A/N: Finally. I've written this chapter. Please forgive me for the absurd delay. Believe me, I'm fully disgusted with myself. This chapter was – hard in coming. And there's been a lot going on in my reality too. But enough of the excuses. I'm sorry. This chapter is also not as long as I wanted it to be, to my further disappointment. I hope it's all right, nonetheless. Thanks to all of my wonderful readers and reviewers, especially for your patience. Your support means worlds to me.
Please R/R! Thank you!
Chapter 12: Distortion
Arthur's eyes crumbled. Jols could only offer a look meant to be hopeful but was closer to helplessness. Lancelot watched Arthur's back and didn't miss the flitting breaths. He waited. The Roman lowered his gaze to the floor, suddenly overwhelmed. Gone. His knights were gone. Without him. All kinds of hellish thoughts started to pour through his mind, and he was drowning. What in God's name had possessed them to think that they could do this now? They lacked his leadership. They lacked Lancelot and Galahad. They were all mentally and emotionally unstable, weak and traumatized. They were not fit for battle, let alone a Saxon confrontation.
"Sir?" Jols prompted.
"Ready my horse," said Arthur absently. His eyes remained detached. Jols assented and turned on his heel swiftly.
"You can't be serious," said Lancelot. Arthur turned to peer at him.
"I have to," he said. "They're riding to death." Lancelot's face voiced his pain. Arthur was torn.
"I won't keep you from going," said the Sarmatian. "And I can't ask you to promise me you'll return." Arthur knelt at his bedside and took his hand.
"I will," said Arthur. "With God as my witness, I will." They're eyes locked and conversed.
"I can't do this without you," Lancelot whispered.
"Yes, you can." Arthur squeezed his hand.
"No," Lancelot choked. Tears sprung in his eyes. He shook his head. "I can't, Arthur. I – I don't know how to handle this." Arthur took Lancelot's face in his hands.
"Listen to me," he began. "We'll do it together. I won't leave you in this world alone now. I'll come back. And we'll make it. You and Galahad – all of us." Lancelot stared at him, eyes shining.
Gawain snapped his head over one shoulder at the uproar of noise. Women's shrieks accompanied gasps and manly sounds of denial and shock. Some of the physicians left their duties and moved down the dim ward toward the crowd outside. He looked back to Galahad, who was caught in the grasps of fever still, and resisted curiosity.
"What's going on?" he asked one of the healers who hurried past.
"The knights have gone," the man answered. "Can you believe it?" He had a northern accent.
"Gone?" echoed Gawain. "Gone where?"
"Out to the wilds," said the healer. "For the Saxons. Arthur's going now."
"You mean they didn't tell him?" Gawain almost shouted. The healer shook his head.
"Nay, sir. That's why everyone's makin' that noise." He left Gawain in disbelief.
"Gods," said the knight. "They couldn't have been that drunk." Galahad shivered quietly, twitching with whatever dreams haunted him. Gawain hung his head in his hands.
Arthur had left. Lancelot didn't know if he was gone from the Wall yet, but he had left the Sarmatian in his room. He had looked at Lancelot, kissed his hand and squeezed it, stood tall, and turned his back on the knight without looking back or hesitating. The red cloak swished again. Suddenly, Lancelot felt alone for the first time in years. He hadn't even felt this way after the Round Table had left him with the Saxons. No, it was only now – now, when his best friend left him to his own demons in order to save all the other knights. Now, when Arthur chose them over Lancelot.
The knight mentally slapped himself. He couldn't think of it that way. It was silly. It was unreasonable. But that's how it felt. He grimaced, tears escaping his eyes anyway. That's how it felt, damn it. Arthur may love him, but his love could only go so far. And it didn't go far enough to keep him from duty, even when Lancelot was screaming for him. But that wasn't the worst part. What hurt Lancelot more than anything else was that he knew – he knew that if it were he, he would stay with Arthur. He would always stay with Arthur. Because his love did go that far. His love was boundless. His love was unconditional. He didn't give a damn about anything in this world except for Arthur. Even his desire for freedom was diluted by his love for Arthur.
That was his secret.
And he would never confess.
He would take it to his ashen, eastern grave.
And meanwhile, he would scream.
In silence.
Galahad drowned. But it felt lovely. It felt like the bath he'd wanted for months. It felt like liberation and salvation and cleansing. Oh, to be cleansed. The water washed all the dirt away, all the ugly defeat and violation. And he was pure again. He was noble again. He was a knight and not a prisoner. He was Galahad. Yes, he was Galahad.
"Who are you?" The creature was floating, ripped edges of its black robes flowing in the breeze. It's eyes read Galahad's soul, and the Sarmatian couldn't stop it.
"I'm Galahad," he said. He had forgotten about Lancelot's pendant nestled in his hand.
"And who is that?" The pale face and blue eyes and black robes stood out in his world of gray. It watched him. It made him doubt.
"I – I don't know."
