A/N: Yay! Finally, this chapter is finished and posted. I am such an evil bitch for it, too. But I hope you like it anyway! Thank you to all of my wonderful readers and reviewers, for all of your support and encouragement. It means more than you know.

While writing this, I listened to The Passion of Christ soundtrack (tracks 2, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12), Skellig by Loreena McKennit, Braveheart the soundtrack (tracks 1, 2, and 4), and Deora ar mo Chroi by Enya. If you have any of any of those, I suggest you listen to them.

Also, both Latin and Italian is used in this chapter. Again, for any of you who know Latin, the Latin in this text isn't correct, because no online translator gives verb conjugations and proper grammar and all that. The Italian, however, is correct in its entirety. As for why Arthur speaks Italian in this fic, there's an explanation, but I've already kept you too long from reading. Whether it's historically accurate or not, who knows. The movie and what I learned in history could be considered contradictory, and hell, no one knows for sure when Arthur and his knight really lived. So, yeah.

Please Read and Review! Thank you!

Note: No CONSENSUAL sexual or romantic interaction takes place between the Knight of the Round Table. No homosexual attraction exists between them specifically. If you have any doubts, do some research on the history of "Romantic Friendship". Everyone has the right to interpret things how they want to, of course. But please, don't tell me this is slash as if I don't know what I'm writing.

WARNING: The following chapter is rated R for adult themes and light sexuality. If you are under 13 or have a problem with violence, sexuality, or language, please choose another story to read. You have been warned. Please use reader's discretion.


Chapter 6: Sin

He was riding through the green hills of his isle captor, curls bouncing with each hoof meeting the earth. His arms were wrapped around Arthur, and the Roman looked like any other man, without his armor or his scarlet cloak. Only in leather and cloth did the two men ride, and both wanted for naught when they had each other's body close. Their hearts coupled as one, like two doves in trembling flight, and they did not have a need for words. Lancelot lay his head on the back of Arthur's shoulder, smiling against the leather, as Arthur grinned faintly to himself. They did not know pain in their solitude, not when it was only the two of them in the hills, away from all humanity but the green earth. Lancelot wished they might never return to the Wall, but that instead they would ride away into the wilds, where the mists bore them away into myth. In that place, alone and undisturbed by any duty, he might love Arthur freely and without any hazard of loss or any wall preventing him from affection. Only their eyes would embrace, and only each other's body would they have for warmth in the winters, wrapped in the same fur skin. Beyond that mist, Lancelot could love Arthur, and Arthur could love Lancelot; no war or woman or duty would trouble them. No call for glory or honor would come for them. They could be as one soul, brothers in their own world, with love to sustain them in hunger, thirst, and need for touch. Yes, thought Lancelot with his head against Arthur's leather, that would be heaven, the one Arthur believed in.

But when Lancelot opened his eyes, he wasn't on Arthur's horse in the hills. The Roman was still asleep, brow against his, looking cold. Lancelot did not smile or speak but only gazed at Arthur's face, so close to his own. The Roman's cloak was splayed over them both, though more over Lancelot, and Arthur's arm was heavy on Lancelot's waist, hand limp with fingertips touching his friend's back. Lancelot's hand was curled in Arthur's, the Roman's thumb in his palm and other fingers curled over into it too. The Sarmatian felt leaden and numb, suspecting Galahad to be sleeping in Gawain's cradle-body at his back. He hoped Tristan's wounds were starting to heal, that someone had managed to dress them in some way. He could barley remember the hawk-tamer's whipping; it was like a fragment of something that could have been a memory but might have been a dream. He had a feeling his friend was not fortunate enough for the latter.

Eyes closed, exhale. Vision of snow and naked trees, far away. He was standing with Arthur, alone in their frozen glade of surreal peace, his gloved hands cupped in the Roman's. Each stood tall, red cloak and black cloak, heads bowed to look upon their fingers. Arthur held his hands as if they were his beating heart instead, and after a long moment, the Roman brought those hands to his lips and kissed the leather. He watched his captain with shining eyes, breath white in the air. Arthur's eyes met his, and scarlet fluttered before him, like the night he lay weeping in darkness with it wrapped around him because he thought Arthur dead.

"Lancelot." His name sounded like a stranger, gray eyes holding his own. His folded hands were brought against Arthur's belly, and another white breath puffed from his lips. "Inquam nunquam te valere iubre." I will never say good-bye to you. Lancelot's brow crinkled.

Scarlet veil, shroud of darkness.

"No!" the Roman screamed, as they burned his Lancelot. Whether with flame or whips, he could not tell, and it did not matter. Lifeless, the knight flowed into his hands afterward, dark eyes fallen and curls pulling his fingers in. The face was sculpted for his hands, those cheeks were made to carry his tears earthward, and those shut eyes had first been brought to burn into his.

