A/N: Holy shit. EVERYONE GO READ THE RISING BY YSEULT RIGHT FREAKING NOW! AND REVIEW!
Okay. So here's the next chapter. And some of you thought it was already over! Not quite. This IS NOT the last chapter!
Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I love you all!
Please Read and Review! NO SLASH!
Meh. I think this isn't as good as it could be or should be. Oh, well. It's acceptable, I suppose.
Music for this Chapter: The Passion of the Christ Soundtrack, and Tracks 3, 5, and 8 from the LOTR:ROTK soundtrack.
Chapter 10: Resurrection
"God damn you!" Tristan shouted. The stones quaked. It was the first time they had heard his voice. Arthur's body tumbled out of the window and back into the tower, rope unraveling from his neck with a flutter. Excalibur toppled from the wall, the sound slicing through the air. Tristan's arrow had sailed into the sky and disappeared. Tristan lowered his bow, tendrils of hair still caught in midair and eyes narrowed. Arthur looked up at him, and the scout did not recognize his eyes. The Roman reached back and found Excalibur like a lost limb, taking up his blade as he rose to his feet.
"Now there is the Arthur I remember," said Tristan.
"That Arthur is dead," the Roman replied. Tristan threw his bow to one side and brandished his own blade, the curve glinting in the light. Excalibur swung up and met the sword. Tristan turned in a circle and barely missed Arthur's side, instead clashing with Excalibur again. Their eyes never parted.
"Why have you come?" Arthur questioned.
"To bring you to life." Strike, block, turn, block. Arthur's head snapped to one side when Tristan's blade cut across his cheekbone, just enough to draw blood. The scout froze in his stance for a minute, body half turned at the waist, holding his blade like a horizon between the two men. The moon hovered as the sun sunk. Arthur slowly met his eyes once more, lips parted because they should have been bleeding.
"Why do you do this? I have no life to spare." Tristan didn't answer. He shifted his feet, planting them on the stone and facing Arthur. His sword hung at his side, almost quaking with desire. Arthur stood as a tormented statue, unfinished. "Come," he said. "Do what you came to interrupt."
Galahad drifted in the world of dreams. He felt as if his body was rising in the air like a cloud. Perhaps he was floating in the sea. No land lay for miles around, not within sight. He was destined to float to the edge of the world, until finally sinking. A man's smiling face flashed in his mind for an instant. He could not remember his name. All he could see was the sky bowing her head to meet his eyes. He smiled.
"Gawain," he breathed. It stumbled off his lips like something familiar. What was it? He didn't know what it meant. Perhaps it was Latin. It sounded pretty as Latin did. Since when did he think Latin was pretty? That was another man…. "Lancelot." He remembered him.
Gawain slept restlessly in his old room. It still belonged to him, but he didn't feel that it did. He felt as if he lived elsewhere and was only returning to an old home for a little while. The shadow would not leave his heart, as Galahad remained in the ward, struggling to live. Or perhaps his friend was struggling to die. He did not know. Yet in slumber, he feared naught.
"Brother." A whisper came in the dark. It was something beautiful. A light began to shine faintly, growing brighter and brighter. Green eyes blossomed, filling his mind. He knew those eyes. He could see himself in their light. The smile came next, though he could not see it. He knew it was there, as if it was the wind. Gentle fingers touched his brow, and he rose into them. Another brow met his own, and the eyes were there.
"I remember you," he said. The eyes glimmered. He knew the smile. Hands framed his face, and lips touched his brow and those eyes closed for a moment. "Where are you going?" Gawain asked. "Don't go." Smile. The fingers slipped away, and the light began to fade.
"Galahad." The name was light itself, purer than all things, nobler than most men. He next saw the curls, bathed in white light. The head lifted, and the eyes shone again. Gawain's own pools shivered in his dream. He was breathless with awe and longing.
"Galahad!" he cried. The white light blared before parting, and a white steed bore Sir Galahad into view, curls swaying with each hoof beat. The knight dismounted and neared him, kneeling at last. All he could see were those eyes and that face. Galahad smiled.
"I have come to save you."
How could that be? Gawain thought. You are the one who needs saving.
