A/N: WHEE! It's done! And it's long! Yes! I like this too, it's so damn fluffy! WHEE!
Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers! I love you! You do so much for me!
Please read and review this, I'm so happy with it!
And if you haven't already, go read and review The Rising by Yseult!
THIS IS NOT THE END!
Chapter 11: Water
Tristan and Arthur carried Lancelot down from the tower and toward the healing ward, where Jols stopped them in shock.
"By the gods!" he gasped. "Lancelot!" The Sarmatian gave him a tired smile.
"He lives," said Arthur. "Now go fill the tub in the spare ward room with warm water."
"Yes, milord," said Jols, still ogling Lancelot. Even Tristan's lips twitched, before he and Arthur continued on with Lancelot. They took him to Arthur's room first, where Tristan left the knight to his captain. Lancelot fell asleep without a word more, as Arthur stripped him of his ragged clothes and wrapped him in the Roman's own cloak. He carried Lancelot to the spare room, where Jols had already left the tub full.
And then, as carefully as he could, Arthur lay Lancelot's battered body in the tub, hand cradling his head. Kneeling patiently on the stone, he began to wash Lancelot with a sponge, while the knight slept onward in the warm water. Lancelot's brow glistened after Arthur cooled it, and the Roman's eyes shone at the slumbering face framed with curls.
"I had a dream," Said Arthur, moving the sponge over Lancelot's brow and down his cheek. "Do you know what I saw?" The Sarmatian did not stir, face flushed with fever. "Your son." The noise of colliding water cut up his whisper. "He had blue eyes," he said.
He guided the sponge down Lancelot's neck, until it met with his breastbone. Arthur squeezed it when he reached that place. He had always loved Lancelot's breastbone more than any other part of his body, except for his eyes. When he touched it, he almost felt like he could reach down into Lancelot's chest and take hold of the knight's heart. Oh, how many times he had wished to do so before, to take Lancelot's heart and urge it to beat, when it seemed that it had stopped.
"And your curls." He smiled for an instant, dipped the sponge back into the water. "He had your laugh." Arthur wanted to drop the bloody sponge and take Lancelot's head in his bent arm. He wanted to hold Lancelot for the rest of eternity, never let go, never be without his knight again. "But he was soft. Perhaps that was his mother in him." He dabbed at the Sarmatian's cheek. "Or maybe it was you – you before all of this." Arthur barely remember Lancelot as a boy, the boy who had first come to his service all those years ago. They had all been somber then, his knights. Angry with him and Rome. Slowly, with love, Arthur had won them over.
"He was free," the Roman grinned. "He was not Rome's soldier. I knew. He will have the life you dream of." The water dripped from his hand into the tub, loud in the otherwise silent room.
"What was his name?" Lancelot's voice manifested exhaustion, and his eyelids drooped halfway closed even now. Arthur stared at him.
"I don't know." Lancelot shut his eyes and sleep took him again.
Arthur lifted Lancelot out of the tub carefully once finished, the Sarmatian's limp body dripping. Using the cloak again, he dried his friend and lay him down gently on the cot provided him. He knew which ointments to use. They were already laid out for him in jars on the table. He rubbed them into Lancelot's face, arms, chest, back, belly, and legs. He wrapped the knight's torso in bandages for Lancelot's battered ribs, wrapped any open wounds and stitched them if necessary, and then came time for him to lay Lancelot on his belly to tend his backside. Arthur handled this delicate task with modesty and respect for Lancelot's dignity. He was as gentle as any man could ever be with anyone, and he made it quick. Once all was through, he gave Lancelot a new tunic and trousers and carried his knight back to his room.
Tristan stood at one of the many battlements at the top of the wall, hair rippling in the breeze. With narrow eyes, he looked out to the twilight. The sun had disappeared below the hills, but the light still clung to for as long as it could. He didn't want to think of what had happened in the tower. He didn't want to think about what Arthur almost did, but more than anything else, he didn't want to think about his own confession. Emotion was weakness. He had learned that before the whole Round Table, just days after arriving here as a boy. A warrior could afford no emotion. A warrior could afford no weakness. A that's what he was. A warrior.
