Author's note: the sex scene in this chapter has been cut for rules. Please go to http: to read this chapter in it's entirety. BE WARNED. It is hard slash.
Five.
The large thunderheads ringed the lightening sky, and Lancelot sat staring stupidly at the ground. He absently wiped at the back of his neck, which was coated in sweat and soot. All around him, the men Arthur had brought with him and members of the lady Ligeia's household were trying to organize things; the barn that had held her farming supplies and most of her horses was a complete loss.
The lady herself was standing next to Arthur, who was holding a blanket around her drooping shoulders, one arm anchoring the woman to his side. Lancelot knew she was in a bad state; if his livelyhood and home had been taken away from him all in one stroke – wait. He wanted to laugh at the irony, but could only succeed in coughing.
A few drops of rain hit Lancelot's curly head, then began to soak him and everyone around him in earnest. "Nice timing," he muttered to himself. Lightning flashed, the huge angry clouds rolled and rumbled through the air, and people scattered back to the house, the few horses that had survived being taken back to Arthur's barn for the time being.
"Lady," Lancelot heard Arthur say softly. Ligeia kept staring; it was if her legs had grown into the ground. Arthur nudged her again, but she didn't react. Her large brown eyes filled, and her lips trembled as she leaned against Arthur. Lancelot rolled his eyes, felt guilty about it, then went to them.
"Let me, Arthur," he said, and took the shaken woman from the other man. "Lady," he said gently, his fingers going under her chin, raising her face so she was looking at him. "Your daughter needs you to be strong. Let's go inside, yes? I'm sure Lord Castus would want you to be inside now."
"What? Oh, yes. Olivia," Ligeia said in a half halting, broken voice that made Lancelot sigh inwardly. Damn Arthur and his never ending habit of taking care of every wounded thing he could find. Lancelot felt for the woman, he truly did, but at the moment he was more concerned with getting her taken care of so he could figure out exactly what –
"Where did you get those?" he asked, touching the top of her head and the decorative combs there.
"Arthur – Lord Castus gave them to me," she answered automatically. "I'm glad they weren't damaged." Ligeia's hand went to her hair, and frowned at the amount of soot and dirt that came away. "Olivia," she whispered suddenly, her eyes clearing a bit. "Where is my daughter? Gaius!" she shouted, and her steward was there, breathing heavily, but executing a polite bow to his mistress. "Where is Olivia?" Ligeia repeated, shrugging off the blanket and Lancelot's arm. Her back straightened and some of her poise was evident again. Both Lancelot and Arthur relaxed at seeing her regaining some of her composure.
"She's inside madam, and calling for you," the steward answered. The lady nodded, then turned to Arthur. "Make sure Lord Castus has everything he needs, and that his men get as much food and drink that we have to provide." Gaius nodded, and rushed away. The lady walked to Arthur, and took his hands in hers.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said simply, "so this will have to do."
Arthur jumped, then closed his eyes as her lips brushed his briefly. He reopened them when she released his hands.
"I shall be inside. Do not hesitate to come find me should you need anything," she said, then turned to Lancelot. "You are as loyal and heroic as your friend. I give you my heartfelt thanks as well, sir." She curtseyed, then hustled off to the unhurt house, and her frightened child.
Lancelot watched her go, his insides a mish mash of feelings. Betrayal one he didn't want to admit, but it was there, nonetheless. He knew Arthur, knew the man's strengths, understood his draw. But – Arthur hadn't said anything about this woman. And she kissed him?
She was wearing the hair combs Lancelot had given to Arthur many years previous.
Give them to some maid who eventually catches you.
The tall, stately woman would be a good match for Arthur. Granted, Lancelot knew next to nothing about her, but he could tell from the chemistry between them, Arthur cared for her, and she for him. Lancelot couldn't fault either of them; Ligeia didn't seem to be the false type, and Arthur…
How much had Arthur told her? Why had he given her those combs? Lancelot sighed, closing his eyes and wiped a suddenly shaking hand over his face. He could feel Arthur watching him; he knew he should say something, mention his fears and insecurities, but in the wake of the hours of exhausting work they had just done, Lancelot didn't feel he could be polite. He was too worn out, and too hurt to not say something he might regret later.
