Four.
Gawain and Galahad yelled out happy greetings to Arthur; they hugged him in turn, and spoke with him for a few minutes, Gawain sparing a few glances between Arthur and Lancelot. The two were obviously beside themselves to see each other, but not everything was right.
Gawain sighed. Nothing had ever been easy between those two. "Galahad," he said, interrupting as Galahad was regailing Arthur with a particularly long and not so interesting story about their latest horse flesh purchase, "I'm dusty and exhausted. Let's let these friends talk and get to bed, yes?"
Galahad made to protest, but at Gawain's hard pinch to his arm, nodded in agreeance and hugged Arthur one more time before Jols led them off to their quarters for the night.
"It is a blessing to see you again," Arthur told Gawain as they left. Gawain smiled sincerely at his old commander, wishing him a pleasant night.
He wouldn't want to be Lancelot or Arthur for all the freedom in the world.
Arthur's aged cook, Julia, had left a flagon of hot wine and mugs with the men, and Arthur stood by the service, fidgeting and staring at the crockery as if it had every answer to any question he could ask. He could feel Lancelot moving around behind him; looking at his books, examing the map on the wall, finally seating himself in Arthur's desk chair.
Arthur poured them both a mug, then handed one to Lancelot, sitting down himself on a leather couch that faced Lancelot, who was sprawled in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm. Arthur tried to hide a smile at the image, but couldn't. It was his friend's nature to a tee.
"Friendship," Lancelot toasted, and held his mug out. Arthur hit his against the other man's, and they both drank deeply, avoiding each other's eyes.
"Arthur," Lancelot said finally. Arthur's heart cracked further to hear his name spoken by that voice again. It was like he had heard Lancelot, had seen him, had touched him yesterday. Arthur blinked, and smiled hesitantly.
"Yes, Lancelot," he responded, and Lancelot smiled back stiffly; he, too, felt a strange sensation he could only ascribe to having been on the road for so long. Perhaps he was just overwrought from exhaustion.
He had told Gawain that Arthur's memory wouldn't let him be, but now that he was here, right here, Lancelot suddenly had no idea what to say. He only knew that his body, his internal being, wanted nothing but to crawl into Arthur's lap and stay there forever. He knew if he did that, however, Arthur would not take it the right way. Lancelot knew Arthur; he knew him almost too well. He knew the man would want to talk, would want to discuss things, how Lancelot had fared on the road, what his plans were, what he expected from Arthur.
In truth, Lancelot didn't know what his plans were, or what he expected for the future. He only knew that when he had gotten as close to Rome as he had ever been, something had made him ride south. To Arthur.
He wasn't sure if he could explain it to himself, much less to the other man.
"I – how have you been?" he stuttered out, aware of how silly the question sounded. He asked it anyway; he watched Arthur closely, to see how he would react.
Arthur was taken slightly by surprise at the casualness of the question, but he merely cleared his throat and tried to answer.
"Fair. The house is coming along nicely – I don't suppose you saw the orchard?" Lancelot shook his head, "of course not, but you can see it in the morning. I put in a fountain as well…I don't just build bathhouses," Arthur joked, and trailed off. He felt awkward and stilted – and he absolutely hated it. Lancelot used to be able to almost finish his sentences, could read him better than he could read himself.
And here they were, talking of trivialities as if they hadn't been apart for what they thought would be forever.
Arthur watched as Lancelot drained his mug; the other man seemed to be feeling just fine, which made Arthur slightly angry – Lancelot should be as disturbed by the reunion as he was. He rubbed absently at the new bandage on his arm, and coughed.
Lancelot set his cup down, and raised one eyebrow, looking Arthur over. The man looked – older. Still strong, still broad of shoulder and lean of hip, but there was a little more grey in his hair, and a few more lines around his eyes and full mouth. He was still more beautiful than anything Lancelot had ever seen, and he felt the same, mostly. Lancelot still could feel Arthur pulling at him, however, there was something…perhaps he had found another way to fill himself and his days? Lancelot ached just to think of the possibility. He had to know. He had ridden all this way, not knowing why, or that he was even following Arthur's draw, but when he had gotten as far as Brigantium, he had put the pieces together. And he was damned if he was going to simper like some silly girl and moon about if Arthur didn't love him anymore.
Their parting hadn't been easy. Seeing him again…it was like a lightning bolt had hit Lancelot and scoured him clean. His nerve endings were raw, his skin felt crackly, and his mood was sour. He had to know.
Arthur was staring at him intently; that unnerved Lancelot even more, and he frowned, removing his leg from the chair arm and sitting forward.
