Two.
Arthur and Ligeia wandered through the garden at the back of his house, while Olivia went with Jols to the stables to see the new mare Arthur had bought.
Arthur watched the widow out of the corner of his eye as they walked. She consistantly managed to amaze him with her wit and knowledge. He hadn't had much exposure to 'ideal' Roman ladies; those that supposedly fit that mold bored him to tears. Aside from the fact that the softness of their bodies, the delicate actions, the lack of conversational material – well, he wasn't used to it. Fifteen plus years in the company of only men, and one gets used to certain things. Like the roughness of a beard against one's face, calloused hands in place of gentle ones, hard flesh versus pliable.
Arthur forced his mind out of that line of thinking, and tried to concentrate on the here and now. "You were away there for a moment," she said kindly, smiling. He noticed that her eyes weren't just brown, but a gold flecked dark color that seemed to change when they passed in and out of sunlight.
"I apologize, lady. My memories and mind have a way of making themselves known whether I want them to be or not. You may find that quality in me tedious."
Ligeia stopped him with a hand on his arm. Arthur looked down at her, cocking his head. "I don't think I could find any of your qualities tedious, Arthur," she said softly. "You know I wouldn't be here if I didn't enjoy your company."
The corner of Arthur's mouth rose, and he patted her hand before he realized he was doing it.
The lady Ligeia was not someone he would have thought to be friends with. Her former husband, who's horse farm it was she and her daughter were living on, had died several years earlier. The man hadn't been reputed to be the kindest of husbands, and he and Ligeia's marriage had been set up by her family. He had also been much older than the lady, and Arthur could only imagine the terror she must have felt in being forced to join with someone so – different.
She had had the one child from the union, and it was widely known that her husband hadn't been all that happy to have a girl instead of a son, an heir to his money and to carry on his name.
Ligeia had tried to shield her daughter from that knowledge, but didn't suceed that well, and Arthur knew that Olivia was the way she was as a result. Very shy, quiet, and jumpy. He got angry thinking that any father could treat their child that way – and not as the blessing they were.
Ligeia's eyes widened at the touch of his hand, but she didn't pull away. Rather she curled her fingers around his briefly, then let go. "You are uncommonly kind, Arthur. I find it hard to believe you were ever a commander in the military. From what I have seen and heard of the legion…well, they don't receive their reputation by accident."
Arthur's body stiffened a little at the mention of his past. Ligeia instantly looked contrite, and her brows drew together. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she said hesitantly. "I don't mean to cause you pain."
I'm already in pain.
"It's alright, lady. It's part of me…and actually, I wasn't in the legion. I was a calvary commander," he trailed off, shocked that he had said that much. She was the first one he had spoken to of it.
Strangely enough, saying even only a little about it made a small tightness in his shoulders disappear. Turning, he moved to a nearby bench, in the shade of a large poplar, and sat, gesturing for her to join him.
"Arthur," Ligeia started hesitantly, "I am your friend. I hope you know that if the need should arise, you can tell me anything. You can talk to me."
Why do you always talk to god and not to me?
Arthur's back spasmed slightly, and he knew because the tightness that had vanished earlier was now back, it might be good to … talk about it. Some. And this lady – well, she was different than most. He looked into her eyes, and saw nothing but trust and willingness to listen there. He opened his mouth, having to take in a deep breath in order to work up enough courage to even think back on those last few months.
"I know that – now. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine." He tilted his head, staring into the distance, and into the past few years, back to the end of everything.
"Tell me," she said softly, taking his hand. This time, she didn't let go. He blinked, and snapped back to the present.
"I can – tell you some of it," Arthur replied, his voice soft, uncertain. "It's not that I don't trust you, I promise. I just – I haven't spoken of this to anyone. I hadn't wanted to, or needed to." Which is not the truth. But she doesn't need to know that.
Ligeia squeezed his hand, and forced him to look at her. "Arthur. I'm not going to break. I can take whatever you need to say … I would be a poor friend if I couldn't. As you probably know, I haven't had the easiest past either," she said, frowning slightly, "and I found that the more I shared, eventually, the easier it was for me to let it go. We can never move on with our lives with the past overshadowing our here and now."
She sounds just like him.
Arthur felt a tiny shiver take his spine and shake it, but he ignored it like he always did. He wouldn't give her any details – just enough to get some of the tension out of his chest.
