Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his Knights.


Scribe Note:

History2: Thank you for your kind words of encouragement. I am enjoying developing characters that know each other so well, yet do not at the same time. Bringing love to a deep friendship is never easy, and I hope I can convey it well.

Winged Seraph: Thank you for your enthusiasm! Yes, Tristan's character is so quiet, and I decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to delve into him as well, without trying to get him out of his shell. I'll save that for another story. He's fun to speculate about!


Chapter 6: Heart in Storage

Lancelot's head was aching. He should never have agreed to meet Bors for a morning work.

This was the third day in a row he had woken up from a night of drinking with the same after effects. He vaguely remembered falling over at a table in the common, and having Perceval pick him up by his tunic and dragging him to a random straw pile in the doorway to the stable. Per­ceval had not been overly gentle, and Lancelot had a new scrape on one elbow to prove it. He winced as it rubbed against his tunic. Of all the battle scars he had taken in his life, why did scrapes when drunk hurt far worse?

Lancelot had woken in the exact spot where Perceval had dumped him, with a nanny goat lick­ing his cheek and braying affectionately, stumpy tail wagging. He hadn't even had time to change to more suitable clothing, and had come straight to the armoury yard, finding Bors wait­ing. That was when his damned head had exploded, and he'd spent the next 5 humiliating mo­ments retching behind the archery targets, with Bors hooting in laughter from the other side.

And now, here he was bouncing about in the morning sun with a short sword, as if he had rested fully in his own rooms. By the Gods his head was going to split wide open if Bors did not stop bellowing so loudly!

"You have straw in your hair, and you smell like a goat's ass." Bors hissed as they locked their short swords together and came face to face.

"Better smell than look." Lancelot grunted as he shoved off and they began their pattern again.

The two circled on foot, thrusting forward, parrying, blocking. The sound of iron hitting iron rang out into the morning air, still quiet within the fort.

Normally Lancelot liked early mornings, and a chance to work with Bors first thing was always enjoyable. But today, not so much. Today, he would much rather be back in the damned straw with the nanny goat, sleeping off that accursed wine.

Lancelot danced away lightly in bare feet as Bors lunged once more. His boots were discarded, being soft with a light sole, not very good at keeping your feet in a spar. Bors was wearing his riding boots, and bits of stone cracked under his feet as he spun on hobnails, or pushed off with his toes. Lancelot felt like it was cat claws across the top of a bronze shield, the sound vibrating his back teeth. He blinked and shook his head.

"You're slow today, have a roll in the stable with a girl last night? She wear you out, Goat?" Bors bellowed again as he swung at Lancelot's head.

"No, are you always this clumsy?"

Lancelot ducked sideways and heard the blade sing past his ear. He righted himself, feinted left and came up, whacking Bors loudly on his backside with the side of his sword as he passed him. That was a satisfying noise, Lancelot thought to himself, chest heaving as he shifted the sword to his other hand, waiting for Bors to turn around.

Bors grunted and lunged at Lancelot, who again feinted and whirled just in time to trip Bors over onto his side. He stood and pointed the sword tip to Bors' chest as he rolled to his back and at­tempted to rise.

"Point."

Bors laughed and held up a hand for Lancelot to lift him to his feet. They both smiled and clasped each others shoulders, walking to the edge of the yard, their morning exercise finished for now.

Lancelot sat on a block of wood and set his sword to one side, propping himself on his knees. He wiped his brow and motioned to Bors, who was ladling water up from a bucket and drinking, to pass the ladel to him. They both sat for a time, allowing their breathing to come back to nor­mal, stretching out arm muscles. Lancelot was glad to be resting, and he turned to crack his back. First left, then right, sighing at the pop that sounded. Straw piles were not easy on the back, he mused.

"You sound like a creaking wagon." Bors muttered as he picked up his sword and a cloth from a pouch nearby.

"Been sleeping rough." Lancelot grumbled in reply, also picking up his sword.

They sat for a few more moments, each testing their blade edges, examining the surfaces for faults. Lancelot had borrowed a sword from behind the armoury door, his were in his rooms with no time to grab them.

Normally, Lancelot carried two Roman gladius swords, as well as two roman daggers, one in his left greave, one at his hip. He cared not for larger clunkier swords like what they had used this morning, but, when in battle, losing a weapon happened all the time. Lancelot prided him­self on being able to pick up any type of weapon and use it well. He could shoot a bow, use a broadsword, spear, or roman short sword. He had even tried out Gawain's cudgel and found it made a fine cracking noise when brought against the side of a Saxon skull. He did, however, detest Arthur's sword. How the man didn't pull his shoulder out each time he swung that huge monster was beyond him.

