He audibly groans as the other knight's foot connects with his ribs. The crowd around them groans as well, a couple of them booing in derision, others muttering about the shamefully cheap shot, though a few of them whistle in approval. Funny how he could see it coming, as though in slow motion. But there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it, if only because the kick comes so fast and out of nowhere that he's caught by surprise. He files that away for later. Never be caught by surprise, he thinks. It can lead to your death. Or at least what feels like a possibly cracked rib or two right now.
"Get up, Lord Castus," the other knight spits, dark eyes full of unmitigated malice. "We wouldn't wish our precious commander to go out injured for another week now would we?" he sneers, reeling back his foot for another blow. But the prone young captain on the ground suddenly wheels away, this time ready for vicious kick. Quickly attempting to get his feet, he stumbles back as he rapidly blinks back the dark spots bubbling up his line of vision. He gasps at the pain in his side, wiping away the line of blood that drips down his temple, and wincing as he attempts to open his almost swollen shut black eye, all the products of earlier low blows that definitely played outside the rules of the sparring. But it doesn't stop him from swiftly bringing up his sword and easily blocking his opponent's nasty swipe across his chest, which is a good thing. Again, it is the last practice of the week, meaning both men are using real weaponry. God knows it can do a serious amount of damage, despite the fact they're both in full armor. Especially when so brutally wielded by the fuming young knight he's currently facing in the practice ring. He easily blocks another brutal blow from his opponent, but not before he finds himself on the receiving end of an elbow to chest. It knocks the wind out of him, the jolt almost causing him to hyperventilate and faint from the lack of oxygen getting to his brain. Yet another one of the many of obviously cheap blows doled out to him sends concerned murmurs through most of the crowd. That ain't right, he even hears one of legionnaires mutter just outside the ring.
"Rogue," he mutters after he takes a gasp of breath, gritting his teeth against the sting, frankly more angry at the fact that he expected his opponent to play fair rather than the hit itself. It has been like this for months, since they first arrived at the citadel. From the start, he's found himself on the receiving end of various cheap shots and low blows, both in and outside the ring. Even the beginning of a new year hasn't tired any of them out. He's been to the infirmary more times than he can count. Once, it even involved a case of food poisoning, through it proved odd no one else seemed to get it. And of course, there is that time at the tavern someone hurled the wooden cup at the back of his head, damn near splitting it open. No one seems to know who did that either, despite the fact that he was surrounded only by members of his own company.
To be honest, he would not mind it so much, were it not be so blatantly from his own men. A little discretion never hurt anyone. To some degree, it is to be expected of these angry Sarmatians, so far away from home, forced into a blood debt as a result of the actions of their long-dead ancestors. Of course they have a right to be irate, resentful and even probably be looking to kill him. He has no idea of what he would do were he in the same situation. Probably the same, frankly. But just as well, he is also getting god-damned tired of suffering in silence, letting them take out their vengeance on him all in the name of being an honorable and principled commander. Patience is a virtue, God knows. But dealing with this lot would cause even the most saintly of men to fall. An eye for an eye, he'd hear his father say on those rare occasions when he was home from the fort. These wild men of the steppes will never respect you until they know you are willing to bleed with and die for them and their sins. Some say his father had a God complex, attempted to put himself up on that cross along side the Savior. It is almost heretical, frankly. But he knows it is simply the fact that Uther loved his men enough to heed their loyalty. And, as he predicted to his own son so long ago as they sat in front of fireplace, son watching father clean that beautiful sword of his, Uther did end up dying for them. The burial mound right next to his own men in the graveyard at the back of this very citadel is proof of that.
The decidedly deadly whooshing noise of his opponent's sword spinning through the air brings him back to the present as he uses all his willpower to ignore the slashes of pain that grip his chest every time he takes a deep breath. Seeing that the other knight uses the high guard of one on the offensive and slashes downward, he feints to the left, directly into the path of the other sword. This move of insanity causes his opponent to falter, giving him enough time to effortlessly slide to right, whacking the flat of his sword into his chest and then whipping around and cutting behind himself to slash across his stomach in one smooth motion. It's an old trick his father taught him, and he's glad to finally put it to use. If only to see the usual look of pure malevolent conceit suddenly fade from his opponent's face as he looses his footing and stumbles backwards. Taking this new opening, Artorius swings his sword, slashing down again, and cutting him across the hand, causing a fine line of blood to appear along the fresh slice. Swinging the flat of his sword like a club, he connects with his knees, causing them to buckle. He then hits him across the shoulder, the unexpected force of the blow causing his opponent him to drop his sword. Using the hilt of his weapon, he strikes him across the chest, causing the other knight to groan in pain and fall onto his back, completely at his mercy. Artorius points sword at his neck, putting the sharp tip of it under his chin, forcing the young knight to look up at him.