"I thought you'd be up here." He glanced over his shoulder to see Arthur approaching but turned back to the land beyond when the Roman stood beside him. "Lancelot will be all right," Arthur said. It still sounded like self-assurance to the scout. Tristan did not say a word, and a long pause of silence stretched between them. "I came here to tell you something," said Arthur. The skies hovered around Tristan's quivering heart, a gray shroud of uneasiness.
"What?" he said, looking to his captain. Arthur's eyes flickered when faced with the Sarmatian's.
"I shouldn't have said those things to you. Forgive me." The scout averted his gaze, his eyes narrow again.
"'s no matter," he said in a raspy tone.
"Tristan, look at me." The scout obeyed. "I have never undervalued your presence in this fellowship. You are a gifted scout and an essential part of the Round Table. If not for you, much would be lost now that need not be." Arthur lay his hand on the Sarmatian's shoulder.
"Thank you for all you have done. I know not if you love me still, and I do not deserve that love if you do. But trust that you have my love as well."
Tristan's eyes bore deep into Arthur's, and the Roman almost trembled inside. He had never had the chance to look into Tristan like that. After a moment, the scout gave a short nod and slipped away from Arthur's hand. Yet as he took the first few steps toward the stairs, Arthur moved from twitching urge and pulled Tristan's hand, forcing the knight to spin back around and into the Roman. He was stiff in Arthur's embrace at first, but the Roman did not let go until he felt Tristan relax. He bit his lip when the scout's arms curled around his back. Tristan's eyes were stinging, though he refused to admit it to himself.
"You're not alone, you know," Arthur whispered.
"I know," said Tristan. It would rain again. "I know."
Lancelot smiled as he glimpsed Arthur through heavy-lidded eyes. His body lay in a heavenly cloud, a cocoon of warmth. If he remained still, he did not ache.
"You're awake," Arthur murmured. Lancelot lay in the cradle of Arthur's legs, his head on the Roman's heart. Arthur's arms encircled him, and the Roman smiled in the candlelight, looking down on his friend.
"Arthur," Lancelot began. "Did you really call me your baby?"
"Hush, Lancelot," Arthur blushed. "You need your rest." He pulled the blanket up, nearer Lancelot's chin. The knight grinned with his eyes closed.
"That's all right, Arthur. You can call me anything you like, so long as the others aren't around."
"And what am I to call you when they are?" Arthur asked.
"God," said Lancelot. Arthur snorted and the knight smirked.
"I think I'll keep to your name." They fell asleep without any knowledge of the perils unfolding.
"I can't take this any longer," said Bors, eyes searching the dark with a drunken glaze. "Galahad's dying, Gawain won't see it, and Lancelot isn't promised his life either."
"He'll be all right," said Dagonet. Bors glanced at him only for a moment.
"We're all mad because of them," he growled. "Those damn Saxon bastards." He shifted, trying to put as little weight on his wounded leg as possible.
"How is it?" Dagonet asked.
"It don't matter," Bors mumbled, drinking.
"If it didn't, I wouldn't have asked." Bors almost smiled. Dagonet looked back to the night too.
"We've got to do something," said Bors.
"Like what? We're all here, all safe. Now is not the time for vengeance."
"Samhain's not."
"What?"
"Samhain," said Bors. "He's still out there."
Galahad found himself in a boat. He was alone in the middle of a sea, in a world of gray. He suspected he must be dreaming. He dipped his hand into the water. It felt real enough. Foreboding began to creep into his chest as he straightened. Behind him, land lay far off but seemed to disappear instead of running all the way east and west. An island? In every other direction, only water lay.
"Hello?" he called. "Hello?" The water moved beneath his boat, making little noises when it sloshed against the wood. He searched his surroundings over again, eyes dark with uneasiness. He realized he was without weapon, only dark clothes. As he sat down, something beneath the seat on the other side of the boat caught his eye. He reached out and picked it up.
"Lancelot?" It was the wooden pendant. The water sloshed.
"What is this about?" Tristan questioned, stroking his hawk. The torch flame flickered near him, light moving on his face.
"We suffered under the captivity of the Saxons," Dagonet began, looking out to all the knights of the Round Table. "You all know what crimes were committed there, in the wood."
"Sins," Bors hissed. "That's what Arthur would call 'em."
