A/N: Well, damn. Here it is. Chapter 8. This is barely longer than the last chapter, which means it's too short by my standards. (sigh) Oh well. I think this is okay. Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I really appreciate your support. I hope you and your families all had a lovely holiday and New Year's! It's 2005, yay!

Remember, this isn't slash. I wouldn't say that all the time, except sometimes people need reminding or else they start getting wrong ideas in their head… Heh.

The lengthy foreign shit that Arthur says near the middle is the Lord's Prayer in Latin. The rest of what he says is Italian.

I finally got my Director's Cut DVD! YAY! So happy. So damn good. And now I've taken a new liking to Tristan, so that's why he suddenly has a "big" part in this chapter. Damn, Mads is hot in real life.

Please Read and Review! Thank you!

WARNING: The following is rated R for violence, language, sexuality, and adult content. If you are underage or uncomfortable with this type of material, please go back and don't read the following text. Reader Discretion is Advised. Proceed with Caution.


Chapter 8: Armageddon

The air was sucked from Arthur's lungs as his heart lurched like he was falling from the battlement of Hadrian's Wall to the frozen earth. Lancelot's eyes shone at him, quiet and tired, a memory of each time the knight had lain in wounded delirium. Arthur's eyes quivered like shards of glass in the last light, lips parted in another shock that his body couldn't take. No one else had realized it yet, still in the haunting of Samhain's screams or preoccupied with Galahad's rape or defeated by the rising flame. One breath escaped him, turning white before evanescing. He could feel his heart literally quiver in his chest, but it didn't occur to him that it had actually stilled.

Tristan was the first knight to look up. Lancelot's eyes were suddenly flowing into his. It was an accident. He didn't think the knight could tell which man was who. Perhaps Lancelot saw Arthur's face in his. But something happened in Tristan that had never happened before, something that truly scared him, if only because he didn't know what it was. The fear was deafening, felling all sound as silently as he himself could bring down an enemy or an animal. As second after second passed by, where Lancelot's black pools remained fixed on him, emptiness began to fill him and creep up into every organ and bone. He didn't make a sound, even now. But it sunk in – Lancelot was about to burn alive.

Galahad opened his eyes. They mimicked Lancelot's, glassy and fevered, but they were only half-moons. He did not have the strength to lift the lids any higher. He couldn't feel the Saxon upon him or hear the others cheering. He didn't see them either. His eyes found Gawain without deciding to look. He looked too young in Gawain's sight, too young for this life of warriors and the suffering of men. Without realizing what he was doing, Gawain began to rise.

"Gawain," the youngest knight had whispered, body curled in Gawain's arms and his own arms linked around his friend's neck. Gawain had carried him no matter how heavy he had been, taking Galahad back to life.

For the first time since they had been taken captive, he was on both feet for longer than a minute. His comrades all lifted their heads toward him, as if he were a god rising out of the dawn. With tears faint on his cheeks and glinting in his eyes, he straightened and did not budge, but his gaze was unmistakable. It lay fixed on the Saxons who tormented his Galahad. Their laughter rang in his ears, mingled with a misplaced memory of a bell. It must have been from that monastery….

"I don't like it here." Galahad had searched the ceiling, as the knights had filed through the narrow corridors dimly lit by torches. His comrades had followed his eyes above, none of them speaking. Though they were pagans, they could not help but feel some sort of reverence for the place. Arthur had led them, one of the monks before him with a lantern. Gawain could still see Lancelot's black curls, bowed behind Arthur. He remembered Galahad shivering and his own hand slipping back into the younger knight's. The deep rumble of that bell swung back and forth in his mind. He could see himself sitting in one of the windows, Galahad easing back against him and wrapped in his cloak.

"Stop." It came in a whisper. Tristan turned his eyes from Lancelot to Gawain. He knew the Saxons hadn't heard his comrade. Gawain knew it too. But he waited, letting the word dissipate from his lips in his raspy tone. It began to rain.