No matter if your own weapon or not, each piece was cared for properly. Lancelot noted that the tang on the blade he had borrowed was showing slightly above the prongs. He wiggled it. Sat­isfied that it would not drop in his hand, he rested the blade across his legs and looked out into the yard, pensive look crossing his face. Bors pulled out his curved hand blades from their scab­bards and continued with the cleaning ritual, not noticing Lancelot's lack of movement.

Curse his head for thinking such strange thoughts for the past three days! For some reason, he couldn't shake this feeling of loneliness that had enveloped him since their return home. He rubbed his face with his hand, grimacing at the thumping in his head. The wine was not the an­swer to keep his brain quiet, he knew that. Neither was waking up in a straw pile with an amorous goat.

"Bors?" Lancelot asked as he leaned over to grab some sand in his hand.

"What?" Bors grunted, looking over at him.

"What's it like to come home to Lorina every night, to all your children? Do you ever wish for something simpler sometimes?"

Bors regarded his friend, lips pursed out, thinking.

"Well, no. My little ones are my pride and joy. Lorina, she takes care of me. If and when I go, I know there will be enough of Bors left in this world to keep my name, and I want to see them grow and carry it on with pride. Lorina would have my hide if I tried to leave anyways." He said, the last part with a smile.

Lancelot nodded and spread the sand across the width of the blade in his lap. He smoothed it out over the blade, then rubbed slowly back and forth, feeling the grit running between his fingers and the iron. He picked up more sand from the floor, and repeated the process. The action was soothing, and he would spend the hours at night when away from the fort rubbing any available sand into his twin blades, making them shine, making the edges slice cleanly using his flint rock. He let his eyes defocus as he fell into the rhythm. Back and forth, pick up more sand. Back and forth, flip the blade, start over.

Why had he asked Bors about his family? Strange, he had never cared to ask out loud before what he already knew. Lancelot decided that he had hit his head when he fell the night before, or was in need of a sound whack to clear these thoughts now.

"You're thinkin' too much." Bors grunted as he stood, his blades clean.

"Lancelot smirked and waved a hand to Bors. "Idle chatter, nothing more."

Bors made a sound in his throat and picked up his scabbards, thrusting each curved blade home. He looked down at the younger knight.

"Perhaps it's time you found a girl and had yourself a few little ones. Nothing like it for the ego."

Lancelot looked up and stiffened. "No, not yet." he replied, dropping the sand from his hands and getting up from his seat.

Bors raised an eyebrow at the response. "Well, if not that, then by Gods you need to visit the baths. You really do smell like a goat's ass."

Lancelot relaxed at that and laughed. Bors gave him another pat on the shoulder and gathered up his things. They walked out into the alleyway between the armoury practice yard and the stables. With a nod from each of them, Lancelot headed towards his rooms and Bors to his.

Lancelot opened his door and looked around. His clothes were scattered, his chest heaved open and shirts, doublets and various woolen socks hung over the sides, left where they were pawed out of the way. Dust covered the surface of the unused table in the corner, his swords, still in scabbards, piled in a corner. The hearth hadn't been used in so long that cobwebs criss-crossed its mouth, softly blowing in and out with the air exchange from the chimney above.

He sighed and cursed at his ability to make a mess so quickly. When had he last slept in here? He couldn't remember. He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers curled around the wood edge, dis­turbing more dust. This wasn't a home, it was a storage room! He thought briefly on Bors, now back to his rooms with his children, Lorina handing him his cup as he sat with the baby in the crook of his arm and for the oddest reason, he almost wanted to weep. Almost...

He suddenly had the urge to go visit Cerys. She would be up and in the kitchens baking bread, and he could chat with her. He could picture her. She would have her sleeves rolled up, flour across her face, red from the heat of the oven. She would be smiling and laughing with the women. His stomach growled to confirm the good idea, and he quickly pulled on his boots and rolled down his wool trews. He changed into an open front tunic, and grabbed his coin pouch.

Cerys had not been in the kitchens, so he had teased one of the cook's daughters while stealing some dried nuts from the bowl beside her and he left. He munched on them as he made his way over to the baths. Maybe this was what he needed. A good soak, a massage and a trim for his hair. He hadn't had that done yet. Clean himself up and his thoughts would stop being so muddy as well. Then, he would just get to his duties and this silliness in his head would leave.

"Lonliness, bah! You're just being soft." He said out loud.

He whistled as he walked along, his head feeling a bit clearer.


Dear Reader:

Men deny themselves what they need all the time, with our midieval men being no exception. Despite being so strong of muscle andcharacter, they have the same weakness we all do, being human.

Please review! Any and all comments are truly welcome. I wish your imaginations a safe flight through the skies of your stories.

Cardeia