"How sad it is I was born a knight," Lancelot had murmured, lying wounded in Arthur's arms and smiling sadly.

"Why?" Arthur had asked, voice shaking. "Why would you say that?"

"If I were God, you would love me." And Arthur's eyes had burst with tears.

"Lancelot," he had whimpered, caressing those curls as Lancelot had smiled that sad smile still. "I do love you. I do, more than anyone on this earth does. Don't you know why I worship God?" Lancelot had barely shook his head. "I worship God because it is He who formed my eyes, that I may look upon you. It is He who made lips, that I may proclaim my love for you. It is He who formed my heart, that it may beat for you all the hours He bestows upon me as precious gifts to live in your presence, that I might love you. Oh, Lancelot." The knight had begun to weep freely then, trembling in his Arthur's hold. "I worship Him and praise Him and thank Him because He gave you to me. And I ask Him to protect you and to make you happy and to help you understand instead of being angry with me. I asked Him to make you understand, but you have not. How could you not think I love you?" He had sobbed and quaked, looking to the sky.

"I'm sorry," Lancelot had whispered.

"Don't you ever say that again," Arthur had almost shouted, ignoring the apology. "Don't you ever regret who you are. Don't you ever wish you were someone else to have my love because you have it." He had pulled Lancelot up into an embrace, the knight's head on his shoulder. "You have it." The curls' scent had invaded him.

Eyes open. Inhale.

"Up!" A Saxon's rumbling voice disrupted the morning, the accent resembling that of the North, where the blue people resided. "Up, ye bloody sluggards!" The camp groaned in an array of pitches, and shadows began to rise under the scrutiny of the waker.

"All right, men," Cedric began, stepping up alongside the other Saxon. "Today, we move out. We ride south, toward the Wall, but we cannot go too quickly. Prisoners must accompany, of course. They'll have to go on foot, however. Ye all better be keeping an eye them. Anyone who loses us a man is liable to be – punished." His tone turned from husky to conspiring, and the Saxons only chuckled amongst themselves in reply.

"And what, exactly, do you intend to do once you've reached our Wall?" Tristan questioned, as calmly as ever and standing. He waited for an answer, hands still bound before him and tunic in tatters yet with eyes focused.

"Why, what do you think, Sir Knight?" said Cedric. "Rape, murder, pillage, and plunder, of course." The Saxons laughed lightly around him. "Oh, and I forgot burn. Yes, we'll certainly burn something of your Wall once we're through with the previously mentioned tasks." His lips curled into an evil smirk.

They were forced to their feet and began to struggle along through the forest. Arthur held Lancelot to him, Gawain mirrored him with Galahad, but Tristan carried himself tall and gave no sign that the welts stung. All the while, the Saxons pushed and shoved the knights, barking insults and threats on them and Hadrian's Wall. For hours, they plodded through the wood, until Galahad and Lancelot were only held up by Gawain and Arthur, mustering the strength to move their legs only because of their friend's whispered encouragement.

"Come on, baby. Just a little bit further," Arthur murmured to his fevered knight, whose head was lolling against his chest, hip digging into his thigh and weight pulling down at his shoulders. Lancelot's eyes fluttered open and closed and back again, as he forced his legs to move inch by inch. He felt terribly nauseous and light-headed, and his ribs ached. He wanted to stop, not caring what the Saxons did to him, just so long as he could rest and breathe for a while. His body was a mess of woven bruises and blood-encrusted skin.

"Please, Arthur," he managed to choke, at last. "Stop, please. I can't do this. I have to rest."

"Just a little further, Lancelot," answered the Roman. "We can't stop until they decide. They'll harm you, otherwise."

"I care not. I can't keep up with this for much longer." It would have been frantic had Lancelot had any energy, but Arthur heard it anyway, pulling Lancelot closer and silently praying for relief.

"We're all going to die out here," said Galahad, a strange smile accompanying his words. His head hung to his chest, eyes closed, one arm around Gawain's shoulders and the other around Dagonet's. His boots were nearly dragging limply along the dirt, as his two comrades helped him onward.

"Don't say such things," Dagonet warned, tone quiet and eyes scanning the wood around him.

"You're going to be all right," said Gawain. "And so will the rest of us." Even he knew it was false hope when he spoke.

"If I'm going to be all right after this, then I'm a bloody god." No one answered the youngest knight.

