A/N: I demand that you all go read and review Nimue26's fic called Winter of Our Discontent. NOW!! It's awesome!! Tell her to update, for God's love!
Well, this isn't as long as I wanted it to be, but I don't think I could have written anymore without it just being bubble wrap. I don't know if any of this had any point whatsoever in the story....
The foreign language in here is both Latin and Italian, but mostly Italian. The Italian is all right, thanks to a great translations site, but the Latin is probably screwed up. So if any of you speak Latin out there, sorry for the discrepancies. Please Read and Review!! Thank you!! And remember: NO SLASH.
Oh, and by the way, typos are my incurable disease. I try to comb through and find them, but the little buggers always escape. So forgive me for those.
Anyway. Thank you to all my readers and reviewers! Love you!!
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Chapter 2: Language
His muffled groan did not reach Saxon ears when he awoke. Before disorientation faded, the pain was distant and dull, and he wasn't sure of his situation for several minutes. Once his sight cleared in his one good eye, Arthur's face lay near his own. The Roman was sleeping, and Lancelot realized that his head of curls rested against his friend's soft belly. His captain was curled not unlike the knight, with his bent legs cupping Lancelot's back. His arms were yet tied behind him, but they had not bothered to bind Lancelot again, for some reason. The Sarmatian couldn't smile, even when as felt Arthur's belly moving under his head and listened to his steady breathing. He didn't make a sound, as he lay like a dying star in the crescent moon of Arthur's body. He only watched his friend sleep and realized that dawn was approaching, the pale blue floating through the canopy to his gleaming eye, while no fire burned for what Saxon stood watch out of his sight. As long he kept still, only a dull ache pulsed in his body. He couldn't feel himself bleeding anymore and concluded that he had stopped during the night. His mind wandered to Galahad after a while, burning with the memory of his screams and pleading, with the knowledge of what they had done to him. He resisted the thought of what Cedric had done in the darkness and opened his eyes when he had not realized he had closed them again. Arthur's face was there again.
Lancelot breathed as shallow as possible, ignoring the ache it caused his broken ribs. The sound of Arthur's deeper, unhindered breaths soothed him as the ocean tide would, and he studied the Roman's face with boyish observation. No waking day had passed him by for many long years that he had not seen that face, too mild for a Roman officer. He thought of how young they were in the way they lay together, children in all but the guise of their bodies and worn faces. He wondered what it would have been like to have had Arthur for a friend when he was a boy, though when he first rode unto Arthur's charge, they had yet been on the threshold of boyhood. How life changes people, he contemplated. Somehow, Lancelot had gone from being a Sarmatian child to a knight who killed for Rome, and Arthur – what had Arthur been before? Lancelot wondered as to whom the Roman had been before the death of his mother. Arthur spoke little of it, only mentioned that it had happened, but Lancelot knew that was the point at which his friend had transformed. Perhaps that's why Arthur was so serious, too often weary in appearance. Lancelot sighed. Situations like this didn't help the captain. He knew Arthur too well, and Arthur, with his damn sense of responsibility, was going to blame himself for everything the Saxons did.
Lancelot began to think that he could the Roman's heartbeat through his stomach or at least have that warm sense of his friend's life. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to Arthur's belly rising and receding under his head, thinking more and more of the ocean. He remembered the time Arthur had rescued him from Woad capture, alone, and both had been wounded. As they had rode back toward Hadrian's Wall, both had passed out and plopped off the Roman's horse, waking in the twilight of dawn to find themselves on the beach. Arthur had told him, as they had both lain on the sand, that the beaches of Britain were nothing like that of Italy. The beach near Rome, as he recalled from his childhood, was warm and bright colorful. Lancelot had barely listened then, his head resting against Arthur's breast and his body curled against his friend's. Dawn twilight had not turned into sunny morning that day but had remained until dark, gray clouds hovering instead. They had slept, even through the ride to the Wall, once the other knights had found them. Lancelot was reminded of it now, and he could almost pretend that they were lying on that shore again, alone, instead of in the depths of a wood in Saxon captivity. Sleep reached for him again, and he somehow felt hope because of Arthur's knees against his curving back. For the moment, he pushed their ugly predicament to the corner of memories that should be utterly forgotten and, with the hope that the Saxons would sleep into the bright morning, approached sleep's alluring grasp.
"Adiuvo nobis. Contego militis mei. Contrado nos."
Help us. Protect my knights. Deliver us.
