Author: Ashley
Title: Addicted To Your Punishment
Rated: PG13
Disclaimer: movie versions.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot, Arthur/Guinevere
Summary: Post movie AU. The trials of a lifetime at war aren't always easy to put aside.
Feedback is welcomed!
Note: the title of this piece is taken from a lyric by Papa Roach.
The heavy sword swings lightning fast in his hands, and you wonder where he gets the strength to lift it after spending an entire day on horseback, shouting orders and organizing men that haven't the sense to see to themselves.
Your fingers itch at your sides, and they clench into rocks. You swore you would just watch him, no interfering.
When he strips his sweat soaked shirt off, and tosses it to the side, your eyes mark every white stripe, every dark, discolored strip of skin on his broad chest.
Scars, bruises old and new, and healing pink skin decorate the torso of the other man, and you suddenly think that may be the only thing the two of you have in common-
--your torn and broken skin.
That's overtly melancholic, even for you, and a barking laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it.
He turns his head to see who's there, and when his mottled grey green eyes meet yours, something akin to fire jumps from his being to yours. You stand, drawing the double blades from their housings on your back, and approach him.
He turns his body toward yours, and as you circle him, the swords in your hands begin to vibrate, ready to deal in their everyday work.
He grins suddenly, but it's not pleasant. It's feral, and it says, take me.
You take a quick step, and one blade hisses through the air quicker than his eyes can follow.
A small, thick piece of his brown hair floats down to the ground, and he raises his hand, stemming the tiny flow of blood over his ear.
While he's distracted, you move again, spining in a half circle, one arm rocking in tandem with the other.
He wakes up, and meets your thrusts with a parry of his own, the clang of metal on metal the beginning of a familiar dance that sends your mind retreating away from the fearsome soldier that takes its place.
At one point, when he's bleeding from a half dozen small nicks, and you're trying to fight like normal with one arm held near your torso, you wonder when the friendship you two held dear changed into something akin to obsession.
His name is the only thing that makes cohesive sense in your battle addled brain, and it threatens to take over your tiny world.
It's the only thing that matters, the only thing that has meaning, the only thing you need.
His name is what keeps you fighting, what makes you stay here in this gods forsaken country, when you could have left for good long ago.
It's the reason you find yourself in his rooms night after night, the reason you only stayed in Sarmatia for mere months before returning to his side, empty, bleeding, hollow without him.
And no matter the pain, no matter the brokeness that surrounds his soul, you stay with him. Silent, deadly, observant, loyal.
Obsessed.
You don't talk about the dark haired Briton princess or the reason he had stayed in the first place. You had known the minute she had succumbed to a ridiculous fever that he would need you there.
You hadn't known that she had been carrying his child.
You still think on it sometimes, and wonder briefly that he doesn't ever speak of it.
Once, you had known him better than he knew himself.
Now, you barely recognize the ghost of your friend and lover when you roll over next to him at night, when he screams from nightmares, when he shakes and sweats and calls out.
Sometimes it's your name, and sometimes it's hers.
Arthur deflects your rain of blows, but you force him backwards, the anger rising to choke you, to fill your mouth with bile. His leg buckles abruptly, and with a quick turn and lunge you've knocked the large shiny sword from his grasp.
He goes down on one knee, and you cross your blades in a 'x' pattern, the points held on either side of his throat.
For a brief moment, his expression drops its constant guarded and pained, pinched look, and a peaceful, ready one takes its place.
You drop your blades, and the sound they make causes men to rush to him, lifting him by the arms, checking him over, asking him if he's all right.
He waves them off, explaining the two of you were merely sparring, like in the old days, and they finally move off, still confused and talking amongst themselves.
Your flesh has begun to crawl, and you walk as if in a dream to him, cupping his beloved face in your calloused hands.
You stare into his eyes, shaking your head just slightly, no, no, my friend, don't even think it.
You sigh with relief when the pinched look comes back, and are horrified to realize you are relieved at the return of his normal state of pain.
His dry lips brush your forehead, and he pulls away, stopping to pick up his clothing.
Then he's gone, servants and men at arms following him, making sure the empty king of Britain has what he needs.
Your home comes to mind, the open plains and the simplicity of a life there, but you dismiss it when you look down and notice he's forgotten his sword on the grass.
You stoop, pick it up, and trail behind the entourage.
You're the one thing left over from the old days that he can still stand to have around him.
You wouldn't make him go it alone. He saved you so many times before.
You can save him from himself. You can, and you will.
The sky darkens as you make your way to the inner sanctum of the newly rennovated garrison, which now serves as the seat of power for all the island.
Entering his rooms, you dismiss the hangers on and attendants, and as his red rimmed gaze meets yours, you berate yourself for even thinking once about leaving him.
The door slams shut behind you, echoing through a hall as vacant as your heart.
end.