Three.
Arthur arose before the single rooster he owned had crowed. Four days had passed; he had spent them in a blur of back breaking, sweat inducing physical work on his home that left him too exhausted to worry about anything at night.
He was too ashamed to go and apologize to Ligeia. Too ashamed to admit that his heart was cleaved in two, and could only belong to the person who held the other half. He knew what he had done was cruel, but hadn't been able to force himself to visit her.
Thus, he was surprised when later in the day, as he worked on repairing a split bridle, a small voice roused him from his task.
"L-lord Castus?" He turned from the piece of leather, and looked up to see the shrinking form of Olivia, who was moving nervously from foot to foot, holding a small wicker basket.
"Lady Olivia," he greeted her with some shock in his tone. He stood, and bowed politely. She blushed, but curtseyed back with grace. He smiled, and dusted his hands off, glancing surreptitiously around for her mother. It seemed as if the young girl was alone.
"Lord, my mother sends her apologies, but she is not feeling her best today. However, she did want me to make sure you got these," Olivia said hastily, and thrust the basket at him. He took it, and pulled back the cloth covering, sighing happily at the sight of bread with fruit baked in.
"Your mother is too kind," he said, and tilted his head again. Too kind by far. "I made them," Olivia spouted, then clamped her mouth shut, embarassed by her outburst. "I will try them for certain, then," Arthur replied, and he thought the girl would explode with pride.
"I – I have to go," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the waiting carriage Arthur hadn't heard pull up. "But enjoy the food." She turned to go, then stopped, hesitating. "Come see us, please?" she said, her face crimson, but standing her ground. The corner of Arthur's mouth curled, and he bowed to her a last time. "I shall, as soon as my work allows."
Olivia scampered off, and Arthur watched as the hack that carried her disappeared into the distance.
He sighed, but this time in disappointment. At himself, his situation, his inability to get close at all, with anyone. And he had gone and hurt a kind woman, who only had his best interest at heart.
Breaking off a piece of the bread Olivia had brought, he chewed thoughtfully as he returned to the house.
The next day, as soon as it was respectable, Arthur sat outside Ligeia's farm, his horse shifting under him. The poor mare probably felt his twisting emotions, and he patted her neck absently as he tried to work up the courage to just go in and announce himself.
In his small pack he carried two gifts for Olivia and her mother, in thanks for the food from the day before, which had been remarkably wonderful.
Just as he had decided to hell with it, and was turning to go, he heard a shout. "Arthur!" Damn. He clucked to his horse, and they made their way inside the main gate, and up the path that led to the home.
Olivia grinned at him delightedly when he dismounted, and reminded him slightly of an overeager puppy as she led him into the house, a servant having taken his reins.
"I'm so glad you came," she gushed, her simple linen shift and sandals giving her a young look that made a strangely protective feeling come over Arthur. Her eyes twinkled at him, and she seemed a bit more relaxed than normal. He was happy to see it.
"I'm happy to be here," he answered, "I wanted to thank you for the bread you brought me. It was some of the best I've ever had," he finished. She blushed to the roots of her hair, and stammered. That was the Olivia he knew. He smiled as she made some comment about it being no trouble, when Ligeia breezed into the room.
She stopped short when she saw who it was, and dropped a curtsey stiffly. "Lord Castus," she said, and Arthur winced internally at the cool tone. "Lady," he answered, bowing his head. "I've come to thank you and your daughter for the kindness you bestowed upon me yesterday. I truly appreciate being thought of."
Ligeia nodded, and Arthur watched her reactions like a hawk, trying to best judge how to talk to her.
"I – have something for you and Olivia, if you don't think it too forward," he said hastily, wanting to wipe the grim look off Ligeia's face. She cocked an eyebrow, but he noticed that her stiff demeanor loosened up somewhat. Olivia looked to her mother, questioning with a glance. Ligeia nodded in approval.
"What is it, Arthur?" Olivia asked, dropping his formal name in her excitement. He winked at her, then drew out a small parcel wrapped in cloth from the small bag he had brought in with him. She took the object, and untied the ribbon holding the covering on.