"Arthur," he said the man's name again, and it tumbled off his lips as easily as if he had said it every second of his life. "Arthur…I wish I knew what to say to you," he sighed, hand scrubbing his hair and face briefly, "I felt – feel as if I know your every move, your insides and outsides as if they were my own. But I also feel… seeing you here now, in this environment…I don't know you at all. You're just some random Roman man who I could pass on the street and not glance twice at. It's disturbing, to say the least." Lancelot hurt to say those words, but it was the truth, and Arthur had to know. He had to know all of it.
Arthur winced as if bitten, and a little more of Lancelot's gut twisted up. The other man tried to smile, but only half his mouth moved before his expression became blank again.
"I understand," he answerd softly, and gods damn it, Lancelot knew he did. "I still have to convince myself that you're not just some wild dream I've created out of desperation," Arthur said, hands twisting in his lap. Lancelot was across the room without thinking, and threaded his own fingers through the flesh knot Arthur had created, willing his friend's hands to relax. He knelt on the floor, and kept ahold of Arthur's hands.
He blinked; he hadn't even thought to move, and yet here he was in front of Arthur. Blast. Some things hadn't changed. He had always been there whenver Arthur guilted himself into a major attack, and he reacted this time just as he always had. He wasn't sure if he was glad of it, or angry at his predictability.
Arthur stared at him as well, his eyes wide and red, but his fingers slowly relaxed, and they stayed locked with Lancelot's. "How did you come here?" Arthur asked quietly.
That was not really an easy question to answer – but Lancelot decided just to tell Arthur how he felt, and hoped it would be enough.
"Like I told you before, I was out riding. When I left Britain," he began, his voice uneven; it still hurt to think of his decimated and displaced family, "I rode home. And I was angry; so angry I couldn't wait to get away. I was certain the best thing for both of us was for us to go our separate ways. Being freed, Arthur … it was like a…a giant empty chasm had suddenly been dumped in front of me, and I had been charged to find a way across it. With no help, and no tools. You have to understand," Lancelot said, his eyes still meeting Arthur's, "fifteen years of being told what to do, where to go, hell, where to sleep and shit, will make a man slightly uncomfortable when he's suddenly given his own mind back."
Arthur waited; it had been so long since he and Lancelot had had any kind of civil conversation that he was afraid this one would go awry before it had even begun. Arthur had one question he had to risk asking, however, so he did.
"What about your family?"
Lancelot shrugged, and Arthur could see from the tightness in his shoulders that things had not gone as planned. "Dead. Or married off. I managed to see one brother, who had been a babe when I was conscripted. He barely remembered me," Lancelot laughed bitterly, "and I didn't feel right dumping myself and my woes on he and his new wife. I rode," he continued, "and rode for a few months, exploring what was left of my homeland, never spending more than a few nights in one place. Somehow Gawain and Galahad found me," he laughed again, this time just a laugh, "and there you have it. We've been riding steadily west from Sarmatia, and when we ended up in Brigantium…" he trailed off, then took a deep breath. He has to know. All of it.
"Apparently I'm vocal in my sleep," he murmured, his cheeks tinging red. Arthur's fingers tightened on his slightly, and the other man began to rub his thumb on the palm of Lancelot's hand as he spoke.
"You wouldn't let me rest, Arthur," he said, his head dropping forward at last to rest on Arthur's linen clad knee. He shivered slightly at the contact, and Arthur had to swallow past his own emotions, which were threatening to rise up and swallow him whole – big, grinning monsters he thought he had buried.
"The way I left," Lancelot went on, his voice rough and sore, "was not becoming of me. I must apologize to you…it was just…I didn't know what you wanted for your own future. And I did not want to end up tagging along behind you like some kicked dog if you didn't want me there."
Jesu. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut at Lancelot's confession, and he kept a tight grip on Lancelot's hands. The other man's head was still bowed, resting slightly on Arthur's knee. Arthur wanted to offer some comfort, some reassurance that he understood; that he didn't blame Lancelot in the least for the way they had parted.
Was I so cruel that he never quite got my affection…my addiction to him?
Arthur separated their fingers, and allowed his hand to drift to Lancelot's hair; he threaded the calloused tips through the dark curls he had always loved to touch, sighing lightly. "I wanted nothing but you," he whispered, "and it is I who should apologize to you because you never understood that."
He rubbed the other man's head softly, glad to see Lancelot's shoulders slump a little. He pressed down on one of them with his free hand. "These do not belong next to your ears," he joked quietly.