"You yield, Lancelot?" It's growled out as more of a statement rather than a question, the completely unexpected underpinnings of malice in his voice causing looks of confusion to flash across most of the crowd's faces. Even Lancelot's usual constant sneer of blatant contempt for his captain disappears for a moment, a few murmurs of approval coming from the crowd. Artorius, holding back a gasp of pain as he breathes, feeling the blood trickle down the side of his face and looking at him through his good eye, is tired of giving his opponents the benefit of the doubt. He's done with questions.
"I have to do so," Lancelot scoffs, quickly regaining what little is left of his composure. "Wouldn't want to be accused of mutiny, now would I?"
Artorius says nothing, face remaining impassive, though his green eyes darken. With concern or rage, Lancelot doesn't know. However, he suddenly realizes he doesn't wish to see what happens if it proves the latter.
Holding his sword under his knight's chin for a bit longer, Artorius suddenly withdraws, tossing his sword to the ground and holding out his arm to help his opponent to his feet despite the pain shooting through it. Lancelot snorts in derision, scooting from under him and getting to his feet on his own. "At least you seem able to unarm me," he sniffs. "'Tis the least to be expected of our illustrious commander," he spits.
"If you say so," Artorius replies evenly, though his eyes are still narrowed. As Lancelot brushes himself off, he finds himself backing away from his commander. Something in those wretched eyes of Castus hints at a deeper, unexpected fury. Shocking in such a usually passive sort. Maybe the attempted second kick to the ribs was a bit excessive. But it still doesn't change a damned thing. He's still a bloody, and apparently saintly Roman, while he still remains a Sarmatian, tithed to these imperialistic bastards.
Lancelot makes no move to pick up his sword and hand it over to Artorius, as is the usual sign of submission. Rather he kicks it over to his commander. Artorius does nothing, still standing there, holding his subordinate's hateful gaze. After a while, Lancelot breaks the stare, suddenly turning away, bringing his injured hand to his mouth to stop the sting of the slash across it. As he leaves the ring, his captain reaches down to pick up his sword. But he cannot complete the task, letting out a groan of pain and leaving the sword on the ground. "You might want to get that looked at," the Lancelot says, not bothering to turn around. "After all, I wouldn't want to be accused of attempting to murder you," he continues, the contempt in his voice evident.
"Same with your hand. Considering that's your sword arm, God knows what'll happen once you're disarmed within the space of a few minutes again, knight." Knight. The way Artorius' mouth subtly slides around the word, it's as though the bearer of the title is completely unworthy of carrying it. "After all," Artorius continues, voice hardening, "I wouldn't want to be accused of not giving you the proper training and thus indirectly murdering you."
"Who said anything of murder?" Lancelot retorts, spinning around face him. "Romans don't do that. They're far too civilized after all."
"Said like a true barbarian." Artorius regrets the rash words as soon as he's said them. But he's too infuriated and in too much pain to care right now. "And I believe you mentioned murder first."
"Just like you to accuse me of insubordination!"
"I said nothing of the sort…"
"Oh, of course not. You're too wily for that. You've better ways of wasting our lives for the next fifteen god-damned years!"
"Contrary to the popular beliefs of you knights, no."
"'Tis just like you to throw our positions back in our faces!"
"No one said anything of anyone's position. And I've no control over that…"
"The hell you don't! Our lives are not ours to live…"
"So you think."
"As though you give a rutting damn!" Lancelot retorts.
