Ten.
"For pity's sake, Arthur, you have to be bored," Lancelot said, trying to keep the exhasperation out of his voice. His friend hadn't moved for half the night, but merely sat at his window and watched the wetness drain from the sky, the wind lashing his apple trees about and the rain turning his yard into a mudpit.
Lancelot plunked down into the seat next to Arthur, and rested his chin in his hand. He stared out into the dark, trying to figure out what Arthur saw. In truth, he knew Arthur didn't see anything but his own perceived failure. Arthur hated being lied to, possibly more than anything else. He hated being thought a fool, and a naïve one at that. Two major blows in one day – that was a lot for one man.
The green and pearl decorations on the hair combs caught the light from the oil lamps in the room, and drew Arthur's eye. "Why do you have those?" he asked Lancelot, who shrugged.
"I traded for them. I thought they shouldn't be thrown away."
He had found them on the ground outside the stables, presumedly where Arthur had dropped them. The other man would feel bad about it later, so Lancelot had picked them up, trying to do Arthur a favor.
He pocketed them, his gaze ticking to Arthur's fingers, which were bloodless, white and obviously chewed. One nail was bleeding slightly where Arthur had bitten it off too close to the quick, and Lancelot slid one of his hands between Arthur's gently, twining their fingers together so the other man couldn't jerk away.
"You'll torture yourself to death one day, you know," he sighed, petting Arthur's hand lightly, running his thumb over the heel of it. Arthur surprised him by not pulling away; instead, he leant over so his head was resting against Lancelot's. Their dark hair mingled, and in the scant light it would have been impossible to see where one started and the other stopped.
"I found myself praying all the way back here," he answered, and his voice made Lancelot want to go to Rome's door and kick down every priest or misinformed 'holy man' that had drummed the guilt and supplication into Arthur.
Instead, he gripped Arthur's fingers more tightly.
"I abandoned God, Lancelot," he went on, "because He abandoned me. And yet, I still find myself turning to Him without thinking when things go wrong. And that makes me a hypocrite. A worse quality I'm not sure I'll ever find.
"I thought things would be different here – that despite what happened to Pelagius – Rome was still Rome, the church would stand behind me, and the might of the empire would be enough for me to accept all those things I did in her name."
He tremored once, then was still. "I cannot reconcile what I have seen, and what I believed to be the truth. I thought I could. I cannot. And I don't – I don't know how to live with such different things inside of me."
Lancelot breathed out Arthur's name, but didn't interrupt, knowing he wasn't finished. Arthur didn't open up near enough, and Lancelot was willing to let the man talk til the end of time if it helped him.
"I only wanted to be friendly," he said at last, brokenly. "I thought them two innocent, lonely women who needed a kind face around. I thought they were true. I though she would trust me," he continued, and Lancelot noticed Arthur had switched from 'they' to 'she' but didn't comment, "the only thing I would ever ask of any friend is that they be truthful. And I told her things – things I hadn't told anyone. About my years in Britain. About the service, the dreadful parts and the joy. God!"
He stopped, and his bearing changed. The walls clanged down, the walls that Lancelot hadn't seen built around Arthur since the last weeks on the island. He extricated his fingers from Lancelot's slowly, and stood, moving toward the door.
"I need to think," he said, turning his head to look at Lancelot out of one eye. One eye that was blank and grey as slate, and Lancelot's own head dropped, his forehead meeting his knees.
Arthur left his rooms, and left Lancelot sitting there, numbness and anger and all the old feelings warring with his sorrow and love for the other man. He had been right in his mention earlier that Arthur was the only man who could get him to do or feel a lot of things – and at that moment, Lancelot was sorely tempted to just get on his horse, and ride out of there as fast as he could.
He made to stand, and the combs in his pocket made a raspy noise against the stone of the window seat.
Fuck.
Lancelot rose all the way, and eyed the outdoors. Massive storm hitting? Almost midnight? Angry lover and hurt friend of said lover? All present. Perfect timing to go riding.
He shook his head, and made for the stables, dashing through the rain.
A few lamps were still lit at the lady's house, and Lancelot waited at the door, his hair dripping nasty wet lines down his face.
At last the servant Gaius appeared, not happy to see visitors so late, but ushered him in anyway, informing him that Ligeia would receive him in the study shortly.
Lancelot stood before the newly burning fire, his body shaking from the cold, hands out to try and stave off a large case of shakes before Ligeia entered. He questioned again the wisdom of what he was doing, but before he could change his mind, the door opened and Ligeia met his eyes surprisedly.
"Sir," she said, the shock in her voice pushed to the back quickly, "you are soaking! Let me get you something." She bustled off before he could protest, and came back quickly with a large wool blanket which she wrapped around his shoulders. He nodded his thanks, and chattered a few moments before sitting on the offered stool in front of the blaze.