Lancelot pulled away at last, grasping the fingers that were resting on his head, and pressed the palm to his cheek, tilting his face so he could plant a small, shivery kiss there. He dug in his pocket, and pulled out the token his sister had given him so long ago, the one that Arthur had dropped when Lancelot had appeared as if out of thin air by the bathhouse.
"You kept it," he stated simply, and Arthur nodded. "I had hoped you would retrieve it some day," he admitted, "or if not…I would have something of you to keep." Thank god you came.
Lancelot stood, pulling Arthur with him. They didn't move, facing each other, taking in the changes, each of the other, mental as well as physical.
Arthur's eyes roved over Lancelot; the corner of the other man's mouth quirked. "I feel as if I am being examined by the medicus," he laughed softly, but Arthur shook his head. "I want to see you – as you deserve," he said, and Lancelot had to bite his lip to keep from throwing himself bodily onto Arthur.
Arthur in turn saw the man he knew, insides, outsides, skin, guts, soul, but he also saw something … different, something new. He wasn't sure if he liked it. He was afraid he had caused it.
Lancelot, on the surface, was pretty much the man he had been back in Britain. Lean, strong frame, broad, sharp shoulders, high arching eyebrows above coal dark eyes that still sparkled. Same beard, same manner of dress – no heavy armor, of course. Arthur noticed shoots of grey in the man's beard and hair at the temples, but what really drew him were the lines that had grooved themselves into Lancelot's face, where before they had come and gone dependant upon the man's mood.
The eyes, while still bright and beautiful, held shadows that Arthur winced at. The skin below them was dark, and his overall tone was paler than he had been in Britain, which was odd, considering how little sun there had been there.
"Arthur – stop looking at me as if I were a lame horse," Lancelot finally spouted, crossing his arms over his chest. He frowned; which was also not an expression Arthur liked seeing on the younger man. He was used to seeing it only before or after a skirmish.
"I'm all right, I swear it," he added, a bit lamely. Lancelot knew he wasn't exactly a feast for the eyes, but to have Arthur staring as if he might catch some sort of disease from him was starting to raise his ire.
"What?" he asked, moving his hands to his hips, cocking one, glaring at Arthur from narrowed eyes. "I know I'm not the specimen I used to be, but I'm not a gargoyle, either. Speak, man."
Arthur's only response was to almost fall back into his chair, his hands going to his face. Lancelot immediately dropped his irked expression, and replaced it with one of genuine concern. He went down to one knee in front of Arthur, and reached out a hand.
"Arthur – what? Please, friend, for the love of pity, what ails you so?"
Arthur's shoulders shook once, twice; his breathing hitched, but he didn't move to answer Lancelot, who, after a moment of panic, realized the other man was sobbing roughly into his own hands.
"Gods," Lancelot breathed, and knelt up so he was in between Arthur's legs, which he pushed apart with his hands so he could be as close as possible to the distraught man.
He never could stand to see Arthur in pain like this; he rarely ever had, so it was always a shock when the older man broke down in front of anyone. As far as he knew, Arthur hadn't ever cried more than once or twice in front of anyone else, except perhaps at funerals of the knights they had lost along the way. Maybe not even then.
Arthur had in the early days some silly idea that showing any kind of emotion, other than those appropriate to command, was a sign of weakness. As he and the other knights had gotten close, that had changed somewhat; dependant upon the situation, Arthur had become comfortable enough with his charges, and they with him, to begin to trust one another with true feeling.
By the end, they had all cried, laughed, pissed, puked, fucked, and generally done anything a man could do in front of one another. So the fact that Arthur now was covering his face was a shock to Lancelot, and it hurt him.
He gently took a few fingers and stuck them through Arthur's clenched digits; tugging, he managed to get the other man to lower his hands. The sight that met his eyes twisted his insides like he had eaten a bad meal.
Arthur's green eyes were bloodshot, his nose was running, and tracks of dried snot and fresh tears decorated his stubbled face. His lower lip was trembling; he was valiantly trying to hold back, but when Lancelot cocked his head and touched his face with one fingertip, he couldn't fake it.
His face crumpled again, and he sobbed in earnest. Lancelot's arms went around him, and the younger man whispered quiet, soothing words into Arthur's ear as he nuzzled his face into Arthur's neck, stroking his hands down Arthur's back repeatedly.
"I – I've been so – stupidly wrong without you," Arthur blurted out, and Lancelot's arms tightened, his lips kissing the face and cheeks that he had missed for so long.
"Shhh, Arthur. You don't have to tell me." Because I know.
