A/N: Yay. Here's Chapter 5. Not a lot goes on, except for some emotional self-torture, if you know what I mean. Hey, any excuse for flaff, right? Anyway, thank you so much to all of my readers and reviewers. Love you all. Hope this is all good with you. I'm feeling sort of down at the moment. I wouldn't say depressed, because I'm depressed – or, at least I have been in the past – a great deal, and this isn't nearly so major. So I'm just down: because subconsciously, I am reviewing my future as a waitress with a lot of shit on paper shoved into a box that I use for eating on in my shit apartment because I suck and because writing professionally makes winning the lottery look like a promise. So yeah. My life is going to suck. Well, it sucks now. But it will suck later too, just with booze and freedom added into the whole equation. Oh, and money too. Sort of.

Anyway. Now that I've shared that lovely thought with all of you, I will not hold you from this chapter any longer.

Please Read and Review! You make me not killing myself almost seem like a worthwhile thing. And plus, since the next chapter should be much more exciting and significant, reviews would probably stimulate the Muse more in order to produce a better chapter. Yeah, maybe that's bullcrap, but you never know.


Chapter 5: Dreams

They had put out the fires and settled down to sleep for what was left of the night, and a few remained on watch for a while. Most of the knights fell into a relieving slumber themselves, not realizing the guards had dozed off as well, after an hour or so. To those who could not escape into unconsciousness, the snoring of their captors was only a cruel reminder of their situation's impossibility. One move, and the whole camp would be up, bearing arms, and Arthur didn't even want to imagine what might happen then. All he could do was hold Lancelot's limp body to his own, having dragged the knight closer to the others, to where he had knelt when Lancelot had been violated. The night was too black for any of the other men, Saxon and Sarmatian alike, to be anything more than silhouettes, shadows that melted into each other and muddled the shapes of both the familiar and the detested bodies. The Roman knew that Gawain had pulled Galahad back to his place near the rest of the Round Table, but none of his comrades dared speak unto him when he was in such a state. Tristan had eased himself to the ground -- despite the deep, repressed, collective urges of his fellow knights to lend their chests – and had already sunk into sleep as if nothing had happened to him. Bors had grimaced at Dagonet, before the quieter knight had lain down, and he had patted Tristan's boot but missed the flickering smile of the hawk-tamer.

Gawain was a deliberately formed statue, cradling Galahad as if it were his life's purpose. He kept the head of curls nestled against his shoulder, his fingers immersed in his friend's hair and arms wrapped protectively around the younger knight's battered body. He would not let go again. They would have to cut his arms off first. And if they did, he would offer his throat or his heart, his head or his back and every vein in his body to save Galahad, if only for an extra hour. If only for an extra minute, he would do it. He could not sit idle any longer. His Galahad was crying out for salvation, and if his own blood would grant it, Gawain would have peace in his suffering. A sigh escaped his parted lips. Oh, yes, he would have peace in suffering. Already, he envisioned the whip burning into his flesh, tearing through skin and muscle. His bones were broken and his body beaten until it looked liked the depths of the sea. He could even – he could even imagine his own violation, though he did not have the capacity to know what that crime was truly like to endure. But he would endure it. He should have already, in Galahad's place.

"Oh, Galahad," he whimpered, tears spilling into the beloved curls. His eyes did not lay closed in an attempt for sleep. It was instead because of the consuming guilt that the truth brought, the truth of his failure. He had failed to save Galahad. He had failed to uphold his loyalty, to do his job. He was supposed to protect his fellow knights. How could he call himself Galahad's friend when he had simply allowed the Saxons to hold him back when the boy was being defiled before his very eyes? No, he was no friend. He was no friend at all, and his worst fear, even more than Galahad's death or repeated violation or suffering, was that they would make it out alive and free only for Galahad to remember that failure. And Galahad, as any man had the right to, would hate him. His heart froze over at the thought of that hatred. And yet, as much as it massacred his soul, Gawain would willingly take that hatred, if only they did not touch Galahad again.

And Galahad dreamed. Despite all his torment, his mind retreated into dreams that misted over with incoherence. He was in a tinted field, wheat swaying all around him and brushing at his knees. It seemed to stretch out forever on all sides of him, yet he could still see mountains in the distance but knew not where he was. Flash, and Gawain's smile appeared and disappeared, leaving him breathless. He began to step forward. Flash. Faster footsteps. Flash. He was running. And suddenly, something struck him harshly, causing him to stagger, but he could not see his attacker. Flash, and he kept running, the wind dipping down into the wheat faster and deeper as his legs carried him. When was he going to reach the center? Why could he not find the center of this field? Flash, flash, flash. Those familiar eyes gleamed, beckoning him, but as he ran, the blows came again. He could not fight someone he could not see, nor could he take hold of a flash, like water it was, slipping through the cracks in his hands.

