Disclaimer: movie quotations taken from the Fallen Knights Fansite script.
Chapter TwelveThere are events in every man's life that – when looked back upon – form memories so bright, so clear, that they scarcely differ from the events themselves.
To step inside Arthur's head would be like stepping into the wild torrent of a fast-flowing river; it would be like drowning in guilt and self-reproach, sorrow and worry, piety and love.
But there were also memories in Arthur's mind: memories that shone like burnished gold…
"There comes a time in every man's life when he must take command." Pelagius gave Arthur a benevolent smile. "One day it will be your time, Arthur."
Arthur, a gangling boy of twelve, gazed up at his mentor with solemn eyes and a grave expression. "Will I be ready?" he asked.
"No one is every truly ready, child. You can only do your best."
"What if my best isn't good enough?" Arthur'syoung face was creased into a deep frown.
"To do your best is all anyone can ever ask of you, Arthur. Never forget that and never let anyone make you feel unworthy."
Arthur nodded. He didn't tell Pelagius that he was scared and yet his fear must have shown in his face because Pelagius placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The time for command is still a good few years away, my lad."
…The Passage Of Five Years…
Arthur surveyed his conscripts. For the most part, they were a sorry group: beaten and broken with dull listless faces. As he marched up and down the lines, asking each new recruit his name, he found that most answered him in weary monotones. There were two, though, who still gave him defiant looks: two whom the Roman brutality had not yet defeated.
The first was one of the oldest. Even in line, he had managed to stand slightly apart from the rest and his hands were bound tightly behind his back. He was tall and thin to the point of emaciation, with hollow cheeks and the bones of his collar jutting out from where his ragged tunic had ripped near the top. There were tribal tattoos marking his skin just below cold black eyes that both glittered with hatred and seemed to mock whosoever they looked upon.
"What is your name?" Arthur demanded.
"You can call me Tristan." Every word spoke of insolence.
"Why are your hands bound?"
"Because I tried to escape." Tristan turned around suddenly, so Arthur could see the streaks of red that stained the back of his tunic. Facing Arthur once again, he gave a hollow mirthless smile. "Given the chance, I will kill Romans. You are no exception."
Arthur swallowed. "I don't believe loyalty can be taken," he said. "It has to be earned."
For a moment, Tristan's hard eyes softened. "Then earn it." He watched as Arthur made his way swiftly down the line before stopping at a dark-haired boy of scarcely fifteen years.
"I am Artorius Castus, the Commander of the-"
"I know who you are," the boy interrupted. His face was covered in bruises and one eye was swollen half shut. "Your reputation precedes you…"
Arthur gave a stiff bow.
"…They say you are the son of a cowardly Roman bastard and a poxed British whore."
Arthur looked down at the ground. He had heard the words too many times before and yet, somehow, they still bit at his soul. He swallowed and forced himself to meet the boy's eyes. "Your name?" he asked.
"Lancelot." The boy's jaw was set firmly and his eyes gleamed with defiance- with liquid fire. He wanted Arthur to be angry; he wanted to see Arthur's weakness. He wanted to be beaten.
Arthur managed a smile. "Lancelot, I would be honoured if you would be seated to my right at dinner."
The place of honour.
Arthur turned awayand Lancelot's eyes widened in shock.
Two hours later, Arthur was sitting at the Round Table with a distinguished Centurionat his left and the young Sarmatian, Lancelot, to his right.
Silence reigned.
Arthur surreptitiously watched as Lancelot pulled at the hem of his tunic in a vain attempt to rid it of creases. He looked nervous.
Arthur's eyes scanned round the room and rested on each conscript for a few brief seconds before moving on. The blonde-haired boy, Gawain, was drumming his fingers on the table in a senseless rhythm. Next to him, Bors stared at an ornate silver goblet as if he expected it to sprout wings and fly away. Two places down from him, a tiny dark-haired child – Arthur thought his name was Galahad – bit down hard on his trembling lower lip. The boy's eyes shone with suppressed tears.
Only Tristan remained aloof from it all. He gazed disdainfully back at Arthur and once more flashed his mirthless smile.
I kill Romans, he mouthed.
Arthur saw this and never said a word. He hated how Rome treated these men – these boys – with all the compassion of his heart.
And he had sworn to earn their loyalty.
Arthur stood up. "Knights of the Round Table, Sarmatian warriors, I welcome you to Hadrian's Wall." His words were greeted with empty looks and a silence that was too loud.
Arthur sat down again as servants brought the food in. He turned to Lancelot. "Do you like chicken?" he asked, offering Lancelot a fat honey-glazed chicken to carve.
Lancelot hesitated for a moment, as if torn between defiance and hunger. "I like chicken," he eventually decided. "Though I don't know about Roman chicken..."
…Six Weeks Are Gone In The Blink Of An Eye…
Arthur lay stomach down on his bed, propped up on his elbows so he could read a letter from Pelagius extolling the virtues of brotherhood and liberty.
There was a knock on the door. It was a reluctant knock; the sort of knock that sounds as if it longs to be ignored.
"Come in!" called Arthur. He sat up and perched on the edge of his bed.
One of his younger knights, Lancelot, entered. He looked awkward as he stood before Arthur with his eyes cast to the ground.
"Well?" Arthur asked.
"I owe you an apology."
Arthur forced his face into a stern expression and waited until Lancelot had plucked up the courage to meet his eyes. "You owe me nothing."
Lancelot spoke fiercely. "No, sir! I will speak!" He took a deep shaky breath. "When you first introduced yourself, all those weeks ago, I said things that I shouldn't have said and if I'd only known what you were going to be like-"
"Shut up," Arthur said, a little harshly. "The past is best forgotten, don't you think?"
