A/N: Well, here be Chapter 4. I like this, though once again, it's not as long as I want it to be. But all the same – packed with more angst and violence and all that good stuff. Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you guys. You literally put a smile on my face. Your support is needed and very much valued. Thank you, thank you!
I wrote this chapter while listening to Tracks 2, 8, 9, 11, 12, and 13 on The Passion of the Christ soundtrack. So if you happen to own it, I recommend you read this while listening to those tracks, in order to get the right feel of this, the one I had while writing it.
Please Read and Review! Oh, and as I said in Chapter 3, my newest one-shots in other fandoms, please go check those out if you're into the fandoms! Thank you!
Oh – and GO READ ALL THE KA STUFF BY ASHLEY A! NOW! And REVIEW!
Nimue26: (smiles) thank you for the raving review, dear. If you have read any of my other work, you know there is yet so much more suffering to come for these men, though I promise I do love them. I assure you, none will escape unscathed. I don't even know if they will all make it out alive.... We'll see.
Simone: Thank you. I've never intended to make people cry, and I actually have a hard time imagining anyone actually weeping over a story, much less my own.
End-of-rainbow: thank you. Actually, that last chapter was full of Italian, and this one will be too. I will continue to use Italian simply because I can have it properly translated, unlike Latin. But I will use Latin too in the future. I too think it beautiful when Arthur prays.
Reice41: wow, thank you. I know I can't be that great, but thanks anyway. I don't know about wonderful, but even I must admit this to be tragic.
Camlann: thank you. Concerning the language, read my response to End-of-rainbow. Ah, but Galahad won't remain catatonic forever. That would be too merciful of me.... I suppose the prayers are all right – simple, anyway.
Shauna: Ah, my dear. You are too full of flatteries. I thank you deeply. It means a lot to have you for a supporter. Obviously, I don't think myself to be quite as wonderful as you say, but I appreciate it nonetheless. I only hope to please you with the rest of the story. Oh, and forgive me for being daft, but what did you mean by the H/C pair?
Allegra: Thank you.
Nienna unyarima: Thank you. Yes, Lancelot and Galahad are pretty. But they won't be the only ones to suffer. In fact, everyone has so far, though not all physically.
Stahlfan125: Thank you, dear. I looked into your Bio and saw you had me as your favorite fanfic author. (blushes) You're too sweet. Hope you like this.
Templa Otmena: Thank you. I saw and felt this story exactly as it is written, that unusual way things play out where so many of the victims are so much more calm than we would think anyone could be. I guess everyone just have different ways of emotionally dealing with things. The parallel of the Apostle John and Jesus struck me when it came to mind. I think it's a beautiful way to describe the relationship between Arthur and Lancelot as it was in that moment, and also interesting that Arthur would be considered the 'John' and Lancelot the 'Christ', when Arthur is actually the captain and leader and Lancelot the follower. Thank you for the advice on rating. I'm putting bold warnings in all the chapters now and I put a big one in the Summary as well, so hopefully no one unreasonable will report me or something. I really think it's unfair to blame the writers when the readers should have enough intelligence to use discretion or otherwise not read on this site.
Camreyn: Wow, you're too nice. (blushes) Of course, I have thought of publishing. It is my dream, my goal. I'm totally screwed forever if I don't publish, because all I want to devote my life to is writing. It's hard though. Sometimes I contemplate giving it all up and avoiding the failure and heartache. Again, I'm afraid there is more suffering to come, though I do not know how much. Thank you so much for your support. I hope you enjoy everything else you read of mine.
Elessar King: Thank you, dear. Hee, yes, evil. Let the wickedness continue.... Ah, the ocean is so beautiful and calm and therefore so right to use in this sort of context.
Wow, I actually got off my ass and answered all my reviewers. I don't know if I will for this chapter. This sort of thing is occasional and spontaneous. But know that I read them all several times and love you and appreciate you.
Warning: The following text is rated a high PG13 – R for violence and language. Reader discretion advised. If you are under 13 or have a problem with violence and/or language, please go elsewhere or proceed with caution. You have been warned.