"Gawain," he breathed, refusing to give up. Onward, he ran, seeming no closer to the middle. Gawain was fleeing him, he realized. His eyes shone, head bobbing with each step that pounded into loose soil and sent it rising upward, not high enough to exceed the wheat. Flash, strike, run. Gawain, a blow, steps that brought him nowhere.

A scream pierced his ears, sent him stumbling back. It reverberated through his dream, and it seemed so familiar. Flash. Gawain wasn't smiling anymore. The scream came again, and at last he saw Lancelot, body beautiful and rigid against wood, flame rising up to caress his face. His head was thrown back, black tresses dripping onto his shoulders and down his neck, chest thrust out and heaving as he screamed and screamed and screamed. Galahad was brought to his knees, moment by moment, hands pressed in vain against his ears. And Gawain's face looked to him in childish confusion, as if questioning, but he did not have an answer.

"Lancelot," Arthur wailed, on his knees and red cloak splayed out all around him, flowing from his shoulders. He could not reach his beloved knight, the flames like a wall between them. And just as Galahad prepared for another ear-piercing scream, Lancelot lowered his head with a gentle look in his dark eyes. They locked with Arthur's gray, tear-glazed pools, and the only sound was Arthur's panting. When Lancelot closed his eyes with the traces of a smile, the fire covered him.

Galahad grew dizzy, eyelids drooping as he swayed with the wheat. The smoke he could not smell or feel was filling his lungs. Lancelot's life laced that smoke. Suddenly, Gawain was tearing through the field toward him. Flash, flash, desperation. He was swaying. He was falling into darkness... The earth welcomed him when he sunk below the wheat. The wind touched his curls but his body lay hidden in the fields, where no one could find him because the wheat had no end.

Lancelot began to roll onto his side, arm outstretching to hook around Arthur and pull himself closer to his captain. Arthur immediately moved closer, guiding Lancelot's arm around his own form, and when they at last came together, both closed their eyes with a sigh of satisfaction. Arthur cradled Lancelot's head to his shoulder, arm against the knight's back. They lay pressed together, taking comfort in each other when nothing else seemed to offer any hope. When Lancelot finally began to weep, Arthur refused his own tears and gripped to his strength for Lancelot's sake, hushing the knight as he stroked through the black curls. He shifted after a while, taking Lancelot in both of his arms, gently. The knight bit his lip at every throb of pain that came when he was moved, weeping because he had finally accepted what had happened to him and because Arthur had failed to hold out any longer and had joined him in tears. He didn't understand why, but something about the Roman's erratic heartbeat and stifled sobs and shaking chest made him feel like Arthur was at least one man in the world who shared his pain, so that he wouldn't have to bear it alone. He suppressed a sob and bowed his head into Arthur's shoulder, tears pouring from his squeezed eyes.

"I love you," Arthur whispered in the Sarmatian's ear, his cheek against Lancelot's and their tears mingled. Lancelot said nothing in return but nudged his body into Arthur's, arm still encircling his friend. He knew he had a responsibility to ease Arthur's pain, just as much as the Roman had to ease his. And even more than the fact that he had been raped, knowing Arthur was in such agony for him was more of a wound than anything. Perhaps the knights deserved hell for being pagans or punishment for their sins, but Arthur, despite his bloodstained sword, was a man who should have nothing but God's blessing. And to think that he was the reason for Arthur's pain was too much for Lancelot, on top of his rape. His tiny whimper went unheard to all except for Arthur, who also felt the knight's kiss of gratitude on his soaking shoulder. Arthur's heart tendered at the gesture, and he moved his head to Lancelot's other shoulder, so that was his face against the dirt instead. His hand smoothed large circles on Lancelot's back, and he returned the kiss on Lancelot's shoulder. The knight buried his face in the Roman's neck, and they remained still until sleep welcomed them, save for the sporadic chest spasms.

When they woke, the lavender twilight had returned, and Arthur moved away from Lancelot just enough to face him. They held a silent gaze, eyes gleaming faintly and tear tracks in their pale faces. Arthur lifted his hand to lay over the side of Lancelot's face, fingers creeping into black curls, thumb running over the same patch of skin. He gave his knight a meaningful look, and Lancelot shut his eyes as he tilted his head and moved close to Arthur again. As they rested, on the threshold of sleep, each reminded the other of a distant, happy memory. Arthur took in Lancelot's faded scent and almost smiled when he remembered an afternoon long ago, when the knights had been given a break at Hadrian's Wall.

