A/N: I finally got around to writing this first chapter. Maybe I'll flesh this story out afterall... We'll see.
Please read and review. Thank you.
Sorry for the shortness.
No slash intended.
Chapter 1: Protection
Sextus came on Jovis dies.
It was mid winter, over a year since the knights had come, six months since they had been knighted. Lancelot was seventeen. He had survived his first battle and a handful of skirmishes. He had three scars and an attitude. Arthur was still responsible, but he'd grown too. Day by day, Excalibur became more and more like an extended part of his body. So did Lancelot.
The knights had not been expecting the Roman party. Arthur had.
"We have visitors," said Lancelot, striding into Arthur's study. "And they carry your banner."
He looked up from writing. Lancelot had thought of being able to write like Arthur, and Arthur had wanted to teach him. They hadn't discussed it yet.
"Sextus," said Arthur, looking at the words again.
"Sextus?"
"A Roman officer. He just ended a campaign in the far south. He thought he would drop by and have a look at the Wall."
"It's a wall," Lancelot grumbled.
"He wants to see you," said Arthur bluntly. "And all the other knights. He wants to know what I've done with you."
"It's none of his damn business."
"It doesn't need to be."
Lancelot looked away, and Arthur kept writing. It was bitter outside, but some of the men drank in the tavern anyway, warming their blood with ale. Peasants still did their work, and children still played in the square. Knights still trained – like Galahad and Gawain in one of the yards. Gawain laughed at the way Galahad gritted his teeth, as if Gawain were really an enemy. Tristan rubbed an arrowhead between his fingers, waiting for the hawk.
"Behave," said Arthur.
"Behave?" Lancelot echoed indignantly. "I don't have to do a damn thing for any Roman bastard."
"Well – this Roman bastard would like you to keep the peace."
Lancelot blushed. "You know I didn't mean —"
"I know. You seem to forget that I belong to Rome, too."
"You haven't been to the place since childhood. You aren't as Roman as you think."
"That is where my allegiance lies."
"My allegiance lies with you. That doesn't mean you own me."
"Rome doesn't own me," said Arthur more darkly.
"Sometimes, you act like it does."
Lancelot's face was aged with stubble, and his curls crowned his head. His cloak dragged heavy from his shoulders, and instead of armor or uniform, he only wore a tunic and trousers underneath, leather guards laced over his thighs and boots hugging his ankles. He only carried one sword on his hip, instead of his pair that had already grown accustomed to his back. Those were undisturbed in his room.
"Have you trained today?" Arthur asked, voice still edged and numb.
"This morning," Lancelot confirmed.
"I wondered why you weren't in your bed. You didn't have breakfast?"
"Not hungry."
Blade-dancing in the chill, twilight air left him feeling alive and tingling. The sensation filled him up, quenching any and every desire.
"You should grab something from the kitchen," said Arthur, dipping his quill in ink.
"I don't think I'll have an appetite until our company gets the hell back to Rome."
Arthur sighed. He knew Lancelot could drop in at the tavern or the kitchens whenever he pleased, so he decided not to push it. The Round Table would have dinner in the evening as always, and Arthur did not question Lancelot's attendance. Of course – Sextus would join them also. Arthur grimaced; this wouldn't be fun. The rest of his table could be complacent about the matter, but if Lancelot was in a bad mood, nothing could go over well for Arthur.
Magnus was watching when Lancelot wielded his pair of swords. The man was an older officer come with Sextus, bound for Rome itself. Arthur had met him once before, when his mother had still lived. The younger warrior shut his eyes at the thought of his mother.
"He is a fine swordsman," Magnus remarked, as Arthur came to stand at his shoulder. Both pairs of gray eyes looked to Lancelot, who was in the place every knight went to when they used their weapons – a place only they could reach, a place that hid their minds from the world.
"He is my best knight," Arthur supplied. Magnus glanced at him.
"Your best – or your most precious?"
"Are they not the same?"
Wind cooled the back of Arthur's neck. Clouds covered the sun; it would rain again.
"No," said Magnus. Arthur did not notice his wistful tone. Lancelot's skin glistened, and he took cold breaths. Arthur's sea-gray eyes followed his movements like God follows man's thoughts.
"Why him?" Magnus questioned. "Why is he your most precious?"
"Each of my knights is precious to me," said Arthur. His red cloak swayed.
"Stop dancing around the truth. Why is that man held above the rest?"
Arthur's eyes memorized the way Lancelot's muscles flowed.
"His name is Lancelot."
After dinner, Lancelot hovered in the tavern, watching Sextus and the Roman soldiers even while his fellow knights made merry all around him. The torches blazed and flickered, and no one paid any attention to Lancelot – until Sextus caught his eye.
"Pagan!" he called. "What are you staring at?"
Hadrian's Wall fell silent. Lancelot's smoldering eyes failed to overpower Sextus and his stoic gaze. People looked from one man to the other.
"I have a name," Lancelot said.
"I don't care about your name," Sextus replied. "A dog is a dog – good for nothing by bloodshed."
The black eyes sparked. No one moved. The Romans laughed. Dagonet frowned, knowing Lancelot's temper. Bors scowled at the man who insulted his comrade. Tristan only glanced once from the apple he was cutting away at with his hunting knife.
"And what are Romans good for?" Lancelot questioned loudly. Sextus stopped smirking. He waited a moment, before approaching the knight, who did not flinch.
"I would hold my tongue, if I were you," Sextus hissed in Lancelot's face.
"And what if I don't?"
"I'll cut it out."
Lancelot's lips twitched. "Would you eat it too? Or have the Romans grown more civilized than the barbarians you were a hundred years ago?"