Tristan glided toward Arthur, sword held before his chest. Arthur gripped Excalibur but did not move. The scout's eyes blared. The reflection was the only light in Arthur's eyes, for they were hopeless now. Tristan was slowing down. His blade did not quiver. Suddenly, he whipped around in a full circle, his sword cutting one around him in the air. Instead of meeting Arthur's neck, it snatched Excalibur out of the Roman's hand. The sword flipped up into the air and Tristan caught it with left hand, head cocked over his shoulder and his back to Arthur. The Roman didn't move.
"Give me my sword," Arthur demanded, eyes locked with the scout's.
"No," Tristan said, grimacing and tight-lipped. He had never denied Arthur.
"I order you." Excalibur did not waver in Tristan's face. The scout stared through narrow eyes for a moment, being the first to hear Arthur pull rank. He couldn't deny that the Roman would use the sword against him now. He never thought he would witness the Christian become human.
"No." Tristan didn't flinch. Arthur gave him a hard stare for a long time.
"Then I command that you be rid of me by your own blade."
Bors trudged to Dagonet, who was standing very still at a battlement. He was like Arthur. He always climbed to the wall top when he needed to think, when he needed to be alone. Bors slid alongside him. Their eyes squinted in the breeze. Bors had a drink in his hand.
"When are you going to stop drowning this in ale?" said Dagonet.
"When are you going to tell me what you think?" said Bors. They remained silent for a while.
"He's out there," said Dagonet.
"Lancelot, Arthur, or Samhain?" Dagonet didn't reply.
"Galahad's dying," he said instead.
"Don't you say that," Bors snapped. They still did not look at each other. They hadn't since they returned.
"Why? Because you know it's true?"
"Because I know it's not."
"What makes you think he didn't die a long time ago?" asked Dagonet. Bors didn't answer.
"Do it, Tristan," Arthur sobbed. "Do it." Tristan only breathed to show that he was yet alive, though his gaze remained fixed on his captain. If Arthur's eyes were not so full of tears, he might have seen the gleam in his scout's eyes, something that had never been there before in all the years of his service.
"Do it, for God's sake," Arthur pleaded. "Do it, Tristan. I have no other life. My heart is dead. My Lancelot is gone." He shook with weeping. "Do it!" he screamed, throwing Excalibur at the wall behind his scout. It clanged on the stone and fell to the ground. The scout had thrown it at him in disgust. Tristan didn't move.
"Why do you not look for him?" he whispered.
"Because I know," Arthur gasped, barely audible. "I know in my heart. He is dead." A tear fell from Tristan's eye.
Gawain woke from his dream without a fuss. The candle was almost gone now, the wax still a liquid puddle around the disfigured remnant. The flame flickered and flickered again, as he turned his eyes to its glow. Galahad. He needed to go unto Galahad. Gawain threw back the coverlet and swung his legs out of bed. He pushed them into his boots. He still hadn't shed those clothes. They carried the weight of memory. He could still smell Galahad's blood in the threads.
"For so many years, you have spoken of your God," said Tristan. "And what now? Do you abandon your own cause when hell looks at you at last? Do you turn to fear?"
"Who do you love, Tristan?" Arthur looked up at his scout, mercy gone from him. He didn't care what pain he cause. He didn't care anymore. "Who do you love?" It was a whisper. Tristan did not answer, his eyes a hard stare. "Anyone? What heart beats in your chest? You obey orders, you spill blood for pleasure, you live both by chivalry and by your own secret code of honor. But who do you love?" The wind whispered in Tristan's hair. His heart beat in his eyes. "And what do you know of love?" Arthur breathed. The tears trembled again. "What do you know of pain? How can you stand there and do nothing, feel nothing?" he yelled. Tristan waited for a moment.
"I thought I loved you," he said. He threw down his sword and turned his back on his captain for the first time.