"I called you the son of a Roman bastard and, ummm-" Lancelot paused. "I should never have presumed-"
Suddenly, Arthur's eyes sparkled. "If I wanted an arse-licker I would have hired one," he said.
Lancelot allowed himself a small – slightly impudent – smile. "And what do you want, sir?" he asked.
"A soldier…"Arthur's smile turned shy. He had been so lonely. "And a friend…"
Lancelot – still a stupid feisty boy on the edge of manhood – grinned and grasped Arthur's hand, pulling him into a back-slapping bear hug.
It was a little awkward and Lancelot quickly darted through the door, blushing profusely.
And Arthur stared after him.
…A Year Disappeared Like A Dream…
Arthur found Lancelot in the practice arena. It was early May and Lancelot was sweating in the gentle heat as he sparred with an imaginary enemy.
"Lancelot!" Arthur called.
His friend set down his sword and beamed at him. "What brings you here, Captain? Will you spar with me?"
"I will not," said Arthur. "It's too hot by far."
"Then what can I do for you?" Lancelot brushed the sweat from his eyes and Arthur felt a sudden pang as he realised in an instant that somehow over the course of the past year the fiesty youth had turned into a grown man.
"I've brought you something. Twin swords," Arthur said, carefully unwrapping his burden. Inside two swords gleamed like shards of sunlight.
"They're beautiful." Lancelot's voice was reverent; his eyes were mesmerized. "Are they mine?"
"They're yours."
An expression of doubt crossed Lancelot's face. "Do you think-" he began. "Nothing." His pride cut him off.
"Of course its impossible to wield two swords at once." Arthur tried to sound casual. "Im-poss-i-ble," he emphasised every syllable.
"Nothing's impossible," said Lancelot angrily "I can wield them."
Arthur grinned. "Never!" he exclaimed, trying to sound incredulous.
"I will wield them and not only that- I shall fight you!"
"Fight me?"
"And beat you!"
"Beat me?"
"I shall."
And that was that. Lancelot stormed off to attempt the impossible before he could see Arthur's indulgent smile.
It took nearly two months.
Arthur watched Lancelot twirl round, with his swords cutting through the air like twin demons. He waited for Lancelot to finish his dance – for a dance was what it was – and then cleared his throat. "Lancelot?"
"My Lord?"
"I will fight you now, if that is still your wish."
Lancelot didn't answer immediately and a few long seconds passed before he gave a terse nod. He looked troubled.
It began slowly. Lancelot stabbed, Arthur parried. Lancelot swept his left sword backwards in a graceful arc and Arthur dodged it, then chased Lancelot backwards with a series of short cuts that Lancelot barely parried. Arthur lunged and missed as Lancelot side stepped and then–
Lancelotdropped bothhis swords to the ground.
Arthur let Excalibur fall and rushed forwards. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
He found a knife pressed sharply against his throat.
"Damn you," he growled softly.
"I am damned." Lancelot grinned and moved the knife. He turned serious in an instant. "I wish that hadn't happened," he said. "I will spar with you, Arthur, but I will never again fight you."
"Why?"
"Because it's my job to watch your back."
…Years Gone With The Wind…
There are many ways in which time can be measured: in hours, or days, in the waxing and waning of the moon, in the number of smiles exchanged or the number of enemies killed. For Arthur, time was measured in the number of comrades lost; in the number of fallen knights.
Every battle became a statistic on the scale of heartbreak. Every battle, Arthur gave half his thought to the enemy and half to his friends. Were they okay? Had any fallen? Was anyone wounded?
And Arthur lived in dread of an event that never seemed to happen. Every time Lancelot fell his heartbeat faltered and yet Lancelot always seemed to get up again. It was just a stumble, or a scratch (which became a euphemism for a gaping wound).
Every time Lancelot rose from the ground, panting and bleeding but not broken, Arthur became more and more convinced of his friend's mortality: the more wounds he survived, the more likely the next was to kill him.
And yet it never happened.
…Fifteen Years Of Blood To Stain The Land Red…
At the forefront of Arthur's mind was a vivid memory from scarcely a week ago.
He had been praying aloud and Lancelot had found him. Arthur had tried to justify their last mission. Lancelot had been adamantly against it.
"I don't give a damn about Romans, Britain, or this island," he had shouted. "If you desire to spend eternity in this place, Arthur, then so be it. But suicide cannot be chosen for another!"
"And yet you choose death for this family?"
"No, I choose life! And freedom!" Lancelot slammed his hand down onto a beam. "For myself and the men!" He sighed and his eyes burned as brightly and as angrily as the day on which he had first met Arthur.
Nevertheless, Lancelot sat down as his burning angerturned to despair. Arthur ached to see it.
Lancelot would followhim to the gates of Hell.
"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat?"Arthur demanded. "Outnumbered, outflanked, but still we triumph?" His voice was calm and soothing. "With you at my side, we can do so again. Lancelot, we are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?"
Lancelot shook his head. "Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist. Never. There will always be a battlefield."
And Arthur has known what was going to be said next.
Death. The word overshadowed them all.
"I will die in battle," Lancelot said. "Of that I'm certain. Now hopefully, a battle of my choosing." He paused. "But, if it be this one, grant me a favour: don't bury me in our sad little cemetery.
Arthur stared at his closest friend.
"Burn me! Burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong east wind."
Arthur wished he had embraced Lancelot; he wished he had wrapped his arms around the younger knight and not let go. He wished he had reassured or even cried.
He wished he hadn't stared at Lancelot with blank eyes.
But memory is memory.
For better or worse, it cannot be changed.
Tbc…