"Arthur," the knight had whined and half-laughed, when his captain had sneaked up on him and tied a black blindfold over his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Amusing myself," the Roman had answered with a sly grin, taking Lancelot by the hand and leading him swiftly out into the crisp autumn air, out to the stables. In the next minute, Lancelot was sitting in front of him on Arthur's horse, half-smiling like a complete fool with that blindfold on. Arthur had set out with his arms around the knight to grasp the reins, and they had ridden into the fields south of the Wall.

"All right, one moment," Arthur had said, after letting Lancelot down where they had stopped. The knight stood waiting for whatever it was Arthur had planned, a slight tinge of dread in his stomach. "Lancelot!" Arthur had cried in apparent dismay, and his horse had shrieked right after, followed by a thud. Lancelot had stopped smiling.

"Arthur?" he had called out. Silence. "Arthur?" His voice had been shaken and frightened, as he had swiped the air blindly for his friend, not thinking to take off the blindfold quite yet. "Arthur!" he had exclaimed, truly in a panic. In the next moment, however, someone had thrown himself at the knight's legs, sending Lancelot to the ground with a huff. Arthur's laughter had rung out loud as Lancelot had pulled off the blindfold. "You bastard!" he had hissed, smacking his captain, but Arthur's mirth had not been deterred. "You bloody scared me, you know that?" Lancelot had said, a tint of hurt in his tone.

"Oh, but it was good fun," Arthur had pacified, calming. "You care," he said with an air of melodrama. "I'm touched." Lancelot smacked him again, and he chuckled. "Oh, don't be bitter. Come on," Arthur had coaxed, pulling Lancelot into a hug. "It was only a joke. I'm fine, calm down." They had spent another hour or two lying in the swaying, tall grass. Arthur could still see the hue of gold the field had been all around them, and he almost smiled.

Lancelot remembered something else, however, with his lashes fluttering once against Arthur's tunic. The memory was an evening from last winter, when he had returned late from a patrol. Woads had attacked him and his band of comrades again, and one of the men who had returned had reported to Arthur that he had seen Lancelot go down. However, what he had not known was that Lancelot had only been knocked out. Believing him to be dead, the Woads had not bothered with him after that and the knights had thought him lost. When at last he awoke, only the bodies of his dead enemies and friends lay around him, not too many knights, thankfully. After having gone through them to see who had fallen from the Round Table, he had begun the walk back to the Wall, not arriving until the next evening. Needless to say, Arthur had been heart broken all the while, and when the knight appeared in the Round Table chamber after dinner had been finished, he was received with shocked glances and eyes swimming with relief, ending at last with knowing grins. Arthur had risen from his seat, gaping, and had thrown his arms around Lancelot. He had kissed the knight on each cheek, as Romans do, and the knight had flushed in surprise.

"I thought you lost," Arthur had said, and Lancelot had easily heard the tremble in his voice. He had only smiled after a moment.

"You care," he had echoed. "I'm touched." And Arthur's emotional expression had changed to amusement.

"Smart ass," Arthur had murmured, and Lancelot had smirked, pleased with himself.

"Arthur," came Lancelot's whisper, numb with a fast falling tear. His eyes stared blankly at the twilight mists and the forest silhouettes. The fog was lavender, he realized, and his heart gave a tremor that made him feel ill. A second tear. A third tear.

"Lancelot?" the Roman breathed in reply, almost too quiet for the knight to hear. Callused hand moved over tattered tunic, smoothing wrinkles but failing to take away bruises and cuts. He could hear the earth's breath with his ear pressed to the surface, and he wished Lancelot's heartbeat would drown it out. He wished Lancelot would regain his strength and not feel like a limp and dying flower in his arms, so beautiful and tragic, water in his embrace and against his chest. He caressed the petals of Lancelot's hair as if he knew the knight was fading at that very moment and in the next breath, he would be holding an empty vessel. "I want to save you, Lancelot," he cried. "I want to save you, but I can't. I can't." And the knight said nothing in reply, going utterly limp in Arthur's hold. "I can't," Arthur sobbed, shaking. He began to rock his beloved Lancelot back and forth, just barely, in the dust. Lancelot's tears fell freely when the rest of the knight was in an unbreakable cage, and he did not have the heart to tell Arthur to stop the rocking. He wanted stillness because the dead did not move.

"A star hung over Bethlehem," Arthur began, making Lancelot sob at the familiar lullaby. "And the shepherds gathered and the three Wise Men. The little Lord Jesus lay in his crib. From evil King Herod, the Lord lay hid. And Mary sang to him, 'Don't cry, my baby, don't cry." His voice was shattered into quivering pieces of glass, and he was breaking Lancelot's heart all over again. "Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Don't cry, baby." Lancelot wanted to empty his innards. He wanted Tristan's stiletto to end his misery. "Don't cry. I won't let you die. Baby, I won't let you die." It wasn't a lullaby anymore. It was Arthur's whisper to his broken Lancelot. To his baby.