The scrape of Galahad's body against the dirt was faint in Gawain's ears. Galahad didn't hear it. The rain was in his hair now, sliding over his cheek that faced heaven. The other was shielding one patch of earth from the water, and his eyes had not left Gawain. He could not remember if it was day or night, he realized. It felt like darkness.

"Stop." This time, it was louder. Just loud enough for the Saxons to hear – and they stopped. The following moment was bereft of sound with exception of the rain hitting the ground. Arthur was oblivious to his knight's uprising, as he watched the fire continue to rise and the smoke seduce Lancelot's senses. The rain failed to save him. Arthur was unsure about what would kill him; it seemed like the smoke would fill his lungs first. Silent and vision clouding, Lancelot realized it was twilight. He smiled.

"Stop?" a Saxon echoed. "Why in gods' names would we do that?" His companions laughed, and Galahad's rapist did not pause. The knight did not know if the water on his face were tears or rain.

"If you wish to live another moment, you will stop now." Gawain's voice was steady, lacking anger or despair. It was a threat that did not call for emotion.

Arthur was shaking. He hung his head, never wanting to look at Lancelot again but longing to do so more than anything else. He had let the knight go. He had let the Saxons tie him up alive. Oh, God. Oh, God… What could he do? He wept and quaked in the rain, biting his lip until it bled but then putting those lips to work once more. He was grateful to already be kneeling.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum."

The Saxons' hearty laughter rumbled in the earth, some of them stamping their feet. Gawain's eyes remained unmoving.

"Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra."

"You bastard son of the devil's whore, if you don't step away from him right now, I swear before whatever gods reside in heaven and earth that I will cut you from throat to navel and send your innards back in a basket separate from your head." His tone was even, flat, and devoid of any emotion he should be entitled to have.

"Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris."

The Saxons laughed further, and Gawain's challenger cooed at him. "He's got a sharp tongue, doesn't he, men? I say we should cut it out."

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo."

Arthur began to see things.

"Amen."

Arthur began to remember.

"Who is she?" Lancelot had asked, eyes unable to move from the lifeless face of the woman carved in stone. Her hair lay hidden beneath a long cloth, and her face was kind, even with hollow eyes. He wondered what she thought of, staring down at something no one else could see, in her flowing gowns.

"Mary," Arthur had said. "The mother of God." He had lifted his head at last, eyes shining with that nameless emotion. In the orange candle glow, the two men had stared at her face in silence. Lancelot had not mocked Arthur's religion that time; neither of them knew why. But Lancelot could see it now, body sagging against the rope and rain seeping into his blood. He could see himself standing next to Arthur, snow falling outside the narrow windows, the Virgin Mary unmoving.

Arthur could still feel it.

"Who are you praying for?" The whisper had crept into his ear when he had knelt in the darkness. His knees had been numb in the snow, and his hands had ached as they held steadfast to Excalibur. He had parted his lips, waiting for a moment, for the snow to find his skin. Lancelot had dropped to one knee, hands going to Arthur's shoulders, and the other knee had followed. Without another word, he had lain his brow to the back of Arthur's shoulder, breathing like he hadn't in a long a time. Arthur had bowed his head sighing. They had lost men that day, had come close to dying. Arthur had kept his back to the abandoned carnage; the bodies had still lain frozen somewhere beyond the shadowed trees.

"You."

Lancelot coughed for the first time. The smoke was beginning its seduction. How the flames had not yet burned his sweet knight, Arthur did not know. Perhaps God was still with them. He tried to keep the flames out of his sight, tried to focus on Lancelot's face, but he could smell it. What would Lancelot smell like when the fire began to kill him? Arthur was almost sick at the thought, and tears sprung forth anew in his eyes. Nothing had ever seemed more hopeless. He knew that if he tried to save his knight now, the Saxons would shoot him down in an instant. Lancelot would watch him die, along with all the rest of his Round Table. What good would he be to them then? But he could not remain here on his knees and watch Lancelot turn into ash, hour by hour. The rain thickened.

