Eight.

Gawain watched as the rain poured from the sky. "Blast this damn country," he muttered, and Galahad laughed at him as he retrieved his umpteeth cup of hot cider from Arthur's hearth.

The two men stared out the window at the downpour, and Gawain shook his head again at the wonder that was Arthur. The other man was outside, soaked through, helping the staff get the horses and few farm animals he possessed inside the barn. The rain had burst forth, surprising everyone, and Galahad and Gawain had barely made it back from Ligeia's home before the torrent had started.

Gawain thought again on the lady. She was kind, and a lot smarter than the few roman matrons he had come into contact with, and very sure of herself. She would make a good match for anyone. Trouble was, the person she was interested in had interests of his own to deal with.

Arthur had studied Ligeia's husbands accounts for three days straight now, and hadn't come across anything substantial. He had found hints of things, and bits and pieces of entries that weren't exactly by the book, but nothing obvious. It was driving him mad. Gawain shook his head as Arthur ran for the house, all of the animals and householders taken care of for the moment.

The door leading from the yard opened, and Arthur slammed it, with more force than he had meant to. The wind was fearsome, and the day as night. He kicked off his tall boots at the entrance to the kitchen, slipping and sliding on wet bare feet toward them.

"Arthur," Galahad said, "go get dry before you catch your death."

Arthur smiled broadly at the younger man, then made them all jump by sneezing loudly enough to wake the snoozing cat by the fire. She lashed her tail in annoyance, and vacated the room.

"This time, Galahad, I think you are right," Arthur laughed, wiping at his nose, and tugged his wet tunic over his head, letting it and his leather overjacket land in a sodden plop on the floor. He snatched up an abandoned towel, and wiped it over his skin, then scrubbed his hair.

"It never rains like this here," he commmented, taking the chair vacated by the cat, "you must have brought it with you."

"Oh yes," Gawain replied, "we missed the rains of Britain so much. In fact, where's your snow? That could only complete the picture." He took a sip of his drink, then got up and poured another, handing it to Arthur, who took the hot mug gratefully.

"One more thing I don't miss," Arthur said quietly. They all clammed up, watched the weather, and drank their cider.

"What a load of fun you bunch are," Lancelot's voice interrupted their reverie, "a nice little domestic vision we have here."

Galahad sighed and rolled his eyes. "Well, there goes our quiet evening of contemplation. Always the life of the party, Lancelot? Can't let bygones be bygones?"

"Never," Lancelot answered, kicking Galahad's chair and pouring himself his own drink. He sat on the brick that surrounded the hearth, smiled at Arthur, and half drained his mug. " 'twould be way too predictable if I did."

"How did your visit go?" Arthur asked Gawain. The blond thought, then answered. "Nothing out of the ordinary. We questioned most of the men and families who had agreements with Marcus – the living ones, at any rate, and they truly do seem on the up and up. A few we couldn't get a hold of," he consulted a small sheet of vellum that he pulled from his pocket, "but we'll be going to the homes of those two tomorrow. If this rain lets up."

Arthur drained his cup, and set it down on the brick at his feet, which were beginning to prune. "I don't know how I could have gotten all this done without you all," he said, one corner of his mouth curling. "You must know how grateful I am. Please don't doubt that."

"What else would we be doing, Arthur? Riding willy nilly, spending excess money on bad women and worse horseflesh?" Lancelot laughed, finishing his drink as well. He eyed Galahad. "And perhaps not always in that order."

"One day you'll stop baiting him, Lancelot," Arthur answered, crossing his arms over his torso, the skin pink from his scrubbing with the towel. The fire was beginning to have an effect on him, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

"True, Arthur," Lancelot said, "but by then I will have run out of insults. And that will be the day I find the last grey hair in my beard."

Galahad stood, moving to the hall, cuffing Lancelot on the ear, a wee tad harder than he had meant to. "Gods forbid," he said, "because on that day you'll be dead."

Gawain sighed sufferingly, and stood as well. "Gentlemen," he said by way of exiting. "We'll see you for dinner later."

Arthur nodded sleepily, and the two men took their leave.

Lancelot knocked his knee against Arthur's feet, which were next to him, resting by the fire. "You need a break," he said quietly, "you're not looking so good." He raised a hand, and layed it on Arthur's ankle, kneading the flesh gently.

"I'm fine, truly," he answered, punctuating the statement with another giant sneeze. He smiled sheepishly, and wiped his nose again.

"You need to get dry," Lancelot ordered. "Rooms. Come on." He stood, and dragged on Arthur's hand until the other man rose.