Chapter 4: Blood
None of the knights knew how many Saxons had gone to Galahad and Lancelot. Most did not watch because it was too unbearable, and those closest to the two could not stop themselves from staring. Gawain was heaving with his unrelieved desperation to save Galahad, face red and streaming with tears. His chest rose and fell with his gasping breaths, his eyes burning with torment and unspeakable despair. His Galahad, his sweet Galahad, lay too still and too alive on the harsh surface of earth, bleeding and not knowing it, breaking Gawain's heart and not realizing it, dying and fading and never knowing. Gawain did not feel the Saxons claws gripping his shoulders, his arms, leaving bruises that were a mockery of his best friend's suffering. He wanted more, oh, how he wanted more. He wanted his flesh to turn black and blue and purple and green, his eyes to swell and shut out the nightmare, his bones to break and numb as if he were dead. He wanted to bleed, he wanted to bleed, he wanted to bleed.
I bleed for you, Galahad.
He whispered.
Wild hair matted with insanity.
I bleed for you, Arthur.
He whispered.
Black eyes burning out.
I bleed for you, Lancelot.
He whispered.
Roman heart colored Roman scarlet.
But Gawain could not be satisfied when his only pain was that pain buried in the core of his chest, where no surgeon's hands could reach to mend. He could not be relieved until his flesh tore open and his own life poured out into the dust that he was destined to become, that Galahad was riding to on an imaginary stallion. He wanted to bleed. He wanted to suffer. He could not watch this happen to his Galahad and remain physically in tact. The guilt would consume him. He should have saved his friend. He should have done something.
And Arthur could not be released from his guilt either, from the fetters of agony that cut into his wrists as Lancelot lay star gazing like a marble statue, raped and beaten and beautiful. He didn't want Lancelot to be beautiful. He didn't want Lancelot to be immortal and frozen. He needed Lancelot to come back to life. But he was only a man. Only a man. How could he touch the knight and revive him? How could he breathe into the Sarmatian's aching lungs, when he had given up his own breath? He could do nothing, he realized, forcing himself up. On his knees, Arthur lifted his face to the heavens, bound hands in his lap.
"Oh, Dio," he shuddered, sorrow spilling from his gray eyes that shone up to where God should have been. "Risparmiaci." Oh, God. Save us.
"He's not listening," strained one of the Saxons in a whining tone, and the others around him laughed. Arthur slowly lowered his head, shoulders caved in defeat, as they never should have been. The laughter echoed in his ears, firelight only reaching one half of his face, while the other was turned to darkness and Cedric's gaze.
"Do you have this much devotion to your knights?" Cedric asked quietly. "Or is it only your God that commands so much of your Roman love?" Arthur only turned his head to look at the Saxon, the shards of his eyes wavering, skin barely glowing with the remnants of tears that had not bled out the fire that was steadily killing him. It was the only answer he gave Cedric, and the Saxon grinned.
"Roman's whore," spat the last of the Saxons to defile Lancelot. He kicked the Sarmatian's side with a thud, but the knight only lay still and gazed at the stars. He did not hear the Saxon cackling or the way their boots scraped along in the dirt as they finally drew away from him. His eye glimmered at the night sky, and he did not move his sprawled limbs, as beaten and broken as they were. Blood oozed from his lips, staining the earth all around him, and his chest rose and fell too shallow and too involuntarily. His tunic hung tattered on him, and his leggings had been pushed back up to his hips, disheveled and strings undone. The light flinched in Arthur's eyes, his face too agonizing for Lancelot to look to.
"L'amo," he could hear Arthur whisper. I love you. "L'amo, l'amo, l'amo." Callused hands cupped over his shoulder and his hip, arms wrapped around his limp form, cleft chin on his shoulder, head tucked into his neck, lips near his ear, chest moving against his back. "L'amo." He could feel the sweat beads rolling off his skin into the groove of Arthur's collarbone. The Roman nuzzled his neck, brow into his black curls. His blood painted Arthur red, like a true Roman, like a true mortal, like a true captain who sacrificed himself for his knights. The blood covered himself in death and glory and reality.
"I give it to you," he could hear his own murmur. "Arthur, my brother." He felt that battle-worn hand leave his shoulder, travel down his chest, and a glowing palm rested on his belly. He breathed again. All of the scarlet was washed away. All of the rape was wiped away. He turned his head into Arthur's and nuzzled back.
"That Roman's been keeping a mighty treasure all to himself out in these wilds," said the same Saxon who had last defiled Lancelot. More mirth arose from the Saxons, who gave nods and words of agreement. "And who's next, I wonder?" He stepped out toward the rest of the knights, who sat huddled together, burning with hatred and yet also convicted by fear for the first time in a long while. The Saxon beast was eyeing them all hungrily, face flushed in the aftermath of his pleasuring. At last, Cedric rose to his feet.