"Gawain is not in his right mind," said Dagonet. "So overcome with grief for Galahad, who even now lies dying in the slow grips of fever and delusion."
"And Lancelot is not yet promised his life," said Bors. "If he dies, you know what will become of Arthur." The knights stared at their two comrades in dark fear. "And then – what will become of us all?" Bors and Dagonet spoke in low tones, foreboding cast as a shadow in their every word. Only Tristan did not quiver at it.
"What are you saying?" asked Percival, voice meek.
"I'm saying we ought to do something," said Bors, head snapped to face the younger knight.
"We seek justice for these wrongs done us, these evil trespasses. And do you not all long for it in your hearts?" Dagonet's eyes moved over the whole room. "Do you not all secretly crave blood – in the darkness of your minds?"
"To tarry into the wood now would be folly," said Tristan. All the others turned to look at him. "So soon after escaping. We are not of the same strength, the same mental capacity. And Arthur would never agree to it."
"We are not asking for Arthur's approval," said Bors. "I do not expect it."
"Are you suggesting we go without him?" Percival asked incredulously.
"I'm saying we do what we must as men," Bors growled. "In the names of our fallen comrades."
"What you speak of is madness," said Sir Luc, eyes boring into the elder knight with equal intensity. "We cannot face the Saxons without telling Arthur, without his leadership." He turned to speak those words to the whole room, rising to stand on the Round Table.
"Even if Arthur did know, what good would it do?" Bors questioned. "He will not leave Lancelot's side now, and it would only be a burden on his heart when he has borne too much already."
"Don't pretend like you keep him in the dark out of courtesy," Percival hissed.
"Whatever each man wants to think of my reasons, that is up to him. All that matters to me is this mission."
"What mission?" Luc shouted. "There is nothing of the sort without Arthur's command."
"Are you with us or without us?" said Dagonet. "We will go into the wood despite your choice. But we have decided, Bors and I. We will not let this pass without justice."
"Do you disguise vengeance with justice?" Luc spat, jumping down from the table and getting in Dagonet's face. "Do you use our brothers' suffering to excuse your own blood lust?"
"If I were you," said Bors, holding his jug of ale, "I would hold my tongue." His gaze threatened Luc with his hand blades. They held each other's eyes for a heavy moment, before Dagonet stepped back.
"Fine," said Tristan, commanding all heads once more. The hawk's yellow eyes sparked when it squeaked. "To slaughter we go. Every man willing. The rest can stay home." His boots clicked on the floor as he strode across the room and out the door.
"The rain." Galahad's whisper was a ghost in the heat of the ward.
"What?" said Gawain, leaning in toward his friend. Galahad's eyes wandered the ceiling.
"The rain comes at last."
"Galahad, what do you speak of?" The younger night murmured his friend's name, and Gawain's eyes traveled down Galahad's body, watching the ripples of shivering move up the younger man like the tide. Galahad began to cough, until he rocked the cot and Gawain held him against his chest. The elder knight uncorked his water-skin and tried to give Galahad a drink, but the curly-headed knight spluttered and writhed in Gawain's grasp.
"No!" he cried. "Not the water! Not the water!"
"Galahad?" Gawain said in dismay. The coughing continued.
"Help me!" Galahad pleaded, eyes glazed and staring out in front of him. "Help me please." His tone returned to a whisper, as Gawain lowered him back down on the cot. "I don't want to die."
None of them had slept, though the hour was late and deep into the night. They yet had time before the dawn, but they must be off before anyone woke to stop them. They knew the risks, the danger of being re-captured, the chance of death. Yet they fastened their armor back onto their bodies with Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Arthur, and Samhain in their hearts. None of them spoke in the stables as they readied their horses. A lantern hung on the wall was their only light now.
In the black of night, they filed out of the gate one by one. The stones kept their errand silent and let the others sleep in ignorance, the women and children and Roman soldiers. Bors led them, with Dagonet flanking him and Tristan off to one side. The hawk remained with its scout in the darkness. It began to rain.
Galahad looked up into Gawain's face with gleaming eyes, eyes that did not speak of someone well. He shivered, lip quivering, and his face burned with fever and shone with sweat. Gawain could not deny it any longer. His eyes filled with tears. He was so tired of weeping, so tired of this despair. Why could he not have peace? He clutched Galahad's hands in his own, knelt at his best friend's side.