Arthur followed Lancelot down the hall to his suite, stumbling groggily over the threshold, his lack of rest beginning to catch up with him.

"Here," Lancelot said, and tossed Arthur a pair of linen pants, "you're soaked. I'm going to build up the fire." He crouched down by the small brazier, loading it up with wood and small scrap pieces. Some oil and fire from a torch later, and he had the thing blazing cheerfully in its corner.

Arthur was curled dutifully in his bed, wet pants tossed over a chair, eyes closed and covers up to his neck.

"Hellfire," Lancelot said, adopting a curse he had heard Arthur use before, a smirk crossing his features, "I only had to tell you to get in bed once. You're learning, my friend." He kicked off his own boots, and crossed to the door, shutting it so Arthur would have some semblance of calm.

"No, Lancelot, I'm just tired," Arthur answered, smiling without opening his eyes, "and I know better than to try and argue with you without all my faculties intact."

The other man laughed quietly, the sound echoing through the room. Arthur cracked one eye open, finding Lancelot staring at the ledger books sitting on his desk. "Find anything?" he asked muzzily.

"No, but I also don't have the head for figures like you do," Lancelot answered, "however, there's no harm in me looking. Go to sleep, Arthur," he commanded, putting down the books and moving to the edge of the big bed, "I'll be here should you need anything."

Or should you need just me.

"I'm fine," Arthur insisted, his face screwing itself up comically as he let loose with another blast from his nose. "Fucking rain."

That made Lancelot really laugh, and he handed Arthur a handkerchief from the desk. "Wipe it off before it runs everywhere. Disgusting."

"That coming from a man who's stitched my wounds and seen me vomit is quite amusing," Arthur said through the cloth on his face. He took it away, balling it into one fist. "Better keep this," he murmured. "I am not getting sick."

"Of course not, Arthur," Lancelot assured, nodding. "It's not as if you spent hours outdoors working, then got soaked to the bone. Not sick at all."

"Shut it," Arthur answered pleasantly, and closed his eyes.

Lancelot brushed one hand over the other man's brow softly, feeling his temperature, then cupped his cheek quickly, one thumb tracing Arthur's jaw.

"Sleep."

He moved to the desk, sat, and watched as Arthur's breathing changed as he dropped off.

A small smile curled the edge of his mouth, then he switched his attention to the ledger books in front of him.

He wasn't sure if he could find anything – and it wasn't that he wasn't smart. He just couldn't find the time or enough interest to do anything much with numbers.

He sighed, and opened the books, the popping of the fire and Arthur's soft snoring making for a pleasant setting.

A crack of thunder made Lancelot jerk awake, his forehead sore from having fallen asleep on top of the ledger books.

Arthur was still sleeping, and Lancelot crept out of the room, determined that Arthur should rest as much as possible. The man would work himself into an early grave if he weren't careful.

Picking up a tray of thick stew, bread and ale from the kitchen, he passed Gawain in the hallway, pointed with his foot toward Arthur's rooms, and explained, "I'm not waking him." Gawain nodded, and went on his way. He and Galahad had a busy morning planned, and he wasn't going to waste free time arguing with Lancelot about dinner. Arthur did need the sleep.

Lancelot in the meantime reentered Arthur's rooms, shut the door with his arse, and placed the tray on Arthur's desk.

"You let me sleep too long," Arthur accused tiredly, and sat up, running a hand through his hair. Lancelot snorted.

"I would think it might take you a few years of sleep to feel comfortable again," he answered, and took his own food off the tray. "How do you feel?"

He settled in Arthur's chair, kicking his feet up on the desk, and began to eat, still watching as Arthur got up slowly and took the second chair.

"Creaky, but better," he answered, taking the other bowl of stew. "Have you spoken with Gawain or Galahad?"

"Yes," Lancelot said, "I told Gawain I wasn't waking you. He was all right with that."

"Lancelot," Arthur sighed, "one day you will realize you are not my nursemaid."

"Arthur," Lancelot echoed, smirking, "one day you'll actually find you don't need one. If you'd stop acting like an idiot and take care of yourself, I wouldn't feel as if I needed to watch out for you."

"Hmph. That's your problem, not mine." Arthur swallowed his stew, and frowned at the other man. Lancelot merely smiled angelically and ate, his eyes dropping back to the ledger books which remained open on Arthur's desk.

"Did you look through those?" Arthur asked. Lancelot nodded, talking out of the corner of his mouth whilst he ate.

"Um hm. Didn't notice anything too strange – but like I said, I don't have the patience for numbers like you do. I did see one name come up more than any others…ah, Falco?"