"Tomorrow, we sort through these prisoners," he said, as he approached his men. "Take the pretty ones for our pleasure and kill the rest." All of the Saxons broke out into wide, savage smirks. Cedric only gave a small smile himself. "Slowly, of course." His warriors gave a cheer, and those who still held to their spears beat the earth with the bases.
"My lord," began the Saxon who had addressed the grounded knights, "the night is yet early. Why not begin now?"
"Yes, the night is yet early," agreed Cedric, "but it is too dark to continue properly now. We wait for first light. Take rest now. Pleasure cannot be had to the fullest if you're tired." More chuckling, accompanied by nods of obedience.
"Oh, Lancelot," Arthur whimpered, reaching his beloved knight at last. New tears jumped fresh from his lashes, and though his hands were bound, he reached out and caressed Lancelot's curls as best he could. The knight did not look at him.
"Yes, that's right, Roman," called one of the Saxons, leading Cedric to peer of his shoulder with a bemused grin. "Crawl to your whore." The others laughed.
Arthur grimaced with tears as one dewdrop leaked from the corner of Lancelot's eye. "Look at me," the Roman shuddered. "Lancelot, look at me." His tone was quiet and pleading, sick with grief. His knight would not hear him. Arthur bent to cover Lancelot's body, arms failing to break free from their binds and wrap around the Sarmatian. His shoulders only caved and shook instead. He wept deeply, too consumed by grief to kindle the rage due to the Saxons. It should have been Lancelot weeping into Arthur's body, but the knight was the one offering minuscule comfort to his captain.
"Galahad," whispered Gawain, finally released from Saxon hands and having reached the abandoned body of his best friend. The younger knight's head lay to one side, arms limp and legs left moderately parted. His skirt of pleated metal had fallen back down on his thighs once more, blood drying where reflected light should have shone. More crimson was frozen in mid-drip from the corner of his lips. Gawain yearned to warm those ashen cheeks with his own burning touch, but his hands remained bound at his back. Instead, he squeezed his eyes to force out tears, when already he had cried so many, and they landed like a summer rain, not like the sort that this island of his captivity plagued him with. They dotted Galahad's face, carrying words of murmured love when Gawain could not bring himself to speak any longer; thus the older knight painted his sacred canvas.
Galahad lifted his eyes open for a moment, green pools glazed with death, and he seemed a child in the shadow of Gawain's bent form. His elder friend sucked in a breath, and a silence passed between them, somehow undisturbed and unconcerned by all that surrounded them.
"I dreamt of you," Galahad breathed. The blood melted and finished its course down over his jaw, hitting the dirt in slow motion, soundless. Gawain searched his eyes, leaning closer and closer with the passing of each sand grain second. He wanted to say 'I love you.' He wanted to lie all of those pretty lies about it being all right and the knights escaping their captors. He wanted to apologize when he had done nothing. He wished he were the moon so that he could curl around Galahad and cradle him though his arms were bound. All of this, he conveyed through his own broken orbs, and Galahad read him with a fevered wonder, as a child who makes sense of words for the first time. Before Gawain could answer him, Galahad closed his eyes once more, like he had accepted death, and the wind blew at his lashes as if they were feathers. Gawain was left with silent, moving lips.
Arthur moved like a tinted memory up Lancelot's belly until his head rested over the knight's heart. And there he stopped to tremble, listening to the only hope that was left in this darkness. He panted for breath, shutting his eyes to see flashes of a distant past. Lancelot. The lavender veils. Yes, he remembered. Smiling, laughing. Chase the imagined. Floating. Floating. Lavender. Beautiful. Sunlight. He didn't know when he had last felt sunlight. Perhaps the sun had imploded.
"Don't be childish," he chided Lancelot. Laughter. Waving veil. The knight hooked his neck with it, pulling his grin closer.
"Caught you," the knight said. Glittering eyes. Gone.
"Run while you still have the chance," he warned his friend, arm reaching past Lancelot's waist, fingers curling into another veil, pulling it to him. Lancelot smiled and turned his back on his captain, veil sliding around Arthur's neck and finally leaving. He fled, too slowly to be real, and Arthur caught him. Lavender trapping around the waist. Lancelot turning. Laughter. Embrace. Bellies touching. Veil falling – around Arthur's shoulders.
He opened his eyes. No lavender. Only darkness.
