive.
Rated PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Movie versions belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the lovely actors Clive Owen and Ioan Gruffudd. Kisses, boys.
Enjoy!
Arthur dragged his feet as he climbed the long, steep stairway leading to the battlements. Excalibur hung at his side, and his light practice armor gleamed in the early morning sun. By all rights he should be happy to be alive.
The knights under his care were still sleeping, he would assume, snoring away the drink and debauchery of the previous evening. He himself had slept a few hours, the damp and twisted bedsheets he had left behind the only evidence of the little time spent in his quarters.
Most of the night had been spent arguing with Lancelot.
Not the way Arthur generally liked to spend his few free evenings.
It had started easily enough, a game of dice, storytelling, laughing, drinking.
Then Arthur had been alone with the other man, and had mentioned something about going over maps of the skirmish they had been in the day before.
Lancelot's face had darkened, and his eyebrows had drawn together into one thunderous exclamation.
He had then proceded to tell Arthur everything that was wrong with that idea, including the fact that he believed Arthur to be the 'broodiest bastard' he had ever known.
Arthur, having had a tad too much wine by that point, had hurled back that Lancelot was too devil-may-care, and didn't he understand the importance of the position Arthur was in? Didn't he understand by now how much pressure Arthur was under to make sure everything was done correctly, to keep the knights alive, to find and break the infiltrations of Woads south of the Wall? Didn't the Sarmatian man understand the severity of his life?
Lancelot had barked out a laugh, standing, and had placed his hands on the table in front of Arthur, who was breathing heavily and sweating, the wine working quickly on him due to the fact he didn't imbibe much.
"I understand completely," the knight had said, "after all, we are here to serve you, Arthur, and your Rome. Gods bless and keep you, the only thing standing between a bunch of conscripts and certain death, for we of course could not protect ourselves," he gritted out, the sarcasm and laughter in his voice painful to Arthur's already overtaxed ears. The tavern was not a quiet place at night.
"Arthur, for pity's sake, you take on so much responsibility- you would feel guilty if one of us lost their tunic. I fear you wouldn't know what to do were you not able to brood about something."
And the dark haired man had whirled, somewhat sloppily, and stormed from the tavern, snatching up another flagon of wine on his way out.
Arthur had stared stupidly after him, jaw agape.
After having a few hours alone to mull over the things Lancelot had said, Arthur had come to the realization that Lancelot was right, and he ought to be ashamed of himself.
The knights were here by no other choice. Arthur was there by his own volition, having accepted the post after coming up through the ranks in the Roman calvary.
How many days, how many weeks, months, years, of self loathing can I withstand? Have I gotten so obnoxious even my closest friend can't handle me anymore?
He stood at the precipice of the wall, staring down onto the north side, watching as the trees swayed gently in the early morning breeze. The sun was beginning to rise, and he shivered slightly, the sweat from his pre dawn practice drying on his skin.
Such a pretty place. And so full of danger and treachery, that the Holy Roman Empire deemed it necessary to keep a garrison full of Roman soldiers and conscripts there year round.
What were they doing here?
Really doing? Spreading the word of God? Protecting the Pope's interests? Converting the local pagans?
None of those things, really. Arthur found he was one of only a few practicing christians at the fortress. Most of the men had been there so long they had forgotten what they were there to do.
Being a man at the ripe old age of 26, Arthur thought he had remembered it.
He knew that he hadn't.
He accepted the blind berserker rage that fell over him like a shield the moment he stepped out onto the battlefield, and did not glory in Christ's name as he stabbed nameless native warriors that came at him, screaming their blood curdling war cry.
He hunted down left over soldiers, taking prisoners and killing those that wouldn't be taken.
He protected small villages, and trained young foreign knights to kill.
He practiced his own talent, hacking straw dummies to bits in the training yard, his large white horse a lightning bolt underneath his legs.
He laughed, he ate, he drank a little with his men.
He even prayed.
He frowned, and leaned onto the brick of the wall, shutting his eyes.
What was he doing here? In the end, would it matter that he and his men had protected one tiny corner of the Roman empire? That the Sarmatian calvary had lost their lives for years, and not once had any emissary from the home city or the church come to thank them for their sacrifices?
Not once did any of the Roman legonnaires attached to the fortress say any kind word to the foreign men in their employ.
Arthur shook his head, disgusted with the doubt and self reflective mode he found it so easy to slip into.
Lancelot was right. He lived to brood.
No wonder his life was so empty, so one dimensional.
He laughed aloud at that thought. There I go again, proving him right.
He knew, after eight years, they weren't there to spread the word, or to bravely protect the Empire's interests in Britain. The Pope had long since stopped caring about this little corner of the world. The Saxon invaders were encroaching closer year after year, and the native fighters were getting bolder, taking more and more land back, killing more soldiers, getting more cunning and brutal every time.
No different orders from home.
"Protect the Wall. Train the conscripts."