Lancelot opened his eye and looked to Arthur with sleep ebbing from him again. The peace that been on Arthur's face was disrupted, and Arthur looked troubled now. His friend was praying to his God in his sleep, for only then did Lancelot ever hear Arthur speak Latin. He did not understand the language, but he had admired it's flowing beauty for some time, until it sparked a jealousy in him – that Arthur would murmur to his God in words only he could understand, seeming desperate sometimes, like now. For the past few years, he had looked upon his captain with scorn, whenever the Roman knelt in prayer. Though he never surrendered his distaste, Arthur's saddened expression brought on by his knight's judgment never failed to make him silently regret his harsh words. Before jealousy had prevailed in Lancelot's heart, his admiration for the language had driven him to ask Arthur about it one night.
"What's the language you speak, Arthur?" he had asked at the Round Table, after dinner once. "It's pretty." Arthur had smiled and told him it was Latin, the most respected language of the civilized world, besides Greek. The common people didn't speak it much anymore, since the Germanic savages had brought on new languages, but the scholars and monks kept it alive and taught it to their pupils. Lancelot had asked him to say something, and Arthur had laughed.
"Like what?" he had questioned. Lancelot had shrugged, and Arthur had begun to search his mind for something to say.
"Apellatio mei Artorious," he had babbled, for lack of a better phrase. My name is Arthur. "Bors est ebrius." Bors is drunk. He laughed, and Lancelot smiled ignorantly, waiting for more with warm eyes. Arthur had looked at him, after sipping his wine, his eyes glimmering reflectively. "Te amo," he had said softly. I love you. And Lancelot, having had no idea what that meant, had only smiled in return. Curious as to what it had meant, the knight had gone in search of a Roman officer and asked. The following evening, he had sat with Arthur again after dinner, while the other knights amused themselves amongst each other.
"Arthur," he had started, bringing the Roman's attention to him from where Gawain and Bors played lots boisterously. "L'amo anche." I love you too. Arthur had broken into a smile at the way the strange words came from his friend's lips.
"That's Italian," he had informed Lancelot. The knight had blushed at his error, but Arthur had only laughed warmly. And when Lancelot had come upon his captain knelt before his God and murmuring Latin prayers, a few years later, he discovered he was jealous of the way Arthur spoke to God instead of to him. He wanted Arthur to confide in him like that. He wanted Arthur to murmur to him in Latin all the worries of his heart, even if he couldn't understand it.
"Am I such a stranger that you will not speak to me?" he had asked in frustration one night, long ago.
"But I do speak to you," Arthur had defended in distress.
"Yes, empty, petty words that would go better unsaid and orders," Lancelot had raged. "Why won't you talk to me anymore? Why am I no longer good enough to confide in that you must turn someone who does not exist instead?"
"He may not exist to you, but God exists to me," Arthur had said more angrily.
"He's not real," Lancelot had shouted. "He's not listening to you. He doesn't care because He doesn't have a heart. This is real." He had grabbed Arthur's hand and pressed it to his own heart, his eyes demanding Arthur's and daring contradiction. "Do you feel that, Arthur? It is me you feel, my beating heart that keeps me alive because I am flesh and blood. This is real, this and not your invisible God who could never love you as someone with a beating heart could." Arthur had only looked at him, aching.
"Why will you not confide in me?" Lancelot had asked, his voice fading. He could not remember what had happened next.
And Lancelot thus lay with his captain now, eye gleaming with memory, and he had never felt more alone in the world with Arthur. It was not the Roman's God that lay at Arthur's side now but Lancelot. And Lancelot's gods were no where to be found either. Only Arthur lay with the beaten knight. Only they were there for each other. But as Lancelot watched Arthur's face relax, once the words had dissipated from his lips, the Sarmatian wished Arthur would speak to him in some pretty language and forget about his invisible deity.
At last, Lancelot moved his stiff limbs and groaned at the pain that burst in everywhere because of it. His chest was suddenly on fire, and everything else throbbed. Arthur woke to see his friend squirming and shook off sleep quickly to replace it with concern. He asked what troubled the knight, to which Lancelot eloquently answered, "It's all bloody pain." Despite this, the Sarmatian rolled onto his side and struggled in the dirt until he lay parallel to Arthur, his face an inch from the Roman's. After a moment of staring into each other's eyes, Arthur titled his head to lay his brow against Lancelot's, and the knight sighed, both closing their eyes.
"Lancelot, I'm sorry," Arthur began, but the knight cut him off before he could say anymore.
"Tell me you're all right," Lancelot uttered after a minute, and he knew that if Arthur did, it would be a life. But Arthur replied that he would if Lancelot needed him to do so.