"G-Gawain," Galahad shuddered numbly.
"Yes, Galahad," Gawain answered. The first tear fell. "I'm here. I'm here."
"I'm cold." And indeed, the young knight's hands were icy, even in the embrace of his friend's.
"It's all right, Galahad." Gawain sucked in a breath and stroked Galahad's curls with one hand. "You'll be all right."
"I-I'm sorry," Galahad whispered.
"No." Gawain shook his head. It was too much like the way he'd done it amidst the Saxons. He had been through this too many times before. "No, don't say that, Galahad. You didn't do anything. You never did anything." His eyes brimmed with tears, thick and trapped in the windows unto the world and his soul. Galahad's breathing was shallow and quick. The light was blurred in his sight, even Gawain's face.
"I…," he gasped. "I don't want to die."
"Then live," Gawain urged, squeezing his friend's hand. "Live, Galahad. Gods, don't do this to me. I can't do this." The seas had burst, overflowing down his cheeks. Galahad did not look at him now. The other knight's eyes rolled back, around, and he drifted away from Gawain, chest heaving. "Don't leave me," Gawain whimpered. "Please. Don't leave me." Galahad felt himself sinking into the middle of the ocean. He heard the bubbles, the surface rupture, before the darkness engulfed him. His breath hitched for a moment, the light in his wide eyes glimmered, and he fell limp.
Morning did not bring light unto Lancelot's quarters, but Arthur woke. He could feel the pale beams of dawn still lingering in the air, though he could not see them. He smiled, hope rising in him as a phoenix. Lancelot slept on beside him, surrounded by white. The Roman peered down at his knight and thought of an angel, if angels did sleep. His lips did stray into a grin from a smile, but his smile was such that the joy was plain, radiating up from his core like the sun. His fingers brushed at Lancelot's curls, his body held with grace. Lancelot would sleep for a long time yet. Sleep had been denied them for so long, true sleep where rest was given their mind and body alike.
"Then sleep on, sweet friend," Arthur whispered, eyes passing over and over the Sarmatian's face, admiring peace like the founders of paradise. "Sleep until life bids thee wake to join the living in the light of day." The choirs filled his head as he looked at Lancelot then, and he saw a light that no one else might see, soft and pure from a place unknown. He was glad the voices were back. "But until then," he said. "let your body find healing in the light of dreams, and let your heart find peace."
Lancelot dreamt of water. The sky met the sea in a veil of gray, and the water was dark without sunlight. He walked on the shore, below the woods, looking out to the endless waters. No bird or breeze accompanied him, and he wondered at the silence. But choirs came to life when his eyes fell upon something floating far off, something that looked to be as a man. His eyes widened, his breathing quickened, and he stopped before heading out into the water. A man – it was a man.
"Galahad," he gasped. He dove into the water, disappearing. When he resurfaced, he began to swim toward the body. The splashing reverberated throughout the world. How Galahad floated there, he did not know, but as he neared it almost to the point of taking hold, Galahad began to sink. "Galahad!" he struggled in the water, trying to reach his friend in time. Water sloshed in and out of his mouth, making him cough when it seeped into his lungs. The water turned white when he splashed. "Galahad!" The younger knight's curls flashed before him once more before vanishing. Lancelot dipped down, but darkness seized him.
The Sarmatian bolted up in bed with a gasp, panting and eyes wide.
"Lancelot?" Arthur said, a bit bewildered. The knight looked to his captain with fear still clinging to his mind but slowly ebbing away. "What's wrong?" Arthur took him gently and lay him back down. "You need to relax. You'll harm yourself if you don't."
"I – I had a dream," said Lancelot, curls nestling back into the pillow.
"A dream? Would you care to talk about it?"
"No," said Lancelot, looking away and into nothingness. "No, it was.…just a dream." Someone knocked at the door.
"Yes," said Arthur. It cracked open to reveal Vanora, smiling.
"I brought you some soup, dear," she said, looking at Lancelot. "Potato." Lancelot sat straight up in bed, with Arthur's guiding hands to help.
"Thank you," he said in surprise. "It smells wonderful." He reached out for the bowl, but Arthur took it first. "Arthur, my hands and arms do work. I can feed myself, for gods' sake."