He reached into his pocket and held out the hair decorations that she had thrown at Arthur earlier. Ligeia jerked, then reached for them. "I'm glad you picked them up," she murmured, turning them over in her hands, not looking at him. "I do stupid things when I am angry. It's not a pleasant emotion for me – I don't like others to have to witness it."
She sounds like him. Lancelot sighed, the shudder making it all the way to his toes, and stared at the fire in front of him.
"You love him."
Lancelot's eyes ticked to his right and to Ligeia. He cocked his head, not quite understanding. "Arthur? Yes – I've known him for over half my life. He was my commander, and a great influence upon me during my 'formative years' as they say," he laughed, not hiding the bitterness in his tone.
"No," she said softly, finally raising her head to meet his eyes. "You love him. He loves you. You're his … other."
Lancelot felt his face flush, and tried to blame it on the fire by sidling closer. "I – I'm not sure what you're referring to, lady." Had Arthur told her something? He didn't know, but he would not discuss their relationship with her without being sure.
In truth, he'd rather not discuss it with her at all. He wasn't sure how to describe it to himself much less anyone else. He smiled at her, and raked a hand through his hair, getting it off his forehead, and tried to turn on the charm.
She laughed, a pretty sound that didn't fit the setting or either of their moods. "I knew he was distracted by someone else. I didn't know it would be another man," she continued, still watching his reactions, "but I see why now. You distract me – and I barely know you."
Lancelot barked a sound that should have been a laugh, but came out as more of a sob. "We have a – complicated friendship," he admitted, not willing to give away much more than that, and slightly taken aback by her comment. "Like I said, I've known him for a long while. Why do you ask?"
"Why did you return the combs to me? Aren't they yours? Or one of your comrades?"
Damn. What did Arthur tell this woman?
Lancelot drew in a short breath, snorting it out of his nose. He turned his eyes back to the brazier. "They were meant for my sister. I didn't get to send them to her. The commanders at out first garrison wouldn't let us use the post…said it was for roman use only. I kept them – they ended up with Arthur's things," he continued. "I know how it feels to lose him," Lancelot's voice dropped, a mere whispery thing that scratched his throat and made him feel like he was betraying Arthur by telling her, "and I thought you would want to have them back."
"He does love you," she said after a few moments of just the sound of the fire popping. "Don't doubt that. It's late," she stood, and he with her, depositing the blanket on the stool he had been sitting on, "you'll forgive me if I ask you to see yourself out?"
He inclined his head, and followed her out of the study. "Pleasant sleep, lady." She nodded back. "You as well, Lancelot."
She turned and walked back into the depths of the house, her expression troubled and the combs in her hands.
Lancelot looked to the ceiling, and asked himself silently for patience. He made his way back to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the damn rain.
His mount was standing miserably in the wet, and he patted the horses' nose absently as he swung into the saddle. Lightning flashed in the night sky, and he turned the mare to the road just as the broad side of a wooden club caught him under the chin.
Arthur was fighting with his guilt and his sense of duplicity in his study. He paced, the few lamps lit giving off smoke and burning weakly, which matched his mood. He had been unduly cruel to Ligeia. The lady had made a judgement mistake in his opinion, yes, but that was no reason to yell at her the way he had. She had befriended him when he had none. That alone should be reason enough for him to give her the benefit of the doubt. And he had gone and screamed at her. And she had thrown his gift at his feet.
He deserved no less. Thank god Lancelot had had the sense to pick them up.
At that thought, he moved out of the study, and made his way back to his rooms. He would return the combs to Ligeia in the morning, and beg her forgiveness.
Opening the door to his suite, he called out for Lancelot. He stopped in his tracks when the rooms turned out to be empty.
The house wasn't that big – where could he have gone?
Meandering throughout the place at first, then speeding up when he couldn't find the other man, Arthur started to worry. He ended up in the kitchen, the hearth fire still going, the household having retired a few hours earlier.
He stared into the yard, the wind still lashing the trees, hand on the doorknob.
He hesitated only briefly, then flung open the door, running through the pelting icy water to the stables, where he discovered one of his mares was gone.
"Blast!" he bellowed, "Where the hell did he go?"
I traded for them. I thought they shouldn't be thrown away.
"Damn it, Lancelot," he gritted, and saddled his own horse quickly. He urged the animal out into the rain, and kicked her into a canter, the rain running in rivulets down the collar of his tunic, soaking him further. He barely felt it.
Lancelot didn't think he could get any wetter, but it turned out he was wrong. The water that was dashed in his face got in his mouth when he grinned, but he couldn't resist the smile. It was all so – just so appropriate. Everything he'd ever done that involved Arthur had ended up in disaster or with large amounts of hurt being heaped upon one of them.
