Author's note.
For the Knights 500 challenge "spirit".
Word Count: 528
Summary: Pre movie. Time spent in the garrision chapel and it's aftermath.
Pairing: A/L
Rated: PG13
Feedback is loved!
"You smell like incense."
Arthur scrubbed a hand through his hair, and frowned at the speaker.
"Would you rather I smelled of sweat and dirt?" he asked. The knight crossed his arms, and cocked an eyebrow, which would have been quite fearsome were he not currently in a state of complete undress.
"…yes, sometimes," he answered, and flopped back onto the rumpled bed, the fur rug and sheets tangled about his toes, which he wiggled. Not looking at Arthur, he contemplated his bitten-to-the-quick fingernails.
"At least then I'd know you weren't brooding yourself to death."
"Lancelot," Arthur sighed, and sat down, balancing his posterior on the edge of the furniture, "…you know it's important to me."
"I know, Arthur, and despite my comments and misgivings, I do understand. But every time you return from that place, you come back troubled, and distracted, and musty smelling. I don't like what it does to you," the Sarmatian man finished, finally meeting Arthur's eyes. The brown irises belied the depth behind the young, handsome face.
The green ones that stared back were indeed troubled, and shut quickly when they met those of the man in his bed.
"It doesn't do anything to me. I simply reflect on the state of things, and what I should be doing about them," Arthur answered, a bit testily. He didn't know why he was trying to defend his religion to Lancelot; the other man didn't get it, and probably would never care to anyway.
"I know what you're thinking," Lancelot said. Arthur merely grunted, and began to remove his boots and outer garments.
He sat at last clad only in his trousers, and turned to face the other man.
"Indeed. And what would that be?" Arthur queried. Lancelot sat up, bracing himself on his elbows, his skin gleaming in the firelight, each scar reflecting white, then red. Arthur thought briefly on the stories Lancelot's marked body could tell, and shook his head.
"That I don't understand you, and I never will."
Arthur started guiltily, then tilted his head. "I see. And where would you get that notion?"
"From the guilt ridden expression on your face," Lancelot answered plainly.
Arthur, being caught out, didn't respond; instead, he took his turn in examining his broken nails.
The knight moved to his commander, and encircled his bare torso with his arms, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder, which was tight with tension.
"Arthur," he murmured, "I do understand your motives…and respect them. Even simple little me gets the importance of spirituality in a life as brutal as ours. But I wish, for your sake, that you would find a measure of peace in your prayer, as well as penance for whatever sins you think you've committed."
Arthur raised his hands, and clasped Lancelot's in his own, bringing one to his lips.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered at last.
"…and there's where you're wrong," Lancelot whispered back, "only you deserve me. And only you shall have me."
Arthur closed his eyes, and rested his head against his lover's, content for the moment in Lancelot's words, and his spirit.
end.