"You know my father was Roman, but my mother was a Briton?" he asked quietly. Ligeia nodded. "I have heard a few stories of them."
He closed his eyes briefly. Rumors flew oh so fast. His gaze followed Olivia, who was outside the stables and examining the heather plants near the doors.
He ran a hand over his face; suddenly all the noise and natural sounds of the day seemed overly loud and made his ears ring. He tilted his eyes to the left, and tried to take the measure of the woman sitting next to him. Trust – not so easy for him. He had failed too many comrades to trust anyone or to let someone trust or rely on him. He wasn't one to rely on. He knew that; no amount of self flagelation would allow him to forget it.
She was waiting, her eyes soft and open, her hand in his warm. He took another deep breath, and decided to just do it.
"I took command of a group of Sarmatian conscripts like my father did when I was 16. You know of the agreement between Marcus Aurelius and the Sarmatians?"
She did.
"They were my age or younger. I'm sure they didn't believe their eyes when they were told their commander was a mere boy – and a halfbreed one at that." He smiled at the memory; those early years seemed like a story he had been told by an aged relative.
She squeezed his fingers again, encouraging him to go on. He swallowed and continued.
"It was – difficult, at first. They didn't want to be there, and I wasn't exactly sure what I was doing. The first battle? Nightmare. Too many lost, stupidly and too easily." He could actually taste the blood on his tongue from his first major wound; a Woad scout had managed to slice his blade into Arthur's cheek, and he had bitten through his lip when the knife had hit home. He still had a small scar from it.
Once he had allowed some of the memories to come forth, Arthur found he couldn't stop. He spoke quietly for an hour, Ligeia merely nodding and making 'hmm' noises at the right times. He didn't include any of the emotions he had been feeling throughout those years; he didn't include the importance of his relationship with Lancelot, or the way things had gotten so close he had been sure the other man had been the missing bit of his soul. He only spoke of him as his second in command, and how they had become fast friends.
He had to speak rapidly when he recalled the end, when the little family he had created had broken apart. He was horrified when his eyes actually burned, and he stared blankly at the stables and Jols excercising the horses to make himself separate the emotions from the facts.
If Ligeia noticed his hands trembling, she ignored it. She ran her thumb over his fingers once, and kept listening.
He trailed off. She was silent, and he was afraid for a moment that he had scared her with the intensity of his telling. Ladies were not exactly used to battle talk.
She surprised him by smiling. "Arthur," she said gently, "you are a good man. You lived through a horrible, hard time. You inspired loyalty in men who had no reason to be loyal. You should be proud – and instead, you punish yourself for not doing enough. Don't argue," she interrupted at the look on his face, "I can tell by your expression."
He sighed; god, was he that easy to read still? He tired of being so open. It caused more pain than it was worth.
He opened his mouth to say something about it, but gave up. She was right, and he knew it. He smiled instead. "One of my tedious qualities."
She shook her head, and leant closer. He wasn't sure how to react – he wasn't used to anyone being in close proximity to him anymore. "Nothing about you is tedious," she replied softly, and looked at him through lowered lashes.
He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts of another pair of brown eyes away, took a chance, and brushed his lips across hers delicately. She jerked once, her lids flying open, but responded. Their fingers intertwined, and she sighed a little as he increased the pressure.
"Arthur," she said against his mouth.
"Arthur," Lancelot said, "Come here. I can't reach you all the way over there."
Laughing, Arthur rolled off the rock he had been sunning on, and wrapped his arms around the warm, lean body of Lancelot, and kissed him.
Arthur's eyes snapped open, and he pulled away from Ligeia, who was looking at him with a troubled expression on her face. "What? What is it?"
Arthur blinked, and the image of Lancelot's face disappeared from his mind, and he met the gaze of the woman in front of him.
"Oh, Ligeia, I – I'm sorry, forgive me," he said, words coming in a rush. "I can't – please. Please excuse me." He stood, running hands over his clothing reflexively, and hurried off toward the house.
He could feel the heat of Ligeia's stare on his back, and cursed himself. No friends, no contact. That had been the plan. Damn it all to hell.
He sat in his study, brooding and staring at a map of Roman Britain that was mounted on the wall when Jols informed him the ladies had left. "Is everything alright, Com – Arthur?" the squire asked. Bless him. Arthur was very glad to still have the man around. "Yes, Jols," he answered distractedly, gazing at the map.