Arthur didn't turn his head when Tristan leapt to his feet, a stiletto flashing up from his boot like reversed lightning. Ropes had fallen soundlessly to the earth from his wrists. The nearest Saxon fell dead, his throat slit, blood pouring forth after the initial gush. Droplets flecked Tristan's cheek, and he smiled inwardly. The others didn't give him much more time after that first Saxon went down. They seized him before he could kill anymore, and the rest who weren't near enough to lend their hands only yelled in outrage and surprise. The dead Saxons already had death's look in his eyes. Tristan was smirking, hair swaying. The blade hit the ground. Last rebellion.
"Bloody pagan dog," spat one of the Saxons, as some of his comrades restrained Tristan, who wasn't even struggling.
"Ye not exactly one to be callin' us pagans," Bors grunted, though he had been trying to hide his grin only a second before. "Yer no pack of Christians."
"Shut up," the Saxon snapped vehemently.
"What should we do with him, milord?" asked another of the beasts. Cedric pulled something from his belt and threw it to the ground in reply, still as nonchalant as he had been before Tristan's outburst.
"You know what to do," he said. His warrior broke into a smirk, striding to pick up the object, gravel crunching under his boots.
"Thank ye, milord," he said in a low tone, his fingers touching the gift as he inclined his head. Cedric's eyes only glinted in reply. The other Saxon straightened and turned back to return to Tristan. "To the ground with him," he barked at his comrades, who promptly threw the knight to the dirt with as much force as they could muster.
"Wait," Cedric said, and his men looked up at once. "Best do it at that stump yonder." He tilted his head to the right, and they looked over, smiled, and shoved Tristan along the dirt toward the stump. "And take care of that body," Cedric added, as they passed.
"Now, you're going to pay for that, bitch," growled the Saxon, as his comrades bound the knight's hands once more and tied his arms to the stump. Once finished, they backed away, leaving only the gifted Saxon to stand near Tristan, a devious glint in his eyes. He took a few steps over, stopping when he was behind the knight. The whip hissed as it unfurled in the air and cracked when it met Tristan's back. His unprepared body jolted once, but he knew enough to brace himself immediately afterward.
"Ye devil's bastards!" Bors exclaimed, getting to his feet only to be restrained by the nearest Saxons. They forced him down again, and he did not see Dagonet's understanding look.
Tristan gritted his teeth when the whip hit him again, knowing he was far from being broken or overwhelmed by pain. He would last long, too long. And when the whip came down again, he shut his eyes and hung his head. He would not look at Arthur or the other knights, would not give the Saxons the satisfaction of seeing the sting in his eyes. He had to be strong for Lancelot. For Galahad.
"The knight is too strong to complain," said one of the Saxon spectators, a wide grin on his face. He tipped his goblet of wine on his lips. "Perhaps we shouldn't be so kind with him." His comrades gave a cheer, and the whip quickened, hardened in its blow. Tristan only gave a few jerks, biting his lip now and drawing blood. The welts crossed and overlapped on his back. Lancelot. Galahad. Lancelot. Galahad.
Only he heard the hawk cry. At last, he opened his eyes, and her own flashed at him from beyond, in the darkness of a tree branch. At this, he gave a faint smile, one that no one understood, and he did not close his eyes again. He did not flinch, he did not whimper, and still the whip came down. He didn't hear Dagonet cry out for the Saxon to stop or see the cowering knight still kneeling below his risen comrade. Only those yellow eyes filled his sight, holding his head up, leveling him.
"Damn you to hell," Bors cried, throttling the whipping Saxon, as Dagonet kicked the Saxons who had restrained his friend to the ground. Bors started beating his boots into the Saxon who was too stunned to collect himself, and Tristan heaved, back gleaming with blood and sweat and angry welts. His eyes fell closed as he gasped and gave another strange smile. The hawk watched him still.
"That's enough," Cedric decided aloud, as his men seized Bors and pushed him, struggling, back to his place next to Dagonet, who they struck across the face. "Let him free." As the Saxon got to his feet, wiping blood from his lip where a rock had scratched it, his eyes blazed with anger that apparently would not be relieved this night. The whip lay on the earth, its length curled many times over. Two Saxons passed him and cut Tristan away from the trunk, before dragging him back to where he had been sitting beside Bors, leaving him. The wounded knight heaved next to his comrade, who replaced anger with concern.
"Ye all right, lad?" he asked. Tristan only grinned through his panting. He lifted his head, caught the flash in the darkness ahead, beyond the glade's perimeter.
"We will be," he said. But none of the others had seen that flash.