"Oh," she whispered in awe upon discovery of the present's identity. A tiny gilt mirror, embellished with scrollwork reflected the girl's happy face, and she preened into for a moment, then remembered she wasn't alone. "Oh, Lord Castus, thank you! It's beautiful. Look, mother," Olivia said, and Arthur hated the tone he could hear in her speech; as if she hadn't received any kind of gift for a long while. Arthur knew that her mother was doting and overly protective of the girl, and he knew Olivia wasn't wanting for things. He could only assume she was so excited because the gift was from him – the only male that paid her any attention now that her father was gone.
And he hadn't exactly paid her any kind of attention, according to the local gossips.
Ligeia smiled broadly, first at Olivia, then at Arthur, who breathed a sigh of relief. "It is beautiful, darling. Look at you! What a kind gift, Arthur."
A true look of happiness crossed her features, which made Arthur in turn feel like he'd been made king for a day.
"Why don't you take it outside and show Anne?" Ligeia said, referring to the daughter of their household cook. Olivia nodded quickly, and ran off, holding the mirror to her chest.
Arthur crossed the room to where Ligeia was standing, taking in her simple clothing, basic hair style, and unadorned skin. He breathed in, and the smell of light patchouli wafted over his nostrils.
"I owe you an apology," he started, but was cut off by the shaking of her head. "No, Arthur. You don't. I overreacted. I'm truly sorry." She smiled tentatively, and sat on a stone bench that lined the wall of the entrance room they still stood in.
"Things haven't been – easy for me since Marcus died," she said softly. "I tend to get involved in people's business where I have none. I find myself trying to live vicariously through others," she laughed bitterly, "and more often than not, find out too late that I should have just left well enough alone in the first place."
Arthur merely watched as she spoke, sitting next to her. "I've been alone for a while now," she said, her cheeks growing pink, "You're the first man I've been really interested in getting to know better." She fidgeted in her seat, twisting her hands together, playing with the rings on her fingers. "I know I'm not exactly the most 'typical' of Roman ladies…but I do have a good heart. I promise you I won't get involved in your business again."
Arthur took up her hand before he realized he was doing it. She looked up at him, taken aback slightly, and flushed again when he drew her hand to his lips, brushing them lightly across her knuckles.
"You are the only one who has been genuine with me since I returned here," he replied, "and I thank you for that. I am touched and … to be honest, a bit overwhelmed that you would find me interesting enough to try and get to know me." She shook her head, and made to interrupt, but he held up a hand. "I'm not easy to be around, Ligeia. Even to myself. You're the first person I've opened up to since – since I came home. That means more to me than any of the ass kissing I've been given by my so called 'peers.' But," he sighed, "I'm not…I don't…it's better for both of us to be as we are."
My soul's already spoken for. Even if it's owner is a world away.
Ligeia nodded, and tried to draw her hand away. Arthur wouldn't let her, however, and she gave up fighting him.
"But," he added, "I would be sore remiss if I were to throw your friendship away on account of my fear. Please, can we be friends?"
Her chest heaved with a tight breath, then her hand in Arthur's relaxed. "I would like nothing more," she responded, just as quietly. "It would be good for Olivia to have you around, I think. She needs to see what a truly good man is like."
Arthur's guilt complex kicked into overdrive, but he pushed it down, knowing that he was offering her all that he could for now. Who knew; come more time, he might…
No.
"I have something for you as well," he said suddenly, remembering the other gift in his bag. Ligeia laughed, and let go of his hand as he dug in the satchel.
"Ah ha," he said, and presented her with a parcel wrapped in linen like Olivia's had been. She smiled ruefully. "You didn't need to bring me anything."
"I know. Just open it," Arthur responded.
She unwound the ribbon holding the package together, and gasped when the fabric fell away. "Oh, Arthur," she said, her hand going to her cheek briefly. "You – where did you get these?"
"They're Sarmatian, actually," he answered; that hadn't been her question, and he knew it.