"I'm going to find Gawain. He may need help clearing out timber," he finally said, turning to Arthur, but not meeting the man's eyes. He knew his own would hold the same thing Arthur's did; hesitation, worry, desire. He didn't have the strength to deal with his own feelings, much less Arthur's. If Lancelot had learned only one thing, it was that Arthur wasn't one to take anything one said with a grain of salt. He would analyze and beat a single word to death in order to understand it. Sometimes that was an endearing quality. Right now, Lancelot wanted to smash Arthur's idealism and sense of right and wrong into the smoky dirt and stomp it. Couldn't some things just be easy?
Not in his life, apparently.
"Yes. That might be a good idea," Arthur answered, suddenly quite interested in the scorch marks on his boots. He fiddled with his hands, then smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "I'll see you all this afternoon. Feel free to make yourselves at home back at my estate," he added, "rooms have been prepared for you."
"Thank you," Lancelot answered stiffly, and strode away toward the decimated barn and hopefully a place to work off his anger and repair his damaged feelings. Arthur watched him go, twisting his hands, berating himself and the luck of fate that seemed to always follow him around.
He wasn't sure that luck actually described what was happening to them. He moved toward the house after Lancelot had rounded the corner and passed out of sight. He knew he was doing the right thing by helping the lady and her daughter; they would have lost a lot more if Arthur and his men hadn't shown up to help. As it was, her livelyhood stood in precarious balance.
The rain pelted him, but he walked with slow, deliberate steps to the main house. The door was flung open, and Olivia barreled out, clutching him about the waist. Her face was white and her eyes were wide, and his chest squeezed at the expression of loss in them.
"Arthur – Lord Castus! I'm so glad you're all right!" she sobbed into his chest. He petted her hair, walking her back up the steps to the dryness of the house and her mother's waiting arms. "Everything's fine, Olivia," he murmured. "You're safe, now." She nodded against him, not wanting to let go. He gently extracated himself from her grip, and transferred the clinging hands to Ligeia. Olivia glanced up at him once more, and he tried to smile reassuringly at her. "Thanks to you," she said, her large watery eyes and downturned mouth ripping at him. "We won't forget it," Ligeia added, beckoning for him to enter. She shut the door with her foot when he stepped into the hall.
Arthur shook his head. "Ladies. I had help – your own household was indespensible. You should be proud of them. And – I am truly sorry for the loss you have suffered." He changed the subject quickly as Olivia's eyes watered more. "But – now is not the time to discuss that. Lady Olivia, you should be in bed," he admonished gently. Ligeia nodded, and spoke to her daughter. "You must rest, sweetheart," she said. "Lord Castus, please wait for me in the study?" Arthur agreed, and watched as the older woman led her child away.
He moved in a fog to the study, right off the main hall. Seating himself, careful to not get dirt or ash on her belongings, Arthur stilled himself, using a technique he had applied before battles or other stressful events for longer than he cared to admit. Breathing softly through his nose, he closed his eyes, turning his focus inward. Sucking air all the way to the bottom of his lungs, his heart rate slowed, and he managed to stop thinking only of himself and his concerns.
Give these to some maid who catches you.
"Lancelot," he had said when the two of them were alone, the stars overhead making an annoyingly pretty backdrop for a bad day. "How are you feeling – truly?"
The other man chuckled sardonically, and raised his injured arm, wincing as he did so. "Not dead. That's a start."
Arthur tried to smile, but his face wouldn't obey him. He turned from Lancelot, resting his forearms on the cold stone of the battlements, letting the biting rock and chill seep into his skin. Small punishment for allowing one of his men, his best soldier and friend at that, get injured in a routine skirmish that should have been over in a few moments.
"I'm – I don't know what to say," Arthur spoke at last. He tilted his head toward the stars, sighing gently in self reproach. He was so good at that. Too bad it couldn't come into play when he was in battle – or trying to back up a friend. He didn't want to fail one too many times. He didn't honestly know what he would do without the younger man who stood subduedly next to him.