Arthur shrugged, and continued eating, chewing slowly and thinking. "Yes. I saw that as well. That's actually one of the families Gawain and Galahad are going to see in the morning. Father apparently loaned Marcus a good bit of funds to get their farm off the ground."

"Sounds suspicious enough for me," Lancelot answered noncomittally, and slammed the books shut. "No more of this tonight. You're still not looking all that well."

"Yes, mother," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "But I do need to visit Ligeia's house tomorrow – I haven't been there in a day or so and they need help finishing the temporary barn," he mused, setting down his empty bowl of stew. He flashed suddenly on the lady in question, and her new hair combs, courtesy indirectly of Lancelot through him. His lower lip slipped between his teeth, and he scrubbed nervously at his stubbled face.

"Arthur," Lancelot said gently, "somehow I get the feeling you think I might be put out by her presence in your life."

"What? Oh, well, I mean," Arthur stuttered, then stopped. "Jesu," he sighed. "I didn't expect to see you again. It's made things quite confusing. For you as well, I'm sure." He sighed again, and rubbed at his temples. God knew he hadn't been meaning to make the lady think he cared for her…but he did. He did care for her well being, and her daughters', and she had been kind and true when all the others that had flocked around him had convinced him even more that Rome was not what it could, or should have been.

That thought made him sad even now. Then he opened his eyes, and saw the man sitting across from him, and his gut twisted like rope. Father, will I never understand the depth of loyalty?

Arthur and God hadn't had any kind of a relationship for a while – but he found himself sometimes reverting to speaking to him in times of stress and uncertainty. He thought it odd that he would still rely on the one thing that had betrayed him the most. Perhaps habit…? He didn't know. He wasn't sure if it really mattered, either.

"There you go again, brooding," Lancelot added, removing his feet from Arthur's desk, sitting up so he could see the other man. "Arthur, I'll admit I wasn't pleased to find you had a … friend like that. But – I know you. And I know you can't help but be the person you are, which includes taking care of husbandless women and helpless girls. It's an annoyingly endearing habit," he laughed, if a bit bitterly. "And seeing you again, yes, it's confusing. But like I told you, I made the choice to come to you. It was for me. I had to know – I wasn't living any kind of life without knowing."

Arthur rose, and padded with bare feet to the foot of the chair where Lancelot was hunched. He kneeled down, squatting on his haunches next to the other man. Taking one of Lancelot's hands, he turned it over, examining the rough, calloused surface.

"You told me once, I did an awful lot of things with these," Arthur mused, twining their fingers together, "but they weren't enough to hold up the whole world. Not without help."

He brought Lancelot's palm to his lips, and brushed them across the surface gently. "I have help. I have you. I always want to have you," he said softly. "I don't want there to be doubt between us anymore."

Lancelot blew out a breath, and clutched at the fingers wound around his. "Then don't give me cause to doubt," he answered just as quietly. "I would have followed you anywhere, despite your strange sense of duty and 'rightness.' There was something there, Arthur, not just a foreign commander being kind to his knights," Lancelot's eyes narrowed at the memory, "but something about you in particular that I couldn't stay away from."

He shook his head slowly. "There's something to be said for basic attraction, but that's not all. I don't think I could pin it down if I had to. I only know that I need to be with you. My place is at your side, be it defending you, fighting with you, or loving you. It's not right any other way."

He stood, and let go of Arthur's hand, who stayed kneeling, and watched Lancelot's deliberate movements.

"You spent so much energy and time 'protecting' us – protecting me – and you didn't listen to me when I told you I didn't want that. It was a barrier between us, and I didn't want barriers. I know getting close isn't easy for any person," he walked the length of Arthur's wall, examining the tapestry and maps of Rome and Britain layed out there, "but Arthur, when something like this comes along, for the love of sanity, you must act on it. Treat it like the gift it is. No more barriers. No more secrets. If you wish me here, then I'll be here – but it has to be on those terms."

Lancelot turned to face the other man and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable and frightening. "Tell me what you wish."

Arthur ached at Lancelot's words, even though their truth echoed through him. "I told you," he replied, moving to stand, mere inches from the other man, "I told you I wouldn't hide anything from you. No secrets. I meant it."

I spent over ten years hiding things from him, in order not to hurt him. Can I be honest now?

Lancelot's hand went up, and cupped the cheek in front of him. "If you do, Arthur, and I'm not one for ultimatums," he said, "if you do, I can guarantee you won't like the result."

Arthur raised his own hand, and placed it over Lancelot's, holding it's warmth against his face. He tried to think of a response that would make Lancelot believe him.