After what seemed like days, the Saxons finally came to a halt and Cedric's ordered them to stop for a rest in his rumbling tone. Gear was thrown down to the earth with heavy thuds, and Lancelot collapsed, sinking fast before Arthur caught him and eased him down slowly. Dagonet let Galahad go, and the younger knight sagged against Gawain, head dropping to his best friend's shoulder. Gawain lowered himself down with Galahad in his hold and looked up to see Tristan standing still and unmoving. He wondered if the hawk-tamer did so out of possible pain in those wounds, as Dagonet returned to Bors, who clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Did ye like the stroll, bitch?" taunted one of the Saxons when he struck Lancelot across the face, sending him out of Arthur's arms and into the dirt. The Roman punched his enemy before he could think, as Lancelot groaned when he rolled over slowly onto his back. The Saxon stumbled back, but some of his comrades flocked to restrain Arthur, hitting him back, while still more huddled around Lancelot's body. Arthur tried to reach his knight, unable to see what they were doing, which was binding the Sarmatian's wrists again, but only managed a stifled sound of panic. Cedric watched, smirking. When the Saxons came away from Lancelot, he lay with head to one side, breathing heavily. Arthur stared at him with widened eyes, but the knight wouldn't look at him.

"Go on, boys," Cedric roared. "Take your pleasure."

"No!" Arthur wailed. "Please, no." The mirth of the Saxons was silenced by his outburst. Upon his knees, he waited before Cedric with tears streaming down his face, more desperate than he had ever been in his life. He could not watch them murder Lancelot again.

"All right," began Cedric in a dangerous tone. "My men will not touch him, but you must do it instead."

"What?" Arthur's voice came meekly, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Either you do it, Roman, or we will." Those cruel eyes flickered. With parted lips, Arthur listened to the jeering of the Saxons at his back. It was an impossible choice. Slowly, he peered back over his shoulder at Lancelot. His sweet baby was bound in the dust, eyes glittering back at him. Arthur crumbled inside when the knight gave a nod. Again, he met Cedric's gaze, and the beast was waiting with a smirk on his face.

"All right," Arthur said, almost inaudible.

"He'll do it," Cedric shouted to his men, and they roared with anticipation. Arthur hung his head, unraveling and begging God to help him. "Go," said Cedric. "Crawl to your whore." The words echoed from only a night before. Had it been last night? How many nights had passed in this hell? Arthur didn't know anymore. Obeying the Saxon's command, he turned and began to crawl toward Lancelot's waiting body. The knight was waiting for him. Both of them knew what would come.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur cried, knelt beside Lancelot's body. His eyes squeezed together with countless tears, head hung apologetically. He shook, and Lancelot looked up to him calmly.

"Come," said the knight. "They are watching." And both knew why this had to be. Better you than them. Arthur suffered to open his eyes again and look down on his beloved knight, who lay helplessly with a broken body and bound wrists. He reached out his hand, and it took a century for his quaking fingers to meet Lancelot's fevered cheek. The knight shut his eyes at the ghosting touch, and Arthur's hand moved up to Lancelot's brow. He pushed those black curls back, apologizing and loving in silence. Neither of them could hear the urging noises of their captors. Arthur turned his head to look at Cedric, who sat leisurely and waiting with twitching lips.

"Kiss him," the Saxon said, and his followers echoed his command in eager shouts. Arthur looked away and back to Lancelot, whose eyes lay open again. A sullen tear ran down Arthur's cheek because he could see Lancelot's fading soul in those dark pools. Taking as long as he could, he leaned over toward Lancelot and hoped he would die before he reached his destination. His hope failed, and in the next moment, his lips lay on Lancelot's. They did not press. They did not open. They only lay against the other man's, as the cheering of the Saxons rang in his ears. His eyes were closed, and he knew Lancelot's eyes were too. He was afraid what would happen if he opened them again, and though he had thought his heart already broken, he felt it crack again into new pieces. What if this was the apocalypse of his friendship with Lancelot?

"You call that a kiss?" shouted one of the Saxons.

"Touch him," yelled another, and the lot of them began to chant the words. After a long moment frozen on Lancelot's lips, Arthur moved at last, his hand slowly making its way up the knight's arm. His other had not left the curls. Tears spilled from his lashes and onto Lancelot's skin. The knight did not tell his captain that his own eyes were growing hot behind their lids. The chanting didn't stop, and the Roman cried in shame. Per favore, Dio, me perdona del mio peccato. Perdonarme, perdonarme, he thought. Please, God, forgive me of my sin. Forgive me, forgive me. He moved his lips, tilted his head one way and then the other, never pressing, never opening. Only lips against lips, refusing to suck away life and failing to give any away. From where the Saxons were standing, it must have looked convincing because they cheered and hooted louder and louder as Arthur shifted back and forth. Cedric wasn't fooled, but he didn't say anything.