"Galahad." He shut his eyes. Where had the whisper come from? The pendant rolled out of his hand, and he didn't hear it hit the wood. He squeezed his eyes tighter. He didn't want to see the creature. He didn't want to hear any voices. He wanted to go home. He wanted out of this boat. He turned his back on the creature and opened his eyes, hands clenching the side of the boat. He stared into the water, too dark to reveal what lay beneath. It was like a mirror. It only showed Galahad himself, amidst the light reflections. But where was the light coming from? He could see no sun.
He pushed off and fell in.
Arthur didn't smile when Jols led his horse out of the stables. The beast was saddled and bridled, groomed and fed. It had only been home for a few days, just like Arthur. It didn't know where the Roman planned on leading him. If only it did – perhaps then, it would be too afraid and prevent Arthur from going. Jols inclined his head and offered the reins to the Roman. Arthur took them.
"Thank you, Jols," he said. He looked tired. He didn't bother trying to hide it. Whatever joy that had returned to him when Lancelot had come was now gone again. "Look after him."
"Aye, sir." Jols need not inquire whom Arthur spoke of.
The skies were gray. It would rain again. Arthur could almost hear Gawain's ritual curse at the island weather. He didn't smile. He couldn't. Gawain was in the ward with a dying Galahad. And even if his youngest knight pulled through, even if Galahad's heart kept beating and his lungs kept taking in air, even if he kept eating, kept drinking, Galahad would always be a dying man. Arthur knew this. And he wondered if it was better that Galahad die now instead. He knew that not even Gawain could mend that soul again. And what's more, Arthur knew he couldn't mend Lancelot either.
Some of the people had gathered, standing off under the stone and not stepping onto the brittle grass. They watched and they waited for Arthur to leave. Probably questioned the Roman's loyalty to Lancelot, his love and his priorities. Arthur knew this. It weighed heavy on his heart, like everything else. His face was all the grimmer. But he couldn't abandon the whole rest of the Round Table to the Saxons. He may love one more than all the rest, but he could leave the rest to slaughter for one. Duty lay with what was best for the Round Table, not what Arthur's heart desired.
Lancelot shook. The table quaked. His hand pressed against it, as he struggled to stand. His body exploded with aching. He began to gasp when a sharp pain bolted up through his chest. Beads began to gather on his brow. He pushed. Shook. Table earthquake. Trembling candle flame. The rattle echoed throughout the room. He let go and stumbled. Regained his balance. Still ached. He stood still for a long moment, quivering in pain, threatening to collapse. But his mind battled with his body. He refused to fall. He refused to stay inside these walls that smelled like Arthur, that his every memory possessed.
He was laughing. Arthur was smiling. Fire burned and meat cooked and musicians played. The men drank and the women served or sat on their laps. No women for him or Arthur. They remained alone together, watching all the others. His laughter boomed, his eyes twinkled, he bashed the table with his mug of ale. Arthur smiled and watched his knights, while Lancelot leaned toward him and said something. Lips moving unheard. Arthur looked at him finally. Said nothing. Eyes shone. Lancelot understood. Their moment passed in secret, in quiet beauty.
The Sarmatian opened his eyes and only then realized that he had closed them. Those days were gone. He wasn't the same anymore. And Arthur couldn't be the same either. Lancelot was damaged. Lancelot was captive. Lancelot was drowning. He could feel it. And he could feel it in Galahad too. The candle danced at his back. Light meant nothing now. He began to approach the door. Only darkness knew him. He left the black rosary on the floor.
"Galahad?" Gawain was suddenly human again, snapped out of his calm and patient reverie. Galahad had begun to choke. "Galahad?" The elder knight was leaning over in his chair, eyes wide and alive and searching his friend's face. Galahad coughed. As if he were drowning. Gawain took his shoulders and shook him. He called the younger man's name again, his panic rising. Galahad would not hear him, only fought with his own body for air. He began to turn blue, a pale shade of blue. Almost like a clear sky, the kind Gawain hadn't seen since leaving home.
"Physician!" He screamed more than once. The same man with mousy eyes and movements scuttled towards him after the third time.
"What is it, what is it?" he questioned. Gawain didn't answer and the physician didn't need him to. He hurried away, toward the back room where the supplies were kept. Gawain was at Galahad's head now, holding his friend against his chest, lifting him up a little in the hopes that it would allow Galahad to breathe. His best friend choked onward, head banging against Gawain's heart. And Gawain's heart pounded against its cage. The elder Sarmatian's chest was going to thin until a hole was made.
The physician returned with an old pillow and two bottles. He tucked the pillow where Galahad's head should have been, almost shaking with anxiety. Gawain lay his friend back down, but Galahad continued to sputter. The physician first offered those trembling lips a dark draught, but Galahad barely swallowed any. Instead, most of it washed his lips and rushed down his collarbone, disappearing under his neck. The physician's hands were shaking now. The bottle tipped over and the dark liquid flowed out over the stone. It reminded Gawian of blood. The healer failed in convincing Galahad's throat to accept water also. In fact, the fit worsened, and the water only jumped up into the air from Galahad's mouth. No one knew he was drowning.