"I don't know what to name him." Arthur gasped at the vision flash in his mind. He shuddered and shut his eyes, searching for Lancelot's voice. It had been his knight's. He knew it had been. Suddenly, Arthur was watching himself and his best friend. Lancelot cradled a baby in his arms, swaddled in cloth. He gave the child to Arthur gently, and Arthur beamed at the little face.

"We'll think of something," Arthur murmured, smiling. Lancelot hovered near his shoulder, peering into the blanket. The child slept, but Arthur didn't need to see his eyes to know he belonged to Lancelot. "Something beautiful."

"Beautiful?" echoed Lancelot. "I was thinking bold or noble or something of the like."

"Nay," said Arthur. "Beautiful will do just fine."

"Arthur!" Tristan's cry snapped the Roman out of the vision, and Arthur opened his eyes to see Lancelot's distressed expression. The fire swayed in the rain, but it grew perilously close to the knight's flesh. Arthur's eyes widened again and his lips parted, waiting on edge. But the second Lancelot yelped at the first lick of fire, Arthur bolted up to his feet and kicked the bale away. Only half of it came up in a tangled mess of burning brush, but by the time it hit another tree after rolling, the rain and wind had put it out. Arthur flew against Lancelot, taking the knight's head to his shoulder and all of his breath.

"Bloody Roman dog!" One of the Saxons strode from the back of the group toward Arthur, picking up an ax on his way. Distracted by their comrade and the Roman, the other Saxons did not see Tristan spring toward the heap of weapons they had stolen from the knights and pick up his bow. The Saxon lay dead after a hiss through the air. What happened next was unclear, but a roar of noise came from the Saxons, as Tristan began to spend every arrow left in his quiver. Gawain flew toward him and grabbed a sword, not bothering to search for his ax in that mess. The rest of the knights began to struggle to their feet and make for the weapons, Tristan's bow saving them from attacking Saxons. Gawain yelled out in victory as he cut the binds of every knight who came to him, allowing them to take up arms and begin their revolt. Bors growled as he flung his ax, the biggest of them all, at the Saxon who was still perched over Samhain's body. The beast toppled off of the boy and out of sight; Bors bared his teeth in satisfaction.

"Burn in hell, you bastards!" Gawain cursed as at last, he was given sweet vengeance and the blood of Galahad's rapists. His best friend scrambled out from under clashing blades and sprays of blood, almost afraid of Gawain in his frenzy. He had never seen his friend look so wild and deadly. Maneuvering around Tristan, he grabbed Gawain's ax that lay untouched and uncovered and he found his shield. His curls made a mop of water now; the Saxons would pay for their crimes.

"Respirare per me." Breathe for me. It was a gasp amidst the panting of both men. Arthur's lips confessed his desperation right into Lancelot's ear, the Roman's cheek against his and wet with both kinds of rain. Their chests heaved up into each other's, their breath cold on each other's skin and loud. "Respirare per me, Lancelot." Lancelot couldn't form any words, couldn't breathe. A strange mumbling tumbled from his bloody lips. He was shivering. Arthur shut his eyes and pushed himself up again, fitting into Lancelot's curves, head sliding onto the knight's shoulder. They grappled for air together, the rain cleansing them at last of the blood and dirt and sweat and tears. Their garments clung to their skin now, and eyelashes gleamed with beads. The fire was dead. Smoke still rose around them.

"Arthur!" Tristan cried, weapons hissing through the air around him. He could see his captain's body shielding Lancelot. The horses wailed, driven into frenzy by a pair of knights who had freed them at last and sent them into the fray for their masters. One by one, the Sarmatians swung onto their mounts and made last attempts at killing their captors. But once they had, those horses bore them away, into the wood. "Arthur!" Tristan was almost panicking. The Roman had to find his horse and leave. The knights were already going.