"Let me take care of you," Arthur cooed, and Lancelot sighed in defeat. Vanora smiled at the pair.
"Well," she began, "I think I'll leave you two alone. Feel better, Sir Lancelot." The men gawked as she shut the door behind her.
"Did she just call me 'sir'?"
"Don't worry, she'll hate you again once I let you out of bed."
"Arthur, by the time that happens, she'll be dead from old age." Arthur rolled his eyes.
"You're exaggerating," he said, stirring the soup with the wooden spoon.
"And you are still ghastly overprotective," Lancelot countered, grinning. "Not to mention doting."
"Doting?" Arthur echoed indignantly. "I don't dote on anyone."
"Arthur, you dote. You're sitting here, trying to feed me soup." Lancelot smiled despite himself.
"I do not dote," Arthur argued huffily, lifting the spoonful to Lancelot's lips. "Eat this." He blew on it lightly to cool it down, as Lancelot continued to grin and glow.
"Doting," he said, but Arthur pushed the spoon into his mouth and silenced him. Lancelot made a sound of pleasure.
"It's divine," he said. Arthur dipped the spoon back in the bowl.
"Hasn't it always been?" the Roman asked, giving Lancelot another mouthful.
"Of course. I had forgotten how it tasted after so long, that's all." A pause of silence followed, only interrupted by the stirring spoon.
"Arthur, you should eat something," said Lancelot, voice now quiet and somber. Arthur only fed him more, face weary still. Strange, he thought, how they had all forgotten about hunger during their captivity. The Saxons had given them nothing to eat for days, but no one had ever mentioned it. "Why do you insist on taking care of me and neglecting your self?" the knight questioned.
"Because I love you," said Arthur, offering another spoonful. Lancelot took it. His dark eyes watched the Roman intensely, as Arthur brought the spoon back to the bowl. He stilled Arthur's arm, and his captain looked up at him. He set the bowl aside on the table and Lancelot moved into him, leaning against Arthur's chest and resting his head on the familiar shoulder. Arthur's arms slipped around him and his own embraced the Roman. Arthur lay back on the pillows as Lancelot closed his eyes and sighed. Arthur stroked his curls.
"Sleep," he murmured. He wanted to remain in their embrace forevermore, where everything was love. Arthur's body cushioned Lancelot, never tiring of that duty. Lancelot's lips muffled a sound of distress.
"Your ribs," said Arthur. He slipped his hand under Lancelot's arm, cupping the Sarmatian's ribs gently. "Do they pain you?" Lancelot's brow furrowed, but all he said was, "Stay." Arthur didn't move his hand.
An hour passed before Arthur woke again. The warmth was a paradise around him. He shifted, rising up a bit, and watched Lancelot sleep. He could hear the knight breathing on his chest, arm resting on the Roman's belly. He smiled, stroking his beloved black curls gently. He felt so strange, freedom still fresh. Home, if he could call this wall his home, felt foreign. Part of him didn't believe this was real, that they were really here, escaped from Saxon hell. Part of him didn't believe any of it had happened at all. How could it have? Lancelot? Raped? And Galahad too? It didn't feel real. Maybe it was all a dream, a nightmare turned into this dream of Lancelot sleeping against him.
"You don't deserve this," he whispered. He shifted to lie on his side, settling his head down on the pillows. His brow lay against Lancelot's, and the knight did not wake from healing slumber. Arthur's eyes stared at the knight fixedly, committing Lancelot to his mind and his heart, taking him deep into the Roman's soul. Arthur's hand moved over Lancelot's cheek, pushing the curls back. "You never deserved this."
"Arthur!" Jols burst through the door, panting and flustered. The Roman sat up. Lancelot woke.
"What is it, Jols?"
"They've gone!"
"Who?" prompted the Roman. "Who's gone?"
"The knights, my lord! They've gone out to the wood!" Arthur's face fell.
"They did WHAT?" shouted Lancelot, now up from the pillows as well.
"I – I don't know. They were gone before the sun rose. I only just found the empty stables now. None of them are in their rooms, except Galahad and Gawain. They're still in the healing ward." Arthur's eyes glimmered as he lowered his head, lips parted in shock.
"They've gone after the Saxons," said Lancelot. "Those mad bastards."