He couldn't.

Things would have to change. He would have to change. If he wanted this.

Oh, did he want.

He dropped his hand and pulled Lancelot flush to him, his face buried in the other man's neck and hair.

He didn't say a word, just held him, and prayed for forgiveness and the patience to do what he must.

And kept on praying, even when he realized what he was doing.

The rain let up slightly the next morning as Gawain and Galahad rode out, but they were so used to it, they didn't mind as much as it seemed from Galahad's complaining.

Arthur and Lancelot followed, breaking off east towards Ligeia's home. They had agreed to meet back that evening to discuss events, and see what the others had come up with, if anything.

"Lord Castus," Olivia shouted in greeting when they pulled up in the yard, breathless from their ride, "have you come about the barn?"

Arthur smiled at the young woman, and dismounted, handing his reins to Gaius, who took his and Lancelot's animals around the back of the house.

"We've come to help, if we can," he answered, then stopped at the look on her face. "What is it, Olivia?"

The girl toed the ground, hands behind her back. "Lucius Falco is here, speaking with mother," she said quietly. "I heard them – speaking about father – and the new barn."

It was then that Arthur noticed that no men were in the yard, and the new barn stood unworked on, skeleton rising against the dark sky. He cursed silently, then turned toward the house.

Lancelot raised his eyes to the heavens once, then followed.

"Gods, Falco! Have you no shame?"

The words came like a blow down the long hall, and Lancelot twisted to look at Arthur, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Arthur's face contracted, and he sped up, moving like a hare toward the sound.

They reached the room where the noise came from, Arthur skidding to a halt in front of it. He raised his hand to knock, when a smack and a cry made him ignore convention.

He burst into the room, followed by Lancelot, to find Ligeia holding a hand to her face, and a tall, older roman standing over her, his breathing quick and labored.

"Arthur!" Ligeia squeaked, shocked to see him. She dropped her hand, and moved toward him, shoving away from the man Lancelot assumed to be Falco.

Arthur's knuckles were white where he gripped Excalibur, and Lancelot had already drawn one of his short Spanish blades from his spine sheath. "What – are you alright?" Arthur asked the lady, moving one hand from his sword to her shoulder. "What's going on?"

"It's not your concern, sir," the roman man said, standing erect and striding forward, "I had business with the lady. We are finished."

"Yes, you are," Arthur said, stepping up to meet the man face to face. Falco's trimmed eyebrows arched over cool grey eyes, and a small sneer decorated his lips briefly. "You must be Castus. I've heard you mentioned in the senate."

"I am," Arthur affirmed, "and you are Falco. And I need to speak with you."

Ligeia was next to Arthur suddenly, hand on his arm. "Don't. Let it go, Arthur."

Arthur didn't look at her, but at a slight motion from his hand, Lancelot was next to him, hilt gripped in relaxed fingers, smile on his face.

"Lancelot," Arthur said calmly, "would you be so kind as to escort the lady out of here and to the barn? I'll be right there."

"Of course, Arthur," Lancelot answered, and made to take Ligeia's hand.

"Stop."

Lancelot's free hand froze at the lady's tone, and he held it there, unsure of what to do. Arthur looked at her finally, turning to face her completely. "Ligeia," he said quietly, "let me help you, please."

"No, Arthur," she said firmly. "Falco, leave us," she told the roman, "I'll speak with you later."

"Til later, then," Falco answered, and executed a smarmy bow, leaving a strong wiff of too much scent in his wake.

"What – was that?" Arthur asked as he relaxed his grip on Excalibur. Lancelot lowered his own sword and his hand.

The lady faced Arthur, her bearing regal despite the red palm print on her face. "Arthur. Please, be a friend, and let it go because I ask you to. I cannot explain. You don't need to investigate the fire any further. Falco has assured me he has taken care of the culprits."

"What?" Arthur said again, sounding like a parrott. Lancelot's face was drawn, not quite sure of what was going on. He knew Arthur didn't like it, though. "What happened? Why on earth would you let any man hit you? On those grounds alone I should kill him!"

Lancelot groaned inwardly. He should have known Arthur wouldn't be able to keep his inner savior hidden for too long. "Arthur, leave it," he murmured. "Do as the lady wishes."

"You cannot be serious, Ligeia," Arthur kept on, ignoring Lancelot. "Who is that man that he can treat you like a slave…and you expect me to stand aside? What about Olivia? Do you want her to see her mother treated like offal?"

Lancelot cringed. Too far, my friend. But Lancelot also knew that once Arthur got something in his mind, he wouldn't let it drop, no matter how painful or wrong it was for him and the other person.