"Do something!" Gawain demanded, kneeling now and holding Galahad down by the shoulders. The young Sarmatian began to reject his own blood, sending it away, past his lips. He was soaked in sweat, and his body shook. But he did not wake. The physician, at a loss of what to do, just stood in place and trembled with wide eyes.
"Do something, God damn it." Gawain hadn't lost desperation after all.
But Galahad stopped. The coughing faded. He grew still. His hand hung over the side of the cot, and his head fell to one side. Gawain stared. The physician looked from the elder knight to the younger. Gawain stared.
Lancelot struggled for every step. He would not be defeated into collapsing. He would not be kept in this dark passage, where torches were the only lights, even when it was day outside. He needed air. He needed gray sun. He needed to escape the voices in Arthur's room, his own and the Roman's. He didn't want to see. He couldn't handle the visions anymore.
The Saxons flashed into his mind.
"Oh, gods," he cried, stopping to heave against the wall.
Their jagged smiles and their gleaming eyes and their filthy hands had come back. The blood and the flesh and the screams. Oh, gods, the screams. His knees trembled. He couldn't tell voices apart any more – Arthur's and Gawain's and Galahad's were all mixed together. He didn't find his own amongst theirs.
He shut his eyes. He was on the shore again, watching a rowboat float off in the distance. No sail and no wind. No oars and no rower. But it floated. And somehow he knew that Arthur lay there, in the boat, though he could not see him. Excalibur's blade had no chance to gleam in the sun's absence. But it lay there too, the hilt against Arthur's silent heart and beneath the Roman's frozen fingers. Lancelot dove into the water, crossing the barrier he wasn't supposed to cross. He disrupted the quiet waters. He ventured into the darkness of unknown depths. He swam for Arthur, failed to hear himself scream the Roman's name through mouthfuls of water that lusted after his lungs. But when at last he reached the boat, it was empty. He dripped until the water might form a sea in the little boat. His eyes caught sight of the wooden pendant. His fingers did not recognize it.
"Arthur?" His voice flew away without an echo, disappearing in the endless expanse. He looked over the side of the boat, into the water. Galahad stared up at him, hand reaching toward him but never breaking the surface. He was white. Lancelot couldn't scream.
Arthur peered over his shoulder at the dirty faces that watched him, the silently judging eyes. Jols had left him. These people had not. They were waiting for him to leave, waiting for him to abandon Lancelot. They had always dripped through the cracks of the Roman's box, picking up on a moment here and a moment there, when he and Lancelot would share something that none of the other knights did. They knew of that love almost as much as the Round Table. And they were just waiting for Arthur to break it. They were waiting for this Roman to tell them that love was not the most important thing in life. They were waiting for him to act as a Roman instead of a man.
And he waited. He did not move yet. He did not care if this conversation between his eyes and theirs was obvious. He wanted to dare them. He wanted to dare any one of them to say that he loved duty more than he loved Lancelot. He wanted to dare them to say that he did not love Lancelot with a whole and God-like love.
"Love your neighbor as yourself," Christ said.
Did he not love Lancelot as much as he loved himself?
Yes. He did.
But he didn't love himself enough to abandon his entire Round Table.
Lancelot sat alone in the storeroom and cried. His shattered ribs trembled, and his every breath was a shudder of both pain and grief. He didn't know why he was crying. (Yes, he did.) His heart ached, and it wasn't because of the beatings. He was so sad now, so broken up and confused, that he didn't know why. He didn't know why it hurt or why he wept or why he felt any of the nameless emotions that drowned him out. He couldn't think. He cried.
He almost had the impulse to speak out loud, to give voice to his private sufferings. But his grief defeated that impulse into silence. His grief wanted silence. It wanted all of Lancelot, even his voice. The pain was too great in the knight's heart for words. He couldn't even whimper. His tears were only accompanied by small gasps and heaving shudders.
He loved Arthur.
He loved Arthur more than he loved freedom.
Oh, gods, what would he do?
How could he survive?
How could he tell Arthur the way he felt?
How could he tell anyone?
He couldn't. He couldn't reveal this tender heart. He couldn't burden Arthur with the knowledge of such a love, when the Roman's first priority was duty, when Arthur didn't love him the same.
And so Lancelot cried. Because that's all he could do.
"What is it?" Gawain leaned in the doorway. He was unmoved. Lancelot looked up at him. He said nothing. His eyes glimmered painfully. Gawain left. He understood.
"Don't." Arthur looked to his knight. Gawain had stopped the Roman's hand at fixing his horse's reins. His eyes were steady and resolved. "I'll go." Arthur questioned him with his gaze. But Gawain didn't answer out loud. His face, his eyes, his body was hollow.
"I'll go." He swung up onto Arthur's steed, which didn't protest to having a different rider, and Arthur did not try to stop him from leaving. Men pulled the gate open, and Gawain crossed over into solitude, into the wilderness. His braided hair waved at Arthur, and his weapons bounced on his back. Arthur stood.
The banners of Rome rippled in the wind.
