A/N: Well, finally, I have finished Chapter 3. More violence and angst to come. Aw, come on, you know you love it. Hee. Sorry for the delay and the shortness. It isn't too short, but it's not as long as I typically like my chapters to be. And yet, this was all that came without putting any bubble wrap stuff in it. (Filler)

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Oh. I also recently wrote 2 one shots, called The Tambourine Dove in the Master and Commander fandom and Coffee Interlude in Bastogne in the Band of Brothers fandom. I'd really love you if you went and read those and reviewed. That is, if you're into those fandoms. Thank you!

WARNING: The following text contains content that is not suitable for young children. Although content isn't particularly graphic, readers should proceed with caution. You, reader, have a responsibility to use discretion. If you have a problem with violence or are under 13, it is advised that you not read the following text.

Rated PG13 for Violence, Sexual Content, and Mild Language


Chapter 3: Dark Choir

Arthur snapped up with sleep still clinging to his eyes, as one of the burlier Saxons dragged Lancelot away from him. Forgetting his bound hands, he lunged out for his best friend, only to hit the ground with an unpleasant thud. Lancelot's body sent one, loud scrape into the air, and his boots left a trail in the dirt. Arthur struggled back up, his eyes meeting Lancelot's, and the knight smiled sadly. Arthur called out his name, throwing himself toward his friend once more, but this time the Saxons kept him at bay. Lancelot did not fight, despite his obstinate spirit, and he did not see the others knights roused and following him with their eyes. Even Gawain stared at him, doom in his gaze and Galahad motionless in his lap.

"All right, Cedric, you had your fun whorin' 'round with tha' pretty piece o' work," began one of the Saxons, who must've been close enough to the leader to call him by name. "Now, let the boys have some fun." His grin was creeping and cruel. Lancelot didn't see, and Lancelot didn't care. Arthur did.

"All right," Cedric agreed in a low murmur, returning the smirk as he leaned over his broadsword that did not flinch beneath his weight. "But don't forget about the other one."

"Ah, yes," another agreed, slipping out into sight from behind Cedric's friend. His beady eyes shone at Galahad's crumpled form, and Gawain pulled his friend closer, frowning at his enemy. "He's been sleepin' fer too long, boys. Per'aps we should wake 'im." He almost skipped the smile, before laughing heartily out loud. No one noticed Bors twitch in an attempt to get on his feet, before Dagonet took hold of his arm in warning, and he resisted the impulse.

"If you lay a hand on any one of these knights, I swear before God you'll regret it." Arthur now stood with his pride returned to darkened eyes, leering at Cedric.

"Damn," Lancelot cursed to himself because he wasn't at Arthur's side to stop the Roman from the foolish uprising.

"God?" Cedric echoed, approaching the Roman. "You're a Saxon captive, and you still believe in God?" His men chuckled amongst themselves, but Arthur's gaze continued unflinching into Cedric's.

"Well, I'll be damned," the Saxon commander said, his voice lifting out of dominating shadow as he peered over his shoulder at his men. "This Roman's the only damn Christian in these woods." And again, the Saxons broke into mirth. He forced a punch at Arthur's jaw and kneed him in the belly when the Roman staggered, sending him to his knees. "Probably the only one for miles 'round." Lancelot's eyes were bewildered, sending worry to Arthur's crumpled form.

"'ey, Cedric – maybe we could have him too. He's a feisty one – more fun to break." The Saxon's friend was almost drooling as he eyed Arthur deviously.

"No," said Cedric, starting Lancelot's heart again. "The Roman goes undefiled. Better a torment to watch his whores suffer, than take it on himself." And his followers gave murmuring chuckles, baring wolfish teeth.

"Well, let's get started then," exclaimed one of the Saxons who had remained silent up to this point, as he bound toward the other grounded knights, grabbing Tristan by the hawk-keeper's wild hair and yanking his head back. "This one's got a rough look to 'im. I'd like to hear him scream." His last words were almost a growl, and his comrades jeered at his back. Tristan's eyes only flashed for a second, but he was otherwise stoic.