"These were bought as a present for my sister," Lancelot said, digging in the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed, as Arthur watched, lolling on the other man's bed. "I managed to trade for them before we were totally across the border. I had forgotten they were here."
He tossed the small objects to Arthur, standing. The firelight glinted on his skin, reflecting pink on the many scars that decorated his torso. "Give them to some maid who eventually catches you."
Arthur laughed. "Why? You don't like them in your own hair?" he said lightheartedly, turning the combs over in his hands. They were exquisite; black with small bits of pearl and fluorite decorating the tops. Lancelot glared at Arthur, but the effect was ruined by the buck nakedness of the other man.
"Arthur," he said, frowning. Arthur smiled gently. He knew Lancelot's family was as sore a subject as his own was. "I'm teasing you, my friend," he said quietly. "Come here?" he beckoned, and sighed against Lancelot's warm flesh as the other man wrapped his body around Arthur's.
Arthur came back to the present when Ligeia moved quickly to the door that led to the small sun room in the center of the house, which had a huge glass roof that allowed the brightness of the day to shine on a reflection pool that housed goldfish. Ligeia's husband had been nothing if not extravagant in his decorating taste.
She leant over the pool, fixing the combs in her hair, and lowered her hands, checking her reflection.
"What do you think?" she asked, straightening up to face him, as he doggedly followed her, the ties of the past tugging at him, whispering his name in an all too familiar voice.
His heart broke at the sight of the striking, kind, dark haired woman in front of him, who knew nothing of her true beauty. She wore her soul on the outside, and Arthur was afraid it would one day get trampled under the foot of life.
He smiled, and took her hands, berating himself all the while for his inability to take what she was so willing to offer him. He would have a good life with her, he knew it.
But it would be a false one, and he knew that as well.
That knowledge didn't make it any easier to accept what he saw as a failure.
"I think you make them pale in comparison," he said, "and may they provide you with whatever joy you can find in them." Ligeia's hands tightened around his, and she tilted her head in concern. "That's very sad, Arthur," she said hesitantly, "this gift will very definitely bring me joy, I assure you. I will think of you when I see them. That in and of itself is a gift."
There came that empty feeling in his chest again.
The walls rose, and he smiled automatically. "Then I'm glad to give them to you."
She narrowed her eyes at his tone, but didn't say anything. Removing her hands, she clasped them together. "Would you do us the honor of joining us for lunch?"
Arthur's poor mare was very happy to see him at dusk when he finally left Ligeia and Olivia's horse farm. He was whistling when he strode into his own home, and Jols almost asked what ailed him, but refrained out of kindness.
Nothing bothered Arthur more than hurting someone, and the fact he could actually salvage his friendship with Ligeia was truly a cause for joy. He felt better than he had in weeks. His stomach growled suddenly, and he smirked, looking down at himself as he stood in his study, removing his boots and cloak.
"Bath first," he told himself, and made his way outside, and the steam that issued from the only luxury that he really affected, his traditional style bathhouse. He knew he could have water routed in from aquaducts – but the thing secretly reminded him of the garrison, and it was somehow relaxing.
Stripping off quickly, he made fast work of getting rid of the dirt from the day, and sank into the heated pool in the center of the room.
Shivering, he dunked his head, and came up sputtering. He took up a cloth and slowly began the ritual of cleansing, shutting his eyes like normal.
A few moments later, he opened them, feeling something wasn't quite right. He cocked his head, and like a sudden blow, the realization hit him that he wasn't worrying about anything.
His eyes widened, and his hand dropped to the water, the cloth forgotten.
Voices echoed to him from the past…his father's, his first commander's.
His mother's. Pelagius'.
His knights…Lancelot's.
"Oh," his own voice ghosted out of his lips, the breath making the steam in the room part slightly in front of him.
He raised his hands, examining them, watching as they trembled. He turned them over, found his pulse points, and followed the rhythmic thumping of his blood back into his blue veins, up his arms, to where it disappeared into his chest.