"Dinner?"
"Hmmm? Oh, not now. Go ahead – I'll find something later." Jols nodded, and exited the room. The lines on the map blurred and shifted, and Arthur allowed himself to feel as the door shut behind the squire. His face crumpled in the darkness of the room, and if any of his household happened to be passing by at that moment, they mentioned nothing about the dry sobs they heard coming from Arthur's study.
A few days after leaving the outskirts of Brigantium, Lancelot and the others pulled up in a small, dusty town full of farmers and the hugest amount of loose chickens Lancelot had ever seen.
Waving a hand in front of his face, he approached a young woman running a market stall, and put on his best smile. "My lady," he said, affecting the charm he knew he still possessed, "we are but poor travelers making our way to Rome. Can you tell me how much further it is?" He leant upon one elbow, gazing at her through his lashes. She grinned and gushed her answer.
"Only a week's hard ride, kind sir. Would you and your companions care for some nurishment? I grow them myself. Apples," she said, gesturing at the piles of shiny red things. Lancelot licked his lips, and smiled back. "I would be honored to partake of your – fruit." He fell forward over the stand when Gawain elbowed him in the back. Frowning at the other man, Lancelot picked up an apple and bit into it to avoid saying something inelegant in front of the young woman.
"Thank you, lady," Gawain said, and handed her a coin. She dimpled, and moved to talk to a few others who had begun to eye her wares.
"Lancelot – must you always be so – irritating?" Galahad asked, coming up behind the other two men. Lancelot's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he placed a hand over his heart, chucking the core of the apple away as he finished the food. "Me? Irritating? Galahad, I'm not sure what your definition of 'irritating' is, but believe me, you haven't seen it yet." He had begun with a teasing tone, but his voice had dropped at the end of the statement. Galahad merely rolled his eyes, and turned to Gawain.
"You brough us along with this joker why?" Gawain shook his head tightly; Lancelot had walked away from them, his back stiff and his gait awkward.
"What?" Galahad asked. Gawain made a face. "Go easy on him, Gal," he replied, "he's not doing so well." Galahad made a pfffft noise at that. "And we are? We fought for this 'Empire' for fifteen years, Gawain, and here we are, going voluntarily into the lion's den? We must be crazy."
"Not crazy, my friend," Gawain answered, watching as Lancelot mounted his horse and trotted away toward the small copse of trees on the outskirts of town that would serve as their camp for the night. "Loyal. To a fault, I'm beginning to think."
The fire crackled, and Lancelot's traveling companions spoke softly amongst themselves as he tossed in his bedroll underneath the clear sky that had accompanied them most of the way.
At last he sighed in anger, and stood up, his blankets falling around him. Gawain looked up as he passed. "I'll be back," was all he said, and Gawain nodded in response. Best not to press, given Lancelot's mood.
Lancelot stalked away from the small camp until he could no longer hear the voices of his friends, or smell the burning of the wood from their fire.
"Gods," he breathed, as he planted himself on a fallen tree that crossed his path. Catching his chin in his hand, he shut his eyes. "Am I doing the right thing?" he murmured. Gods damn the man. Lancelot never questioned his own judgement, except for when it came to Arthur. Arthur could say jump, and Lancelot would dive headfirst off the nearest cliff, as cliched as the idea was. And right at this moment, he hated himself for it.
"You bastard," he whispered, not sure if he was talking about himself, or the man who was responsible for his current state of flux. "I'll be damned if I turn around now."
He sat on the fallen tree for most of the night, snatching some rest before dawn came. He was dressed and ready when Gawain and Galahad woke, and he hearded them into action, not explaining his haste.
"Lancelot, for pity's sake," Galahad groused as they were buckling the last of their horses' girth straps, "We're not going to get to Rome any quicker by skipping breakfast." Lancelot stared at the younger man, until Galahad finally dropped his gaze, red tinging his cheeks.
"A week's hard ride," Lancelot commented to Gawain as the other man mounted up. "I think we can do it in five days, don't you?" And he was off, gigging his horse with his heels, a cloud of dust raised by his alacrity. Gawain soon followed, and Galahad brought up the rear, grumbling all the while.
"We'll be there when we get there, fool," he said to himself, "whether Arthur is ready to see us is another question entirely."
end two.