"You can have any one you wish," said Cedric, and the Saxon snapped his head toward his leader, excitement sparking in his face. "Except for the Roman. Do with these knights of Sarmatia as you like, men. But spare their lives. You want something left for tomorrow." He turned away from their following snickers, loose tendrils of filthy hair flowing in the air almost elegantly, though he was a Saxon. He only took a few steps, before stopping and looking back to his men. They had fallen silent, waiting for him to speak. His eyes surveyed his prisoners and his warriors alike, and it almost seemed then that he was not a savage. "Don't take them out into the woods. Let them suffer here, before the eyes of all those who hold them dear." More jagged grins.

"We can't be done with this one yet," said a new Saxon, stepping out into view. He scraped toward Lancelot, who still lay against his captor's leg, held up by the back of his collar. This new enemy eyed him narrowly, a stare lacking hunger or bloodlust or cruelty, even. "He's still too pretty for a man of war. His scars are too few." The others nodded in agreement with a rumbling of rough noises. "And the other one." The Saxon turned from Lancelot and his gaze fell to Galahad, who lay like the dead in Gawain's lap. "He is too far from death and too prettily young to leave him alone just yet." Gawain felt his heart clench and could not tell if it was with fear or with hatred. The Saxon moved from his position like an urged dog and reached out for Galahad, but Gawain pushed himself back, pulling his friend with him. "Don't be a fool, knight. You have no chance to save him." The Saxon's tone was so lacking in cruelty or harshness, it was almost as if he was not one of the enemy. His fingers curled around Galahad's collar and pulled him from Gawain's desperate grasp, while two other Saxons went to restrain him. Again, a body dragged noisily along the ground, and Cedric slowly bent his legs to kneel on one knee, elbow resting on the other leg. He would only watch this night.

And so they beat Lancelot, breaking his already broken bones, darkening the bruises, and numbing him again. He did not feel the blows or hear anything but the sound of the Church choir singing in Latin, beautiful Latin, from when Arthur had taken him and the other knights to stay in a monastery over night. Lancelot listened to the memory once more, as he looked into Arthur's tear-filled eyes, across the dirt that waited for Sarmatian blood. That dark eye gleamed, the other swollen shut, and he could almost feel Arthur's hands ghosting his skin, touching those bruised cheekbones as if they were made of glass. Arthur's tears crumbled from his eyes, and Lancelot closed his own. The blows kept coming, unfelt. He wanted the memory.

"You bastards! You sons of bitches!" Gawain screamed, his face red as he struggled against his captors, tears streaming down his face. Galahad didn't move except for when they hit him, and he didn't make a sound.

"Il Signore caro, ha la pietà su noi. Avere pietà di questi uomini, se soltanto perché sono il mio, e sono il suo servitore fedele. Consegnarci da malvagio. Darci la forza per perseverare," Arthur murmured, eyes closed and head bowed. No one could ever understand how he could pray so calmly in situations like this. (Dear Lord, have mercy on us. Take pity on these men, if only because they are mine, and I am your faithful servant. Deliver us from evil. Give us strength to endure.)

"Stop it!" Gawain demanded, veins in his throat vibrating. 'Stop it, you beasts, you whore-born savages!"

"Sentire la mia preghiera. Risparmiare i miei uomini. Mie offro nel loro posto. Darme la pazienza in soffrire, O il Signore, come suo Figlio ha avuto nelle ultime ore della Sua santa vita. Potere suo sarà fatto." (Hear my prayer. Spare my men. I offer myself in their stead. Give me patience in suffering, O Lord, as your Son had in the last hours of His holy life. May your will be done.) And Lancelot opened his eye, black and shining with the murmured words in his ears, somehow. Arthur wasn't looking back this time. This time, his eyes were closed to see only God. Lancelot shut his own again, but all he could see was darkness.

"Shut ye mouth," said one of the Saxons, impatient, throwing Gawain to the dirt vehemently. The knight was silence for now, wearily pushing himself up, only to stop once he was on all fours. Through his wild hair hanging, his eyes peered at Galahad with a strange light to them, lacking fear. The youngest of the knights had not woken, nor had his eyes even given a mere flutter at any of the blows dealt to his already beaten body. All around him, the Saxons cheered and their mirth rang out in the empty wood. Half were gathered around Galahad, the other half around Lancelot, and Cedric remained knelt at a distance, slowly turning his head to faintly grin at Arthur. The Roman had opened his eyes and lowered himself to the earth, lying still, hands bound and body half curled. His eyes met with Cedric's in a quiet moment, and he did not return the facial expression.