Galahad's skin gleamed in the candlelight. Gawain moved his fingers into his friend's curls and became compassionate again. He was no god. All he could do was wait and remind Galahad of his love with his fingers. His eyes rested on Galahad's face, as he stroked the curls. He could almost pretend that it was spring, and that they were in the meadow where pink blossoms grew. He could almost see them folded over Galahad's edges, petals nestled in his hair. He could almost see light, a soft light akin to the light in his dream. Galahad was sleeping. Yes, he smiled. That was all. Slumber. Gawain leaned forward, nearing Galahad's face. His hand lay still now, between Galahad's brow and hair.
Galahad took in a breath. He dreamt. He could see a white light, and he knew peace again. The light diminished until it was only a soft glow around the approaching figure. The man knelt before him, and Galahad knew his eyes. They were gray… Or maybe green? He couldn't tell. The man smiled at him.
He would be all right. He could see it in those eyes. He said nothing.
"Dream," whispered Gawain. He smiled, fingers barely moving over Galahad's hair. "But come back to me." He didn't realize Galahad's approach to death. Galahad didn't either. But theirs was a fine a farewell.
Arthur didn't answer Tristan. He didn't have any more room for emotions. He hung his head and thought of Lancelot. He wondered what the Saxons would with the Sarmatian's body, if Lancelot was even dead yet or if they were still tormenting him. No, he thought. They wouldn't have waited this long after defeat to take their anger out on the nearest live victim.
He could jump. The tower was far enough away from the ground. Tristan wouldn't even watch. Arthur would disappear.
Wait…. The child. How could there be a child if Lancelot was dead?
Lancelot beamed with the widest grin Arthur had ever seen, as he squatted and spread his arms. A little boy hurried through the light, smooth curls bouncing. The sun caressed those black coils and he smiled at Lancelot as he leapt into those outstretched arms. Lancelot stood and began to spin, almost laughing, and the child tipped his head back with giggles. Arthur smiled sadly as he watched those little hands on Lancelot's shoulders. The Sarmatian stopped at last, and the child's face suddenly filled his sight. His eyes were blue.
"Arthur." The Roman snapped his head over his shoulder. He knew the voice. It couldn't be that voice... Though dead he had been since his escape, Arthur now lived again, thrown out of his insides as if he had been held under water. He felt. God, it was cold.
"Arthur." Lancelot sagged against the rounding stones, not yet at the open door. He held his side, heaving with pants and gasps. His lips flickered into a smile for only a moment. Tristan's eyes were fixed on him too. Once the disbelief wore off, it was the scout who dashed to Lancelot, flinging the door against the wall and taking his comrade in his arms. Arthur couldn't move.
"Lancelot!" Tristan gasped, eyes wide as he fell to the steps with Lancelot in his arms. The other knight lifted his eyes into the scout's. "You came back," said Tristan. Lancelot smiled. He bowed his head before pushing Tristan's arms away gently. The scout did not resist. Lancelot lay on the stairs, looking up at Arthur. Their eyes met, but Arthur's were nameless, while Lancelot's were full of hope. Tristan now looked to Arthur too, waiting for his captain to return.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Artorious Castus?" Lancelot asked. Arthur's eyes glimmered for an instant, and some may have thought it was only the light catching. Tristan knew it was the last handful of tears. One drop fell.
"Lancelot." The name escaped Arthur's lips as a jewel thought to be stolen. Another tear, swiftly living. Lancelot nodded, and his hand reached out. Arthur took one step, two steps, tears soothing his reviving eyes. He knelt, sitting on his heels, and Lancelot couldn't reach him. Arthur hung his head and wept, but Lancelot did not know why. Tristan did. He gave one last tear.
"Arthur," Lancelot called gently. His hand remained uplifted. Arthur looked at him finally, and all Tristan beheld in his eyes was defeat, regret, and overwhelming relief. Not just for Lancelot's survival. But for his own also. He sniffled at those tender fingers, somehow untouched by Saxon torment. Crawling, his face slid into that hand's caress. He held it to his cheek. Lancelot's eyes gleamed, as Arthur's closed and the Roman's free hand reached out to pull Lancelot into him. Their bodies met in an embrace beyond the power of poetry, too true for words to cheapen. Tristan remained sitting on the stairs, back against the wall, and he smiled at them with calm seas in his gaze.
The sky opened up and let down rain.