"Oh, Lancelot," he breathed after a pause of silence, and Lancelot, even with his eyes shut, could hear the Roman's voice shake. He knew another apology was lingering on Arthur's tongue, but his previous insistence kept it at bay. The knight opened his wide eyes to look into Arthur's and a gleam of unshed tears came into focus after a minute. And Lancelot knew in his heart that Arthur's arms, still tied back, ached to encircle the knight. It was the only thing Arthur could have done to comfort Lancelot, though the knight had done a good job of pushing back the night's events far into his mind, but the Roman was prevented from even that. And Lancelot knew Arthur felt useless, and Arthur knew Lancelot didn't want him to feel that way.
"It's all right," the knight whispered through his eyes. Arthur's glittered.
"No, it's not."
"You're with me. That's all I need."
"You're too brave, Lancelot."
"And you hate yourself too much."
When Lancelot went unanswered, silence ensued for a long minute, before the knight asked Arthur to speak to him in pretty words because beauty no longer lived in this place.
"Il mio amico il più caro, sono cosi spiacente." My dearest friend, I'm so sorry. The tears welled in his gentle gray eyes, and Lancelot moved closer to him, his own eyes shining supportively. "Stara bene. Prometto. Non loro lascerò l'ha doluto ancora." It'll be all right. I promise. I won't let them hurt you again. He pressed his forehead against Lancelot's, closing his eyes as the tears fell. "Lo proteggerò," he murmured. I'll protect you. "Il mio Lancelot. Lo proteggero, il mio cavaliere amato. Prometto. Prometto." My Lancelot. I'll protect you, my beloved knight. I promise. I promise. He pressed his eyes shut painfully, as the tears flowed, and Lancelot, looking at his friend like a hurt child and, not understanding the words, closed his eyes as well and tried again to move his body closer to Arthur's. Arthur wept quietly, trying so hard not to mentally admit to himself that his best friend had been raped and failing. He didn't even want to remember Galahad.
While Arthur and Lancelot lay with eyes shut, Gawain woke to find himself still slumped over Galahad's beaten body. A breeze had descended, and the younger knight's curls swayed at its brush. Farther away from Gawain and Galahad than they had been the night before, the other knights lay sleeping, and Gawain didn't bother to look for Arthur or Lancelot, who both lay in the other direction. His one and only concern at the present moment was the motionless body beneath him. He struggled to sit back on his heels, straightening, and remembered that his hands were bound when he tried to reach out to his friend.
"Galahad," he muttered instead, but the youngest knight slept on, no emotion detectable on his face. Gawain grimaced, trying not to allow the tears to return, as he looked over Galahad's battered body and the dried blood on the ground around him.
When Galahad did not answer him, Gawain lowered himself slowly to the ground, his face descending to the earth before his friend's. And he lay with Galahad in likeness to Arthur and Lancelot, unable to see the bruises and blood, only Galahad's face. He called the young knight's name again, little more than a whisper now.
"Galahad, I'm here," he murmured because he could not take his friend into his arms. He cursed the rope around his wrists and the ground that was no comfort to aching limbs. He cursed himself for failing to protect his brother and for being a mortal that could not foresee what would come in the future, who could have never seen this coming. And he cursed the Saxons for killing his Galahad.
"Never again," he said, shaking his head, weeping. "Never again will they hurt you. I'll die for you first." And if he did not die, he would instead kill the Saxons. He would slaughter every man that he needed to slaughter and probably more than was necessary, simply because no amount of bloodshed could take away Galahad's pain. And he cursed himself for not being God.
"He raped me," Lancelot said hoarsely, barely audible. Tears of confession laced his voice.
"I know," Arthur choked. "But he the one in sin, not you."
"He raped me, Arthur. I'm a filthy Saxon's whore." His tears matched Arthur's now.
"No," Arthur breathed. "You're my knight. My Lancelot. And I love you."
"I'm not worthy of anything good or pure or honorable anymore, Arthur," Lancelot quietly wailed, his breath hitching within the broken cage of his ribs.
"Non importa. L'amerò sempre." It doesn't matter. I'll always love you.
And somehow, Lancelot understood what Arthur spoke unto him and heard everything the Roman did not say. He knew Arthur's fear for him, and he himself was admittedly afraid for Arthur and all the other knights he held so dear in his heart. Neither dared fathom what would become of them, deciding it better to ignore and deal with it when it came. No, instead, they whispered to each other, without any words but heartbeats and painful breaths and mingled tears, that somehow they would be all right because men need hope. And instead of the woods where the twilight was lavender, they were back on the shore, and they could pretend that the tears weren't there. The ocean had washed them away.