You'll never be free of it, Castus, the listless, sexless voice said in his mind. You don't deserve to be.
"I know," he replied outloud, and lowered his hands, looking for the washing cloth he had dropped.
Arthur stood in trousers and bare feet in the bathhouse, wrapping a small piece of gauze around his forearm, the tear in his skin bad enough to warrant the bandage. The cloth he had been using to scrub himself he had tossed away; it had caught most of the blood, and was pretty much a ruined mess. He knew he should be horrified at what he had done, but he had become adept at locking away the coherent thought and image of scrubbing himself so raw he bled.
Besides, blood was no new sight to him. The fact that he still had blood to bleed, unlike some, was a rare gift to him.
As he was seeing to his wound, he vaguely heard noise coming from the courtyard. He thought he heard horses, and footsteps, but he dismissed it; the bathhouse was the furthest building from the main house and the courtyard, and he could be just hearing the few household servants taking in some of the horses late.
He finished dressing the scrape, and threw his discarded shirt over his shoulder, toeing on his boots. Making his way around the bathhouse, he blew out the few oil lamps he had lit, leaving one for the attendant who would clean it in the morning.
Exiting the warm room, he breathed deeply of the cool night air, and shut his eyes, tilting his head up. Steam issued from his half clad body, and he centered his thoughts, calming and collecting them.
He stuck his hand in his pocket absently, and jerked his eyes open. Fishing out the hard piece of metal there, he gazed down at it.
The lion on the leather thong stared back at him, and he turned it over, contemplating it and the memories it dredged up. Good ones, terrible ones, and little bits and pieces of things he never thought important until now. Now that they were all he had left of the other man.
His eyes slipped closed again, and he swallowed heavily, forcing down the lump of bile that rose from his gorge. He missed Lancelot so much sometimes he thought he might be better off if he lay down and let life just pass him by. It might be a slightly less painful way to live than the way he was living now – a mechanical man, moving, eating, talking, but only because some higher purpose pulled his strings. He knew this to be true; otherwise, he would have shriveled up and blown away a long time ago.
Pelagius once told me…the worst death of all…is the death of hope.
His hand clenched around the pendant, and he swayed briefly, his equilibrium taking flight. He thought he would do well to be a bird – for he felt as if he were making one long straight wingless dive toward the ground.
He sighed; at the same moment, he thought he heard his name breathed along with the slight noise.
No one else would be out this far on the grounds this late at night. He opened his eyes, took one step toward the house, and stopped.
His fingers quivered once, his eyes blinked, and he cocked his head. The apparition stood in front of him, silent, its arms crossed, it's demeanor one of road weariness and extreme leanness.
The clothing was new, but the double blades were not. Neither was the tooled belt that hung around the ghost's waist; Arthur himself had given it to the man, purchased in Londinium on what had turned out to be a very long and uneventful trip.
The ghost smiled then, a quick flash of teeth in the moonlight, and it spoke.
"I see you haven't given up your insane Roman custom for bathing as often as possible. You actually built a bathhouse?"
Arthur felt his knees weaken at the sound of the thing's voice. It was too close. Too much like the one he was sure he would never hear again.
You fight for a world that will never exist – never! There will always be a battlefield.
Talk to me, Arthur. Tell me your troubles – if you unburden your mind…perhaps we can actually find something pleasant to speak of.
Let me see you, he had whispered, the firelight flickering over his bare skin. We are torn and bruised, yes, but together, we make one whole man.
"Arthur?" the voice came again, concerned this time. "You're awfully pale – I'm sorry, truly. I was going to send word – but the others, well, we thought you might enjoy a surprise."
Arthur's knees did collapse then, and the pendant tumbled from his fingers as he headed for the ground.
He tensed, waiting for the pain, but was caught up by strong arms around his torso, and suddenly his consciousness snapped to the forefront of his denial, and it was trying to make him come forward with it.
Is he really…ohmygod.
"Is that you?" he said quietly, eyes meeting the other man's, his knees touching the ground finally. The other man hunkered down next to him, locking their eyes, his hands twisted together.