"Lord Castus," Ligeia said coldly, straightening her body, wrapping her arms over her torso, "You will respect my wishes, and let it go. I appreciate all that you have done for me, truly," she softened a bit; Lancelot could hear the reluctance creep into her tone. He knew only too well how easy it was to do that when it came to Arthur. "but please, for Olivia's sake, no more."

Arthur's body stiffened, and he bowed awkwardly. "Very well, lady," he answered formally. "If you don't require anything of us, then we shall take our leave."

She nodded. "I think that would be wise."

Arthur turned on his bootheel, and whirled out of the room in a swirl of anger and confusion. Lancelot turned to face the woman, who was staring after Arthur like she wanted to say something, or follow him.

Lancelot smiled at her, and took her hand, brushing his lips across the back of it briefly. "Don't worry about him. I'll make sure he doesn't hurt anyone – or himself."

Ligeia finally focused on Lancelot, and nodded her head to him. "I thank you, sir. You are obviously a good friend." One hand went tentatively to her hair, and the pearl decorated combs there. Lancelot's gut tightened, and he resheathed his sword, the hilt sticking up to match its mate.

"You must tell me about your home one day," Ligeia said softly, hand dropping from her hair to the mark on her face, rubbing it absently. "I would know about where these came from."

Lancelot bowed to her, and followed the way Arthur had gone, surprise and hurt making him unable to speak.

Damn it to hell. How did she know?And why did she have to be kind?

Night came rapidly. Lancelot stood outside at the back of Arthur's home, and watched as his friend chopped lumber like he was preparing for winter with five hundred men. Steam from Lancelot's wine drifted in the cool air, and he sipped as he watched Arthur work until the moon had risen halfway into the sky.

Gawain and Galahad had returned shortly before dusk, and Gawain had spoken for a few minutes with Arthur before returning to the house, ostensibly to hunt down supper and Galahad. Lancelot hadn't approached Arthur, and soon afterwards, Arthur had begun his maniacal chopping.

Lancelot drained his goblet, put it down on the steps, and made his way to Arthur, avoiding the flying bits of wood chips, sitting on a spare stump.

"Don't start," Arthur said through huffing breaths, his torso shining with sweat in the moonlight. Lancelot smiled slightly, shrugging his shoulders. "I didn't say a word, Arthur. I merely wondered if you were going to start building the practice arena tonight, or wait til light."

"What practice…" Arthur trailed off, lowering the big axe he had been using. He looked around, noticing for the first time the amount of wood surrounding him. He wasn't sure whether to laugh, or cry at the ridiculousness of it.

"I am now ready for winter," he commented dryly at last, dropping the axe with a dull tang and sitting beside Lancelot on the large stump. Both men gazed out into the darkness, the breeze wafting, the smell of Arthur's apple trees reaching them.

"It's Falco?" Lancelot said quietly. Arthur nodded. "I think so. Gawain discovered as much – the family's too secretive about their involvement with Ligeia's husband – they didn't want to talk about him, or the fire. Gawain and Galahad ran into Falco on his way back from her house," his tone darkened, "and stopped him to speak. He didn't give any details, really, but did mention the fact that had Marcus been alive still, the fire would have been the least of his worries."

Lancelot grimaced, then stood, reaching out a hand to Arthur. The other man hesitated, then took it, rising as well.

"Oh, my friend," Lancelot said, shaking his head, "you are caring to a fault."

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, then made a surprised mmphf sound when Lancelot stopped his protests with his lips. Arthur's eyes gradually slid closed, one arm twining around Lancelot's neck, his fingers threading in the other man's hair.

Lancelot's hand positioned itself at the base of Arthur's sweaty spine, the other hand resting on Arthur's cheek, lightly stroking the skin over his jaw.

He kissed him softly, nipping slowly, sucking on Arthur's lips, then tongue when he was allowed entrance. He breathed only Arthur, tasted only Arthur, wanted nothing but Arthur.

He pulled away at last, dizzy and muddled. "Well, that worked," he laughed muzzily, "although a bit too well."

Arthur didn't remove his arm from Lancelot's shoulders as they walked back toward the house.

They didn't say anything – but both knew what the other was thinking.

Arthur knew Lancelot only meant well by his actions, and loved the other man more for caring enough to want to distract Arthur.

Lancelot knew Arthur loved him, but wouldn't be swayed from doing what he thought was right the second he could.

Arthur's bed was warm from the fire lit by Jols in the brazier, and Lancelot didn't leave the security of Arthur's side the rest of the night.

end eight.