That was actually being a tad harsh, but at the moment, all the events he could think of that involved himself throwing out common sense in favor of trying to do something for Arthur were ones that had turned out badly. Or with him possesing lots of new bruises.
"What are you grinning about?" Falco asked, his irritation clearly showing. He held a riding crop in his hand, and was twisting the thing about, as if he were ready to try and relieve some tension.
Lancelot sighed, having the feeling again that this was not going to end well.
"I'm smiling because I can't seem to avoid situations like this," he answered, and shook his head. "I must be insane. Or highly bored. You'd think I would have learned by now."
"Yes, well, you'd think Castus could have figured out it was me that set fire to the barn," Falco echoed, "he doesn't seem that dumb. But one never knows, does one? There's really no reason for me to try and hide it now." He moved about, kicking something that was in his way. A low cry was heard afterwards, and Lancelot whipped his head around to see Ligeia layed out next to him, her arms bound behind her, her face swollen and purpled. Lancelot's rage suddenly became palpable; it was one thing to insult Arthur…it was another thing entirely to truss up a lady and beat her senseless without giving her a means to defend herself.
"You powerless ones always need to tie up the strong, don't you? So there's no way for them to actually have an equal chance to beat you?" Lancelot spoke through clenched teeth, and didn't expect the blow that came from the crop in Falco's hand. His head jerked back, and he let out a dark laugh as blood from the new wound dripped down his face to his chin.
"He'll come for you, I would expect," Falco said to both of them. "And then I can be rid of three troublesome little birdies with one stone."
"What's your problem with Arthur?" Lancelot asked; he was truly curious. He licked at some of the blood that was near his mouth.
"Nothing personal. I just don't need anyone else having any kind of reason to hold me down. I've been living in obeisance to this one's husband for too many long years because of one moment of lust," he answered, and kicked at Ligeia's leg again. She didn't cry out again, but chose to stare at him with hate filled eyes.
"If I had had any sense when I was young, I wouldn't have ever spoken to you," she spat. "What a truly despicable person you've become, Lucius."
"Ah, beautiful, pliant Ligeia," Falco said, leaning over her, his hand caressing her face once. She pulled away, shivering lightly but not showing any emotion but disgust. Lancelot was again amazed at the strength in the woman. He didn't know what he would have done in her situation.
"Too bad Olivia will have to grow up without a mother as well as a father."
Ligeia kicked and squirmed at his words, trying to break her bonds. "You leave her out of this – she's done nothing to you. She's blameless."
Lancelot tried to catch her eye to tell her to stop, but she wouldn't look at him. He knew too many people like Falco; once they had made a decision, they wouldn't change their minds. It was better to save your strength and try to get away when they were inevitably distracted by something.
That distraction proved to be the whinny of a horse, followed by the sounds of fighting and grunting. Lancelot could just make out latin cursing, and dropped his head.
Fuck, Arthur, just for once, stay home. And be safe.
The riding crop in Falco's hand was replaced by a gladius. That made Lancelot's worry rise more than a notch. He began to struggle as well, his own arms bound behind his back, but in a piss poor knot he was able to loosen rather quickly. He began to slip one hand free as he shouted to Arthur in warning. Falco kicked out at him, but Lancelot just kept working at the rope. A loud thump was heard on the closed door of the small room they were occupying; he guessed it to be the cannery or an offshoot of the laundry area. The door rattled again, something heavy thrown against it.
Falco cursed loudly, and moved to stand behind it. "Gaius?" he said in a dramatic whisper. Ligeia gasped, then bit her lip. Lancelot again was not surprised; why did it always turn out to be the damn servant?
Wham!
The door burst off its hinges, and the body of Ligeia's head of household flew into Falco's, knocking him over. Unfortunately he did not lose his grip on his gladius and shoved the unconcious man out of the way, leaping to his feet quickly.
"Gods damn it, Arthur, I could have gotten out of this without your help!" Lancelot had succeeded finally in getting his hands free, quickly untying his feet and feeling for the dagger he kept in his boot. Thank pity the idiot that had bound him hadn't checked for weapons.
"I'm sure you could have – but isn't it my duty to rescue you from embarassing situations?" Arthur called back, his chest heaving, a thin cut on his cheek bleeding from where Gaius had managed to slice him. Lancelot rolled his eyes, got to his feet, and pulled the lady to hers after releasing her from her bonds.
"Get out of here, lady," he hissed to her, "we'll take easy care of this fool." Ligeia shook her head violently. "No. I'll not leave you to fix my problems," she turned, reaching behind Lancelot and scrabbling in a drawer. She pulled loose a large butcher's knife, and spun around to face Arthur and Falco. Lancelot raised his eyebrows, but didn't respond immediately.