"It's me, Arthur," was all he said, and Arthur barked out a harsh laugh. "And here I was thinking I'd finally gone insane and imagined you here," he gritted out, his jaw cracking, his forehead breaking out in a sweat.
"No," Lancelot said softly, and reached out a hand that tremored slightly, his rough fingers finding the heat of Arthur's cheek.
"Oh," was what Arthur said, allowing his eyes to follow the line of Lancelot's hand, tracing it back down his arm, up his neck, locating the pulse, and at last finding the dark brown eyes that stared at him in sorrow and in such deep affection he thought he might crack and break apart.
He brought his own hand up, and covered the one on his face slowly, running his fingers over Lancelot's, checking, making sure, being absolutely positive that he wasn't creating visions out of his loneliness.
"Oh," he breathed again, and Lancelot's other hand went to Arthur's bare cheek, then dropped to his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, chest, bicep. They were both quaking; from fear or desire neither one was certain.
"You're here," Arthur said again, quizzically, blankly. His efforts at making himself believe that what he was seeing was not a ghost, and actually was the figure and form of his friend were draining his logic center – and fast. "You're – what are you doing here?"
Lancelot laughed bitterly. "That's you alright, Arthur. I travel for weeks to see you … at my own peril, mind you, and you ask me what I'm doing here." The younger man tried to roll his eyes, but the shock at seeing Arthur and hurt that Arthur's words brought made him close them instead.
"I – I'm sorry," Arthur replied; his voice dropped away, and he sat back on his heels in the dirt. "My god," he whispered, his hand moving when Lancelot's did. His followed the other man's, however, and ran over Lancelot's jaw, touching the familiar stubble, the arched brows, his high cheekbones.
Lancelot's eyes opened, and Arthur broke all the way in two at the sight of tears swimming in them. "What am I doing here?" Lancelot repeated, and Arthur nodded mutely, not trusting his words.
"I've spent the last eleven months riding…sleeping out of doors, keeping up my skills, drinking, fucking barmaids," a brief snort escaped his lips, a few tears starting to leak down his dusty face, "and missing you so much I thought I would die. I had to come, Arthur. There was no other choice. Not for me."
Arthur smiled, and touched a fingertip to the wetness making tracks in down the other man's cheeks. "I – you don't know what – I can't."
He walked on his knees to Lancelot, the few feet that seperated them gone in an instant. He would have bruises on his shins later, but he didn't care. Trembling arms wrapped themselves around the slender shoulders that were so achingly familiar; hands traced the bird like bones in the other man's back, each knob of spine, each tiny striation of muscle.
Lancelot gasped out a sob at the contact, and his entire being seemed to contract and expand in one second. He felt filled, and yet so empty it burned.
"Arthur," he moaned, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur." He kept whimpering the man's name like he couldn't breathe if he didn't.
Lancelot raised his own arm, and threaded his fingers lightly through the longish (his hair's grown) curls at the nape of Arthur's neck. Arthur shuddered, and bit his lip til the familiar rush of copper filled his mouth.
"Thank you," he whispered to the darkness.
To God? No, not anymore. Mithras? Ares? Some nameless heathen diety that was responsible for this – for him being able to have this again?
He wasn't sure. He didn't care. The dark eyes and hair and pale, singing skin were his again, to touch and love and take care of.
He dropped his forehead to rest against Lancelot's neck, trying to calm his suddenly throbbing head.
"I didn't think I was going to make it," Lancelot said quietly. Arthur nodded. He understood. His whole life, he had been waiting for this moment.
He felt broken, and whole. Happy, and sad. Useless, and needed. His skin crawled. He needed to speak with Lancelot – to be able to look in his eyes in the light, and see for himself that this wasn't some figment of his imagination.
"Inside," he breathed against the other man's throat. Lancelot stood, taking on much of Arthur's weight.
The two men walked like drunks through the grounds. The stars and sky shone down on them, lighting the path, fooling them that things were, or could be, the way they had been.
end three.