Gawain did not feel the stitches of his heart split open again, as he watched the assault on Galahad. Only a single tear escaped him, descending his worn cheek like frozen time. He did not see the Saxons, only Galahad's face, only that face with thick curls surrounding it like a woman's veil. Those eyes did not lift to look into Gawain's; no assurance was given from those green pools. His lips did not curl into a forced smile, did not murmur soundless lies. Without Galahad to lie, Gawain had nothing to give him false hope that his friend was all right. He could only stare at that face, the face that had guided him to life when he lay in fever dreams, the face that willed him on and gave him a reason to live, to fight, to smile. Why was he not smiling now? He had watched Galahad sleep many times. The younger knight looked no different now. Yet Gawain could not curl his lips. He could not be fond of watching that face like this.

And he did not turn away when the first Saxon touched Galahad's skirt of armor. He did not flinch at the distant sound of Saxons clapping and laughing and urging their comrade on. He did not hear the scraping of man against earth, body against body, metal against dirt. He did not see the curls sway back and forth or the way Galahad's arm lay next to his head, hand limp. He only saw lashes curled against dirty cheeks, the ghost of sweat on smooth brow, chapped lips and nostrils...barely...moving. He only saw silent memories of young smiling and curls bouncing and Galahad's brow against his, eyes closed with a sweet grin, hands running down his arms and moving like water in fleeting embraces. And when the next Saxon took his turn, Gawain was blinded to the world.

Lancelot did not feel himself breathing. He did not feel the broken bones or the pulsating bruises or the burning in his swollen eye. He lay in the comfort of the dust and listened to Latin choirs melting into lonely flutes that eventually returned to the voices. He was not suffering, no. He was dreaming. The Saxons could not invade his dreams. They could invade this island, they could invade his body, they could invade the Round Table's peace, but not his dreams. Those were his own, no matter what came to pass. Those secret memories of Galahad laughing at him and Gawain drinking with him and Bors looking out for him, of Tristan peering at him when battle was about to commence, of Arthur running to his aid before the sword came. Those were his. Those were his, no matter what.

And when he opened his eyes and the blood came up, it was the turn of the wooden flute. His eyes stretched to the night sky like a rising spirit, and it was the only thing he could see. The stars, those lights that were the only ones in the darkness of evening, the stars that had guided the Round Table on so many missions before, only they filled his sight. They shone and twinkled, and he gasped to himself because he had never seen them so clear or so brilliant before. They were as countless as the sand grains on the shore, and in them, he found peace. He found hope somehow, and part of him wondered for the first time in his life if God existed. Arthur's prayers had fallen away long ago, but he could still hear the murmur, the murmur of something holy. He did not realize each blow meeting his battered form or the crimson flowing thick and lazy down his chin from over his lip, streaming down from the corners of his mouth like Gawain's solitary tear. He didn't feel the blood escaping from his flesh, from his torn flesh. No pain graced him. No pain...

Arching back, he closed his eyes, stretching and running his curls against the dirt. His hands blossomed and fingers opened, even the broken ones. He took a breath, a breath that filled his lungs with the ocean. The tide washed up over his body, lapping at the Sarmatian and the Roman curled together, and the wind touched his black curls. He was sleeping on the sand. He was dreaming. He did not feel them tearing at his trousers, the laces coming undone, his sleeves ripping the air. If the Saxon was annoyed because his legs were unmoving, he did not know it. And he did not care. Arthur lay him down to sleep, whispering in Latin, all those pretty words. His head neared the pillow slowly, taking one year, two years, the life he had been denied.

"Lancelot." Arthur's whisper caressed his face, and the others words were indecipherable to him.

"Sing to me," he said, eyes lifting open with gleaming fever, quiet with hovering death. The candlelight glowed on his face, and Arthur sat at his side.

"Sleep," Arthur's voice answered, floating to him like a living mist.

"Sing to me," the knight said again. "Latin."