And so he did it, and so he was going to do it for the next seven years, God willing.
A light tread on the stairs woke him from his introspection, and he turned. Groaning inwardly, he could only hope the other man was not there to start another fight.
"Good morrow, commander," Lancelot said, squinting his eyes against the rising sun. Arthur was smugly pleased to see that the knight looked the worse for wear, face white and creased in places, stubbled and dirty looking. His clothing was disheveled, and his leather jacket buckled hastily.
"You missed one," Arthur said in response, pointing at a loose toggle on Lancelot's jacket.
"Blast," the knight muttered, tugging at the offending piece of leather, finally getting it right. "It is too early to be dressed properly, much less in armor."
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, and crossed his arms over his chest. Lancelot mumbled something in reply. Arthur cocked an eyebrow, and waited.
"Oh for the love of- I'm sorry, all right? I apologize for my unkind words of last night. You were right, your job is a difficult one, and I don't make it any easier by goading you mercilessly. I am sorry, Arthur," he finished, meeting the Roman's eyes, the tone of his voice as he finished sincere.
"No, Lancelot," Arthur said, leaning back against the wall again, running one hand through his brown hair, "I should be the one apologizing. You were right. I do brood too much."
Lancelot laughed, leaning on one side against the brick, facing Arthur. "Arthur Castus, admitting a simple Sarmatian knight has one upped him? Will wonders never cease?"
Arthur tried to frown, but found he couldn't. This man facing him brought out the best in Arthur, and he was damn glad they were friends. He touched the other man briefly on the neck, and smiled.
"Indeed, my friend. Indeed. And I do believe that is your fault, ultimately."
"How so?" Lancelot answered, scrubbing at his eyes. "Damn, it's early."
"It's your fault I have to be so honorable. I wouldn't be able to face the others, or you, were I to not live up to your expectations."
Lancelot started, then cocked his head. Arthur winced, realizing he had let a tad too much personal information out in that sentence.
"My expectations? Arthur, I have no expectations of you- I know you well enough to know who you are now. I don't expect anything other than the man you are. That's all we need. That's all I need. I never want for anything when you are always there to make sure it's done. We owe you everything…many of us would not be alive to stand here were it not for you. Confound it all, Arthur," he added, his face a picture of confusion and sudden hurt, "I love you the way you are. You do not have to do anything different for me."
"How can you possibly?" Arthur answered, angry at himself for leaking one of his biggest worries. "I bring you nothing but death. How is that honorable?"
Lancelot rolled his eyes, sighing. He pushed away from the wall, and stalked towards Arthur, stopping only when his nose was mere inches from the other man's.
"Since the day I got here, you have shown me nothing but love and support. No other Roman would deign to lower himself to do that for us- for me. You trained me, helped me, put up with me, hell, man, you did everything a true friend would do. You don't bring us death, Arthur. You created a new life for lost, homeless, scared out of their wits boys. You're not just our friend, or our leader- you're our world."
As a man, Arthur found it demeaning to show emotion often, especially anything resembling tears.
He had been wounded often enough to make crying understandable, but hadn't once done it. Not in front of anyone.
Thus, he found himself horrified to feel his eyes begin to burn and his throat swell at the other man's words.
He coughed, tried to get the lump to go down, but it only grew bigger, and his eyes began to leak the tears he was attempting to hide.
"Don't," Lancelot said softly. "You can feel- it's all right. It's just me. I'll still respect you in the morning."
He winked, his arrogance and cockiness endearing him to Arthur all the more.
So he let the tears come, and Lancelot pulled him into a tight embrace. He allowed the other man to hold him as he wept, and didn't once feel ashamed.
He felt comfortable, warm.
He felt loved- which was an odd feeling for him to have.
"I don't have much love in my life," he choked finally. "I am grateful to see it again."
"I am glad to be the one to offer it, then," Lancelot whispered, his forehead touching Arthur's.
Arthur pulled away at last, a little shaky, a little worn out. Not used to such an outpouring of feeling, a blush tinged his cheeks red, and he found he couldn't meet Lancelot's eyes.
"Arthur," Lancelot said at last, stepping back away from the commander. Arthur felt a sudden chill, and he realized he missed the warmth of the other man's skin against his own. He moved closer, and his shoulder met that of Lancelot's. The Sarmatian didn't edge away.
"Yes?"
"The sun's up."
"Yes."
"Let's find some food, shall we?"
Arthur nodded, silently thanking Lancelot for changing the subject gracefully.
Lancelot turned and began the decent down the stairs. Arthur hesitated, something in his mind different, somehow.
He felt more open, lighter.
"Arthur- you coming?"
He followed Lancelot, his actions his answer.
He would eat, then spend the morning training with the knight on his sword technique. Lancelot was becoming extremely adept at using two blades at once, and Arthur wanted to try and learn it himself.
He jogged down the stone steps, not feeling his armor or the ever present weight of Excalibur at his side.
It was a nice feeling.
end.