"But you need to hear it," Arthur said, his breathing still hitching, his face blotchy and hot. "I need to make you believe me – I was, I am, miserable. I fill my days with endless chores and things that mean nothing to me to force myself to forget what could have been, and how in the world I could have been so stupid as to drive you away. I don't…I can't be alone again. I need you with me. I loved you. I loved you, and you left because I was too proud to stop you. I only wanted what you wanted, even though I knew it would kill me for you to leave. God, Lancelot," he finished brokenly, "I love you even more now, knowing that I hurt you like I did."
Lancelot was sucking in air through his nose, his hands clenching on Arthur's back, and he had to swallow back the bitter bile that rose from his gorge. "How stupid we both have been," he whispered back, "I wasted an entire year away from you because of my own damn pride. We are both idiots. So don't worry about who hurt whom," he added, pulling away slightly so he could see Arthur's eyes, "and let's just fix what we shouldn't have broken in the first place."
He petted and soothed Arthur's face as he spoke, willing calm into the other man. Lancelot loved Arthur so much his skin felt as if it had been flayed from his bones by Arthur's words. He alternately burned and was chilled from head to foot; he felt he would die if he didn't kiss the other man, and yet he knew it would crack him open if he did.
Arthur let out a little gasping sob, and leant forward; their noses bumped awkwardly, then Lancelot knew he was dead, because he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything except for Arthur. Arthur's lips, Arthur's hands on his body, Arthur's frantic heartbeat against his own chest.
They fumbled clumsily at each other, fingers bruising, heads slamming together once, but Lancelot didn't care. He cared about being touched and kissed and loved by Arthur, and that's what was happening. It was out of a dream – or a nightmare, he wasn't sure which. Gods, Arthur. Gods!
Both of them were in only their breeches, Lancelot squirming desperately on Arthur's lap, when someone beat on the door. Arthur ripped his mouth away from Lancelot's, who couldn't hold back a moan of loss.
"Sir! Sir! Lord Castus, please, open the door!" Arthur's eyes grew wide at the sound of trouble from one of his household, and shouted out, rather hoarsely, "What is it, Brutus?"
"It's the lady, sir! There's been an accident!"
Lancelot watched as Arthur went ghost pale, and moved aside as Arthur stood, striding to the door. He jerked it open, unaware of his statue like smoothness in his current state of undress. Lancelot slumped into the now cooling chair, biting his thumb, his skin prickling against the leather.
"Ligeia?" he said in a strained tone. The servant nodded. "What is it, Brutus? What's happened?"
The servant's lips flapped, and Arthur's hand went to his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Tell. Me." Brutus nodded, and spoke in a rapid fire voice that Lancelot had a hard time hearing.
"Fire. Her farm. They need as much help as they can have." Arthur nodded in turn, whirling about and grabbing up his tunic. "Brutus, gather the other men as fast as possible. Also, wake my guests in their rooms; they can help as well. I'll be there in a moment. Oh!" he shouted after the running man. "Saddle as many horses as you can."
Arthur began to exit the room, then stopped, as if remembering something. He turned around, and crossed to Lancelot, who was also pulling on his shirt. "Lancelot," he said, "I have no right to ask…"
"Oh please, Arthur," Lancelot smirked, standing, "as if there was any way I'd let you be heroic alone."
Arthur threw him a brief smile, and ran from the room, yelling behind him. "Meet me in the yards in five minutes. And bring a blanket you can wet down."
Lancelot followed, albeit a little slower. He continued to chew on his skin as he gathered up his leather vest, strapping on the double blades he never went anywhere without. Finding a blanket in a small room off the kitchen, he made his way to the yards, where men were scrambling about, saddling horses and gathering any buckets that Arthur had in his posession.
He found his own animal, and mounted up. Gawain and Galahad came rushing out, got on their own horses, and trotted up to where Lancelot was sitting on his nervous horse. Gawain raised his eyebrow in silent question. Lancelot just shook his head; he wasn't ready or in any kind of mood to answer queries just yet. He raised a hand, touching his lips, which were swollen and red.
Arthur emerged from the house, tugging on a heavier fabric and leather overcoat, wearing high boots that covered his knees. They would hopefully protect him from any burning matter they had to walk through. He was shouting orders as he walked, and every person in the yards obeyed him instantly. In about half a minute everyone was ready to ride, and Arthur sent them out, leading the column himself.
"Hasn't changed, has he?" Gawain said quietly to Lancelot, then spurred his horse after the others. Lancelot cocked his head, answering Gawain's retreating back.
"You'd be surprised," he whispered, then followed. A thought occurred to him as he was galloping after the men from Arthur's household and his fellow ex-knights.
Who was Ligeia?
end four.