He was sleeping, sleeping against Arthur, as the Roman rode to Hadrian's Wall. His head bobbed against Arthur's shoulder, his curls bouncing. He was limp in Arthur's arms, and the lull of the horse's gallop was like the sea. Always the sea. Do you remember the sea, Arthur? His dark eyes lifted open for a moment, big and dark and breath taking. He did not smile against Arthur's shoulder, only watched the mists run away from him. He could feel the fading. He could feel Arthur's subtle glory and unfettered Roman love. As he bobbed against the captain's body, kept in Arthur's grasp as if the Roman were a mother guarding her child, he could hear murmured Latin prayers. He could see Arthur kneeling before him and taking his gloved hands in his, his own weary face breaking into a smile that likened him to a statue of a saint. And for a minute, for a heartbeat, for a breath, Arthur's devotion to him was the same as the Roman's devotion to God. He refused to believe he was dreaming this. He couldn't realize anymore that it was a memory.

Arthur wept again, still lying on the ground, hands bound near his chin. They almost seemed as if yet folded in prayer, but now his attention had gone from God to Lancelot. He watched as the Saxon raped his best friend again, and a pain he had never known before in all his life ate away at his heart like a flame. He did not have to shift his gaze to know that Galahad suffered the same affliction, though his youngest knight was too far gone in unconsciousness to wake while they defiled him. Arthur could feel his body curl further into itself, as his eyes were filled with Lancelot's upturned face. How could the Sarmatian be so calm? How could Lancelot, one of his fiercest and most stubborn warriors, simply lie motionless and do nothing to save himself? Somewhere beyond his despair, he pitied the Apostle John, having finally come to an understanding of how he must have felt when he stood before his crucified Lord. The sting of this tragedy befalling his brother in arms was more agony than he had ever experienced in war, more than he believed himself capable of bearing. Some part of him screamed to go to Lancelot's aid, but he knew his attempts would be futile. He was just one man. How could he ever overcome the evil of the world?

"Il mio Dio, il mio Dio. Avere la piet" (My God, my God. Have mercy.) And still his tears burned through his eyes and down his face, blurring Lancelot as if the knight was fading away completely. Arthur had never felt so inadequate. He knew no matter what, he could not take this pain, this haunting away from Lancelot and Galahad. He could not give each of them the life he had led before this captivity. It almost seemed as if a voice muttered in the back of his head, "Now, you see why the Lord demands man abstain from vengeance."

"Ma lei loro vendicherà, il mio Signore? La sua giustizia sarà fatta, quando già tali malvagio ha capitato ai miei cavalieri amati?" he asked, receiving no answer. (But will you avenge them, my Lord? Will your justice be done, when already such evil has befallen my beloved knights?)

"Galahad," wailed Gawain, having regained his senses. Rage and grief tore at his heart like a wild boar. He had risen up, though he was kept on his knees, and his face gleamed with the torrents of injustice and devastation, skin red and veins raised and eyes like broken glass in the moonlight. The third of the Saxons was upon Galahad now, and still, the young knight had not woken. Part of Gawain hoped that his best friend was dead. And perhaps it was for that, more than anything else, that he wept.

"Shut up, ye squirming maggot," barked the Saxon who had thrown Gawain down before, his grip on the knight's shoulder all too firm. "You'll be next, if you don't shut up."

"This will not continue." Dagonet, one of the more quiet knights, had unexpectedly spoken up, his eyes blazing now in the darkness.

"Did you talk back to a Saxon warrior, ye Roman's whore?" spat one of the Saxons who had been watching Galahad's rape. He bound toward the huddled mass of knights to strike Dagonet across the face, provoking Bors to that familiar rage.

"Don't you bloody touch him, you Saxon bastard," the knight warned, struggling to get to his feet, as three more Saxons came away from Galahad's circle of spectators to restrain him. Dagonet only lifted his head again to glare at the one who had struck him. And all the while, Cedric knelt on the earth of man's oppression and watched, the traces of a soft smile on his face. Those lips of his twitched when Gawain screamed his friend's name, when one of his own warriors grunted over Galahad's limp body, when Lancelot bobbed with the blood that bubbled up through his lips and the tatters of his clothing swayed with him. Those eyes set deep into a creased face glimmered when Dagonet's eyes blared like possessed fire, when Bors' screaming spit flew at the Saxons who held him back with more than enough force, when the mirth of his men reverberated throughout the otherwise empty woods. And when at last he lowered his gaze to Arthur, those twitching corners finally curled just enough for Arthur to heave with suffering and suppressed sobs, as the Roman looked up into Cedric's face.

"Now, you see," those Saxons eyes said. "I have won."

And Arthur felt the stars go out.