"Fare lei non fa mai che a me ancora," he whispered, as if they were words of love. But in the next instant, he pressed against Lancelot with a new force and his outcry tore through the air. His head had tipped back, and he panted anew. Lancelot thought he looked too much like a statue of Jesus Christ he had seen in the monastery. Don't you ever do that to me again.

"Arthur!" Tristan yelled again, shooting the Saxon whom had sent an arrow into the Roman's back. The feathers bristled in the rain, the shaft protruding beside his left shoulder blade. Lancelot stared at his best friend, as Arthur slowly began to slip down, and his lips glistened with water now instead of blood.

"Arthur?" The name came from the Sarmatian like the name of fear. It was the first word he had uttered since dying in Arthur's hands. The Roman landed on the blackened bale; it was barely more than ash now. Lancelot could still see him breathing, even as he lay like death.

"No!" Tristan cried, watching as another Saxon made for Arthur with an ax. The scout brandished his blade from the scabbard at his back and began to rush toward his fallen captain. Everything had slowed again. Lancelot's head hung, eyes fixed on Arthur. The first sound Tristan heard was his own sword ripping through the Saxon's neck. His enemy fell dead with a thump, ax bouncing once in the grass and head rolling away. Tristan didn't notice.

Gawain bellowed with adrenaline rushing in his veins, tasting vengeance at last. The blood of his victims washed away into the mud, pale with rain on his ax. He turned around only to be greeted by his horse, and he could feel the sense of gladness in his subconscious, no matter how subtle it was. He swung onto the mare's back, grabbing a fistful of the black mane, with his ax still hanging in midair. His wandering eyes found Galahad quickly and his horse trotted toward the other knight with a nudge of the knight's heels. Galahad was fighting with a blade and his shield, as if nothing had happened to him. Gawain almost stopped as he thought of it. His ax found Galahad's opponent with a sickening noise, and the younger knight staggered at the interruption, before looking up at his friend.

"Come on," said Gawain, dislodging his ax from the Saxon without glancing at the man. Galahad sheathed his blade without taking his eyes off Gawain and jumped onto the horse, his knees fitting into the back of Gawain's. His shield remained as guard over his right side, and his left arm slipped around Gawain's waist. They turned their backs on the glade and galloped off, never looking back.

Arthur reached back with his arm and pulled the arrow from his flesh as best he could, hissing in pain as he threw it aside. He rolled onto his side, seeing Tristan, just as another Saxon sent an arrow flying into the tree. It lodged in the wood just below Lancelot's boot; Arthur had swung out of the way. Tristan whipped around in a flash, loading his bow and killing the Saxon. Without looking at Lancelot, he grabbed Arthur and urged the Roman away, meeting their horses just as more Saxons began to swarm around them. The enemy now stood between them and Lancelot. No one looked to the Sarmatian's face, wet with clinging curls. Arthur had no time to protest as Tristan shoved him up onto his horse and cried out for his own to bear him away. The white steed needed no insistence from Arthur. It fled from the Saxons before the Roman had straightened in the saddle. The Saxons growled in vain, too late with their clawing weapons to catch the Roman and his knight.

Thus, the Round Table disappeared into the forest shadows. The rain hounded at the earth, turning it to mud and washing away all evidence of the men's captivity. Some of the Saxons ran after the last of the horses and their masters but only ended up stumbling into empty space. The animals were too swift for them, and the knights turned into silhouettes, diminishing in the distance. Lancelot watched them and listened to the hooves, the Saxons complaining like dogs. His brothers were free.

Arthur was the last amongst them, failing to hear the furious hooves pounding into the night or feel the cold on his skin again. His cloak blazed behind him, the same scarlet banner of freedom it had been every day before the nightmare began. The apprentice monks, boys with high voices, sang in his head. The Latin melted together, as his eyes held onto Lancelot's for as long as the knight remained in sight.