Hrm. That wasn't like Lancelot. Arthur turned his head to the right, and his nose banged into Lancelot's, who was right next to Arthur, his uninjured arm suddenly slung around the older man's shoulders.
"Arthur," Lancelot murmured, his brown eyes catching the gaze of Arthur's green ones, not letting him retreat or look down, "if you don't stop brooding about something that wasn't in your control, I may have to break your arm as well. Stop. You did the best you could. I'm alive, by Mithras' good graces," he joked. "Actually, because of you," he lowered his voice and his eyes, then looked up again. "Stop berating yourself. I will never blame you for not being able to keep me from harm forever. We are knights. It happens. Just be my friend – that's all I'll ever ask of you. It's more than I've ever been given before."
Arthur had swallowed over his burning throat; the bright eyes and smiling countenance in front of him made up his world. "I don't deserve such kindness," he choked out softly. Lancelot's answer was to tighten his grip around Arthur's neck, and press his lips to the other man's cheek, drifing over the stubbled expanse of skin, before sealing their mouths together. He kissed the corners of Arthur's lips, then pulled back so they could see each other.
"Don't ever say anything like that to me again," he whispered. "Now, let's get out of this accursed night air and in front of a fire, hm?"
"Arthur?"
The female voice shook him from his memories, and he wiped at his face, smearing the soot and hoping he had managed to hide the wetness he felt there.
"Lady," he said, rising. She waved him back down, and sat across from him on a small padded stool.
"I don't know what to say," she said, and Arthur had to repress a shudder at her words. He pushed the guilt at the thought of Lancelot to the back of his mind, and focused on her.
"You don't need to say anything," he told her. "I would have done the same for any family in distress. It made it more imperative because it was you – please don't feel obligated to treat me any differently," he cut in when she tried to speak, "I did what any honorable person should do. Your own household was indespensible. I only did…" he trailed off at her expression. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "You must be exhausted. Please, for my sake if not your own, get some sleep."
He stood, and moved toward the door to the hall. "Arthur," she said curtly, stopping him in his tracks. "You are very adept at ignoring your own strengths. I owe my life, and the life of my child, to you and your friends. So stop degrading yourself, and accept my thanks and heartfelt gratitude."
Arthur cocked his head. He was so damned easy to read. Always had been. He cursed himself, then placed his hands gently on Ligeia's shoulders. Brushing her forehead with his lips, he turned and made his way to the main door. "My apologies, Lady, but you don't know of what you speak," he said, his voice rigid with the effort to control his roiling emotions. "I shall be back on the morrow; I will be leaving some of my staff here to help you. They will provide any assistance you require. Now, please, go and see to yourself. I will be back in the morning," he repeated, wanting her to understand he wasn't angry at her.
He exited quickly so he wouldn't have to see her face, or explain his change in attitude. Mounting the horse one of her men provided, Arthur spurred the animal, and rode as fast as he could back to his own home, fleeing his confusion, leaving his anger and distress in the dust floating behind him.
They had plenty of time to figure out just what had happened in the morning.
The household was quiet. Gawain and Galahad had cleaned up as fast as possible, then sunk into a deep sleep in the small, cheerful rooms Arthur had provided them. Lancelot lingered in the bathhouse Arthur had built, his breeches covering his aching hips, his bare arms and torso still coated in sweat, soot, and not a few burns. He examined his left forearm, cursed, and coated it with more oil; he hoped the stuff would at least stop any chance of infection and dull some of the pain.
He banged his head once, twice on the stone wall behind him. Leave it to Arthur to embroil them in some drama the moment they saw him again. The first time in a year. Lancelot cursed outloud again, and closed his eyes. Weak rain coated daylight filtered down through the small window in the top of the building, and suddenly, Lancelot was awash in memories, welcome and hated.
I am to be your commander. I am Arthur Castus.
No man strikes one of my soldiers without my permission, legate. Is that clear?
Those Woads won't know what hit them! We are knights! Show them no mercy!
I – don't know what I'd be without you, my friend. Stay with me, tonight?