The tears didn't stop coming, as Arthur carried out his charade. He didn't know what Lancelot was thinking anymore or feeling and only hoped the knight didn't hate him. His hands were in Lancelot's curls now, fingers entangled and soul choking with every strand that wrapped around them. With each passing moment, he shook more, and the Saxon noise was no help. Per favore, Dio, perdonarme. (Please, God, forgive me.) He was going to burn in hell. Not parting his lips from Lancelot's, Arthur straddled the knight's hips, careful as anything to put as little weight as possible on Lancelot's battered body. The Saxons roared with satisfaction and buzzed loudly as they watched. A silent tear fled Gawain's eye as he watched, Galahad sleeping in his lap like a child. Every pair of eyes belonging to the knights shone with pain and grief for their captain. Lancelot seemed dead.

"Kiss him properly, Roman." Cedric had risen from his place and moved to stand at Arthur's shoulder. The Roman froze completely. "You know what I mean." It was a lowly murmur, like that of evil in the night. Arthur straightened, coming away from Lancelot at last, tears coating his face and gleaming as he looked up to Cedric. His lip gave a single quiver, and he bent down again. Cedric began stepping backwards to his place, smirking.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur whispered, voice laden with sorrow. Before Lancelot had a chance to say anything, if he even had anything to say, Arthur's lips met his again. This time, with Cedric's eyes burning him, he slid his tongue into Lancelot's mouth and met no resistance. Groans of pleasure and hoots of encouragement erupted from the Saxons. Gawain looked away, weeping. He almost didn't feel Galahad stir in his lap. The younger knight woke, taking a while to sit up with Gawain's help. He initially looked upon Arthur and Lancelot in utter disbelief, but once it set in that he wasn't imagining the noise or the sight, he came to life for the first time in days with rage that made him seem like Galahad and not a victim.

"Stop!" he shouted, after a long moment of struggle in trying to stand. Yet indeed, he stood, as tall as he could be in his condition. His shoulders drooped, and he held his side painfully. Yet he stood. "This madness will stop." Knowing what would happen and that the Saxons and Cedric would be pleased, Arthur had run his tongue along the roof of Lancelot's mouth, making the knight shudder and the spectators groan. Some of the Saxons were even pleasuring themselves as they watched Arthur atop Lancelot, and it turned Galahad's face into further disgust. "You sick beasts!" Galahad raged. "How dare you stand before the Knights of the Round Table? You are not fit to walk in the slime of the earth! Look what you have done! Arthur and Lancelot, these two men too great for words, better than you'll ever be, put to shame for your evil purposes! You have twisted their love! Gods save you when I regain my sword and strength!"

The Saxons, who had been briefly silenced at Galahad's outburst, split into laughter. Arthur had broken his kiss with Lancelot and heaved with tears and sobs, slumped over his knight and murmuring his apologies over and over again. Sweat beaded Galahad's brow, as he strained to keep his knees from buckling. He tried his best to keep his eyes focused, though the world was spinning now. Gawain eyed him sharply, as the youngest of knights began to sway. He shuddered when flashes of his nightmare struck through him like lightning. He did not hear Arthur's agonizing sobs or see the grimacing faces of his grounded comrades. Lancelot was burning in his head, and Arthur was wailing in defeat. Flash, and they were gone, Gawain's child-like confusion in their place. Flash – swaying wheat and endless fields. Flash – Gawain's eyes.

"Galahad?" his best friend called, as the younger knight trembled with shut eyes.

"Tu exspecto salus ille nunquam veni." You wait for salvation that will never come. It was a whisper that he did not understand or recognize, and it sent him into darkness and falling back into Gawain's waiting arms.

Lancelot outstretched his bound hands to Arthur's bowed head like a rising spirit, fingers gently caressing the tear-stained face. "Do not weep," he said. "I love you. I cannot tell you in any pretty words or put my arms around you now, but I say this with whatever honor is left to me. I love you, Arthur. Nothing you do could ever change that." And Arthur looked narrowly at his beloved knight, his beautiful and tragic heart, and he pressed those broken fingers to his cheek with as much care as he possessed.

"You need no pretty words," he murmured. "All beauty lies in thee. Nothing from your body or your soul can be less than gold." He held Lancelot's arm up with both hands now, fingers still laced in the knight's.

"Arthur," Lancelot breathed, tears now springing forth anew. Blood was rising in his throat. "I must tell you once more before it is too late. You're my brother, Arthur. I love you more than any man has ever felt the space in his heart to love. That love is for always, frater meus." My brother. Arthur bit his lip to keep from sobbing at the words his best friend had picked up on. Eyes still closed, he turned his lips to kiss the precious fingers. Yet only after a moment, he felt Lancelot's hand and arm grow limp, and when he opened his eyes, the knight lay gone with lips parted and eyes fluttered shut.