"Ligeia," Arthur called, never taking his eyes off Falco, "please, don't do this. You must take care…for Olivia's sake, if not your own."
Those were the magic words. Ligeia's spine snapped straight, and the knife fell unnoticed from her hands. She ran from the room, jumping over the fallen door, and disappeared into the rain. Arthur visibly slumped; Lancelot was glad he had managed to get the lady out – one less thing for them to worry about.
Lancelot sidled over to Arthur, and the two of them faced Falco, who suddenly looked a lot less confident, with two skilled fighters in front of him, and the body of his ally on the ground behind him.
"Look, Castus," he began, "this isn't your affair. Leave now, and I'll forget everything. You won't have to be involved."
Arthur snorted; he was too deeply involved already despite the wisdom, or lack thereof, of it. "I chose to make it my affair. Besides, what kind of person would I be if I let you take advantage of this family? Someone needs to care about them, for once. And you are obviously not man enough to let things go."
Lancelot sucked in a breath at that comment, and watched as Falco's face darkened in rage. Wrong thing to say, Arthur.
"Damn you, Castus," Falco replied, his body tensing, the gladius in his hand rising. "Wrong answer."
And he sprung, surprising Lancelot and Arthur, who jerked his own blade from his boot faster than Lancelot's eyes could follow, getting it out just in time to clang against the other man's sword.
Arthur laughed, a dangerous, cold sound that permeated his own bones and scared him. He hadn't made that kind of sound since the last days in Britain, and he hated it. He shot one elbow out, catching Falco under the chin, making the other man's teeth clack together as he bit down. Red liquid began to run, and Falco grinned; his common sense was gone now that Arthur had drawn first blood.
Lancelot dropped back, and circled slowly around the roman, the idea to get behind him and knock him out so Arthur wouldn't have to do something he would regret. Lancelot had seen that look on men's faces before; he hoped Falco would only be paying attention to Arthur now, who was slowly backing over the door, and out into the yard, where they would have more room to maneuver.
Lancelot followed, the rain soaking him immediately as Arthur and Falco squared off. The two men leapt at each other before Lancelot could blink, and went at it with a clash of metal on metal. Arthur wouldn't last long with the smaller knife against Falco's gladius, despite his greater skill.
Arthur's eyes ticked slightly over Falco's shoulder as he watched Lancelot approach steathily; he had no doubts about the other man's abilities, but didn't want to risk him either. He let out a growl, and redoubled his efforts against Lucius, long knife though it was, it was still a dagger versus Falco's sword.
He slashed at the other man, who had made the mistake of getting too close to try and sink his gladius into the soft skin of Arthur's belly. Arthur blocked the hilt of the sword with his forearm, his head singing with the rattle through his bones, and retaliated by slicing a long cut along Lucius' cheek.
"You will regret that," the other man gritted, but Arthur merely smiled and kept up his dance, his arm still throbbing painfully where Falco's sword had hit it.
Falco grinned back through the blood on his face, and whirled around to face a surprised Lancelot, who had just reached him. Stabbing out, the gladius sunk into Lancelot's hip, luckily not too deeply because of Lancelot's sense to try and dart out of the way. He brought his own dagger up in automatic response even as his hand dropped to his wound to try and staunch the flow of blood that was heating his thigh.
Arthur's yell of shock reached Lancelot's ears, and as Falco turned, he stabbed out, leaping forward with his dagger, hoping to reach anything vital.
Things slowed, and Lancelot staggered, releasing his hold on his blade as he felt it hit something soft. Falco turned bright, surprised eyes on him, and his fingers rose to his neck, where the dagger from Lancelot's boot protruded.
Lancelot stumbled again, and sat on the ground, hard, hand covering his hip, as his vision began to tunnel.
The last thing he saw before the blackness was Arthur's horrified expression as he stood between Lancelot and Lucius, both of them on the ground.
"Don't wory 'bout me," Lancelot slurred as Arthur finally moved, his hands tugging Lancelot's out of the way, his face going green when he got a good look at the wound on Lancelot's hip.
"You – damn it, Lancelot," Arthur groaned, tearing at his tunic, pressing the wad of it over the blood that was pouring onto the ground.
"Is he dead?" Lancelot managed to ask, dizziness making his eyes hard to open. Things would shrink, then go bright, then disappear altogether. Arthur nodded curtly. "Yes. Now be still."
"Can't be any other way," Lancelot laughed, too loudly, then let the lightheadedness overtake him.
He faintly heard Arthur's voice calling his name, and as much as he wanted to answer, he was just too tired.
end ten.