Forever, Arthur.
A sighing breath crossed his face, the skin puckering. His eyes snapped open, and Arthur was there, weaving from fatigue, standing white and shaking in his trousers, still coated as Lancelot was in muck.
"Sit," Lancelot ordered, and his fear grew when Arthur obeyed without a word of argument. His green eyes drifted shut, and Lancelot rose, filling a goblet with plain water. He brought it to Arthur, who gulped it down greedily without moving his body or raising his lids. There was a short, angry burn across Arthur's left shoulder, and Lancelot grabbed a cloth, soaking it in the cooling oil that he had used on himself earlier. Arthur batted at him weakly, but stopped when Lancelot shoved his hand away angrily. "Let me," he said, and Arthur sat meekly, letting the other man attend to his injury.
He hissed only once, his face paling even more, and allowed Lancelot to clean and dress the wound with oil. His body relaxed when Lancelot was finished, his stomach muscles moving as his sat back tiredly. Lancelot found he was fascinated weirdly with the shape of them, the marks he remembered too well, and reached out a hand without knowing why.
The skin jumped and trembled under his light fingertips. Lancelot crossed his legs, his bare feet resting on the bench as his hand traced the scars, old and new, that he would never forget. He ran his longest finger around the waistband of Arthur's breeches, tickling the flesh, feeling the familiar body, long denied to him.
"Thank you," Arthur whispered. Lancelot cocked an eyebrow, removing his hand, resting the pair in his lap. "What for?"
"For your help. For not asking questions. For being here."
Lancelot shrugged. "Like I said, Arthur, I would be sorely remiss if I let you get all the heroic, manly credit. Especially to a lady such as that." He watched Arthur's reaction carefully, while ostensibly examining his fingernails.
Arthur opened his eyes finally, red capilaries competing with the green of his irises. "I – have much to tell you," he admited. Lancelot waved a hand, hiding his true feelings behind his traditional bravado. "Nothing to explain," he breezed, "she would make an excellent match for you. I'm glad to see you still had the combs."
Arthur's eyes reflected the world in them to Lancelot normally. When he sought them out now, he saw nothing but flat, green discs. Gods.
"Lancelot, about that," he started, but the other man stopped him again. "I gave them to you freely, to do what you wished with," he said. He stood, stretching and popping his back. He did not look at Arthur. "I must retire. It's been a while since I had to do anything that physical," he joked, swinging around to face Arthur. His gaze bored a hole in the wall just over Arthur's right shoulder. Lancelot knew his façade would collapse easily were he to look at the other man.
"I'm glad your lady is alright," he said, moving to the door. "I'll speak with you later, yes?"
Arthur's answer was to move like the lightning they had seen all day. He had Lancelot pinned under his arms against the wall before the other man could even blink.
"Don't. Leave me," Arthur said, in a voice tight with control. Lancelot could feel the rage just below the surface; Arthur's throat was constricted, his adam's apple bobbing up and down, his face flushed, his arm hot against Lancelot's shoulder.
"Please," he added, then dropped his gaze. His arms loosened slightly, his bare feet shuffled against the floor. Lancelot suddenly couldn't get enough breath. Only Arthur could give him what he needed.
"You only have to ask," he answered. "But, Arthur," Lancelot whispered as the older man hesitated, "do you do this for yourself – or your guilt?"
"God damn it, Lancelot," Arthur said, broken and defeated, "come to me now."
They dressed quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace they both felt, and both knew wouldn't last, if the history between them served.
The house was quiet and dark, save for the lights left burning in Arthur's study and rooms. Lancelot hesitated at Arthur's door, not sure of what he wanted. Arthur waited, the way opened, his fate sure before him. He had been bereft for so long – but he wouldn't force Lancelot into anything he didn't want.
"Stay with me, tonight?"
"Forever, Arthur."
Lancelot didn't know about forever anymore, but he knew about tonight. He took Arthur's hand, pressed the knuckles to his lips, and slipped inside Arthur's rooms. Arthur closed the door behind him, shutting out responsibility and regret.
If only for tonight.
end five.