But I want to die, Arthur, Lancelot thought. The lavender mists shifted in his gaze. I want to.

"Baby," whispered Arthur, the tune failing his lips. "You're my baby." He began to calm, drifting to sleep in the way he breathed, fingers still stroking Lancelot's curls.

"I'm a man," Lancelot said, once Arthur slept, tears curving down his nose. "Just a man, Arthur. Forgive me." And he closed his eyes at last, hoping with all that was left of him to pass in his sleep and not wake to see the twilight again. Even if that meant losing Arthur forever. And Lancelot dreamed.

"I, Lancelot of Sarmatia, pledge my allegiance to you, Artorious Castus, and to the Holy Roman Empire for a service of fifteen years and promise also to uphold the code of chivalry."

"Thus, it is by the power vested in me by the Lord God that I dub thee Sir Lancelot, knight of the Round Table." Excalibur touched both of Lancelot's shoulders, and Arthur stepped down to his new knight, sheathing his sword. He took Lancelot's bowed head in both of his hands, tenderly, and leaned to kiss the black curls.

"I am yours forever, Arthur," the knight whispered; only a boy of seventeen, his eyes closed modestly as if he believed in the Christians' God. And at these words, Arthur, a young man of nineteen, suppressed a smile and tears of overwhelming pride at the day of the Round Table knighting. He moved his lips lower, pressing softly at the top of Lancelot's brow, and the knight did not open his bright eyes. He only waited, a portrait of knelt fealty. And every man knew that day what Lancelot had murmured to Arthur, though they had not heard the words. They knew, as they stood proudly at Lancelot's back, already knighted, that they were Arthur's, the knights of the Round Table, and that fifteen years meant nothing to them when it came to their captain.

"Yours," Lancelot said in his sleep, broken heart pulled into the warmth of Arthur's chest against his.

"And I, Artorious Castus, pledge my allegiance to you, knights of the Round Table, and promise to lead you well and with my protection," the Roman said, once Lancelot had risen, eyes sparkling at him. Already, he had taken his place at Arthur's right hand, and both faced the other men, a new band of warriors for Rome.

You were supposed to protect him. A knife slid soundlessly into Arthur's heart, a new wound, a new guilt. He had broken his promise.

"Lancelot!" The rain poured forth from floodgates of heaven, turning Britain into a muddy, gray mess. The people of Hadrian's Wall had already retreated into their rooms, waiting out the summer storm, but Lancelot had run outside like a child, laughing as Arthur chased after him. The knight eluded the Roman, however, and Arthur could not stop Lancelot from leaving the Wall's gates and venturing to the lush, green hills on the south side. "Lancelot, stop. Don't be childish," the captain pleaded, struggling up the slick hill when Lancelot had already bound over the other side. "We're already soaked," he whined, boots splattered with mud. When he reached the other side of the hill, Lancelot was standing at the bottom, not yet climbing the next hill, and he turned to face Arthur with a glistening smile.

"It's glorious," he shouted, the rain too heavy for anyone to speak normally. Arthur stumbled down toward him, and Lancelot grabbed his hand, pulling him up to the knight. In the next moment, the two stood together, Lancelot's fingers pressed to Arthur's lips, silencing him. "It's a secret," he said quietly, before pressing his own lips to his fingers, so that they were sandwiched between rain-beaded petals. He did not last long before a stifled giggle arrived, and Arthur rolled his eyes, turning to leave. Yet once he reached the bottom of the hill, Lancelot threw himself at the Roman, sending both to the ground. The knight laughed out loud, rolling off of his captain, as Arthur groaned and turned on his back, mud now coating his tunic and the right side of his face. They lay together in the grass, at the bottom of that hill, and let the rain soak into their bones. Lancelot's hand slipped into Arthur's once they were forced to close their eyes, and eventually, he dropped his head to Arthur's shoulder, wet curls clinging to his skin and his friend's.

Lancelot wished it would rain now. Arthur's shoulders were already damp with Sarmatian tears and the earth already soaked with blood. But Lancelot wished it would rain. Arthur wanted to wake up in the sun and discover all of this to be a nightmare, just a nightmare. He would find Lancelot curled in white linens beside him, sleeping in the pale light, and his other knights would appear one by one in his doorway, smiling. He wished he could open his eyes and not want to wake Lancelot and disturb the knight's peace. But Lancelot wished for rain.