Sextus' fist against Lancelot's jaw broke the knight's hypnotizing stare. Half the tavern rose to their feet – Lancelot's only family, men who could've been boys. Lancelot struck back, knowing before he did that it was a crime. Sextus hadn't been expecting it, but it did not take long for anger to surface in his face. His lip bled. Lancelot smiled.
"Come, bastard," he said, drawing his sword. "Let's do this the right way."
Lancelot had no sword – only the knife in his boot. He knew this Roman could carve him into a prize if he wanted to – but he wouldn't run. That was never an option.
Sextus' eyes glinted, waiting for Lancelot's response. He knew the knight had no sword and relished the ease with which he would take the insolent runt down. The knights beyond them made no move either. Lancelot may be their comrade, but to fight against a Roman unprovoked (or even provoked, for that matter) was a grave crime – punishable by some gruesome form of execution. Their nature quarreled with their loyalty.
"Fool," Sextus sneered at Lancelot, who only remained in his place. He lifted his sword, and Lancelot closed his eyes, standing as still as a ghost. He heard the blade whisper and then an unexpected clang. He opened his eyes.
Arthur was near him, Excalibur gleaming where it caught the light.
"Touch him again – and I'll make you regret it."
His voice was steady and seething. Sextus stared at him in disbelief.
"You dare threaten an officer of Rome? Your comrade?"
"These men are my comrades, and they deserve the same respect you have shown me."
Sextus ogled at him.
"These pagan slaves deserve nothing but the death they will receive."
Arthur's eyes were hard on his, and Lancelot hovered at his captain's back, holding his breath.
"You better watch yourself, Castus," the stranger hissed. "They've weakened your heart."
Arthur glowered until Sextus stepped back and stalked off. He sheathed Excalibur and turned to Lancelot.
"Are you all right?"
Lancelot nodded. Arthur touched the cut on his cheekbone tenderly, smearing away the blood.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Not every Roman treats their soldiers the same."
"I didn't need to be reminded," said Lancelot, rubbing his face. Arthur grimaced.
"I'm sorry," he said again, looking to their huddled boots.
"For what?"
"The way some Romans think."
"You cannot be responsible for the actions of other men."
"He is Roman," said Arthur, sweeping off and making Lancelot hurry after him. "He came as a representative of my people. He has shamed them – and me."
They drove through the open corridors, brushing past running, laughing children and chickens and gossiping women. Lancelot's brow knit together.
"I have a responsibility to make sure my fellow Romans do what's right," Arthur continued. "Just as I have a responsibility to make sure my men do what they ought to."
"How much responsibility do you take on?" Lancelot questioned. Arthur didn't stop or answer; Lancelot grabbed his wrist and yanked him around. His eyes burned into Arthur's, while Arthur's poured into his, extinguishing the fire. Lancelot felt Arthur relax in his grasp and followed suite. Arthur looked weary again; if he was not angry, he was worn. He slipped out of Lancelot's hand like water, and Lancelot let him go – this time.
"They're just slaves," Magnus urged. He had interrupted Arthur in the younger man's study, having heard about the incident with Sextus, which could surely escalate into something nasty.
"They are much more than that!" Arthur retorted.
"They shouldn't be."
Arthur's eyes blazed into the older man's. Magnus had seen more battle, suffered more wounds, led longer. But Arthur's heart far surpassed his somehow. They both knew it.
"Do you know how many men can die in one day, Castus?" the elder Roman asked. "Hundreds. Thousands. You're Round Table is but fifty."
Arthur could not answer him but did not step back or loosen his fists.
"You cannot afford love," Magnus said softly. "None of us can – not in this life. Most men don't deserve it anyway."
"They do," said Arthur. "They do."
Magnus sighed, held to Arthur's bright gaze.
"When they begin to fall," said the elder, "you will regret this path, straying from the way we are supposed to behave."
"I will not let one fall before offering my life first."
"What you speak is heresy," Magnus scowled. "A Roman's life is not worth less or equal to a pagan's."
"But equal to a friend's."
That night, Arthur knelt before the cross hung on his wall, candles glowing softly around him. He prayed. He murmured to God with a longing heart, overwhelmed with love, responsibility, and dread. He did not hear Lancelot approach but did not jump at the gentle touch of his knight's hand on his shoulder. It was a familiar thing.
"Arthur," came the voice, like a woman's veil in the wind. The Roman opened his eyes and looked to Lancelot, as if the knight were a saint's statue.
"Come to bed," his friend said, smiling. "God will still be here in the morning."
Arthur hung his head.
"Am I wrong to love you?"
Lancelot creased his brow and sat on the bed near his knelt captain.
"Why do you ask me this?" he answered.
"Tell me," Arthur said, looking to him.
"Is love ever wrong?"
Arthur grinned at that; Lancelot never failed in wit.
"But it can be unwise," he said.
Lancelot stood from the bed and knelt beside Arthur in a way he would barely do again in all the years yet to pass. He touched Arthur's shoulder.
"Love is love," he said. "I am a simple-minded man. I deal in blood, not heart – unless you count bedding women as part of such affairs."
Arthur grinned.
"But I do know that the heart does not choose its nature nor the people or causes it commits to. I know you are one of them – but for once, leave the Romans out of it. You are not like them, Arthur."
Their eyes hooked into each other's with mere light.
"You are a better man."
Arthur smiled faintly at him.
"I cannot be just a man," he said. "I must be a leader, too."
"Better to lead with heart than anything else."
And they were silent. Lancelot squeezed Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur leaned in to rest his head on Lancelot's. Lancelot tipped his head against Arthur's. The candle flames swayed.