"I don't," Artorius shrugs, completely exasperated, his patience at an end. "I just want payment on the life that belongs to Rome," he spits. Again, the regret comes flooding back. But he has no time to dwell on it as the other knight rushes towards him, throwing a well aimed blow in the direction of his head. He sidesteps the blow with little fanfare, but has no time to pick up his own sword, Lancelot quickly sweeping in and picking up his own weapon as the crowd gasps in a mixture of fascination and shock. Making a wide arc with his sword, Lancelot yells in frustration as he fails to connect with any part of his captain's body, for Artorius, despite all his injuries, still proves faster. Winding his way back and forth between Lancelot's swings, he tunes out the sound of the yelling and gasping crowd, waiting patiently for the other knight's rage to cloud his judgment. He doesn't have to wait long, for Lancelot's strokes quickly become too wide, leaving numerous openings. Artorius then unexpectedly whips around and drops to the ground, grabbing his sword and jumping back up. Slashing up and then crashing his arm down, he first knocks the sword out of the other knight's hand with ease, then slamming a vicious blow into his chest. He swings around, cutting downwards again, purposely swinging the flat of the sword across Lancelot's shins, causing the knight to curse as he legs involuntarily give way and he falls to his knees. But Artorius is not done, the absolute rage in his eyes unmistakable and deadly. Suddenly he tosses to the sword to his other hand, flipping it so he holds it by its not-quite-so-dull blade, completely oblivious to the burning feel of metal cutting into flesh, the blood from the injury running freely down his hand. Violently swinging the butt of the sword, he knocks Lancelot in the head, the sickeningly dull crack of the metal pommel connecting soundly with his skull ringing in the air. The brutal blow causes the other knight's eyes to roll to the back of head as he immediately topples over, face down in the dirt as the crowd falls completely silent, wholly shocked by the captain's unprecedented ruthlessness.
"That's ENOUGH!" Lot roars, attempting to push his way through the stunned crowd as Bors and Pellinore rush to Lancelot's side. Bors drops to his knees, rolling Lancelot over so that he's face up. He is still out cold, blood slowly seeping down the side of his bruised temple and into the dirt.
"He breathes still," Bors hisses after a while as he lifts his ear from listening for Lancelot's breath. "His heart still beats as well," he says with relief almost to himself as he withdraws his hand from Lancelot's chest. Pellinore, trying to shake Lancelot awake with his good hand, casts a look of unfettered malice at Artorius, who completely ignores him.
"'Tis the least he deserves!" Agravaine retorts as he makes his way over to Artorius, followed by Gareth. "He's fortunate he isn't taken out back and flogged!" he continues, face contorted into a chilling sneer, pale gray eyes on fire and voice dripping with murderous intent as he moves to support Artorius, who stumbles, his sword dropping from his hand. His breath is labored, a mixture of sweat and blood dripping down his brow as he looks away from Pellinore. In the meantime, Cador has pushed his way through the crowd, running up and grabbing Artorius around the shoulders, doing his best to support the taller man.
"'Tis alright, Cador," Artorius rasps, trying to steady his breathing, though his eyes are still locked on the prone form of Lancelot.
"The hell it is!" the squire counters. "He tried to kill you and…"
"It was only sparring."
"He still tried to harm you!" Cador replies with a screech. Seeing his captain's bloodied hand, he lets out a gasp of dismay. Artorius' ruby signet ring is slowly slipping off, helped along by the fresh blood. Cador attempts to slide it off so that it doesn't fall to ground and become lost in the fray.
"Must you always try to defend me?" Artorius croaks, closing his eyes to stop the scene in front of him from spinning, flexing his fingers so that Cador can get the ring off. He does, tucking it into his pouch for safekeeping.
"Considering it is my duty, yes!" the young legionnaire retorts.
"It's all our duty frankly!" Agravaine continues. "Though this lot will never get that," he spits at the other twelve or so younger knights who now surround Lancelot. Some of them look shocked, the younger ones slightly horrified (though they try to hide it), while a few others cast looks of what can only be described as highly malicious at Artorius. Dagonet and Tristan break away from the group, coming over to their commander's side. Palamedes joins them as well
"You really did quite a number on that one, yeah?" Dagonet says almost proudly, shooing Cador and Agravaine out of the way. Throwing one arm around Artorius' waist and taking the captain's arm around his own shoulders, he easily supports his weight, keeping him from stumbling yet again.
"Is he…?" Artorius mutters, eyes opening suddenly.
"Dead? Nah, unfortunately not. That one will be fine, though he will be feeling quite the headache for the next few days, the son of a whore," Tristan replies in his usual clipped tones as he produces a clean rag, which he now quickly uses to wrap around his captain's sliced-up hand. As he does this, across the ring, Lancelot's eyes finally flutter open. Bors tries to get him to his feet, dragging him up by the arms. But the injured knight stumbles with a groan, falling back onto the ground, Bors attempting to help him up again.
"You've gone too far this time, mate," Bors mutters to Lancelot, clucking his tongue in reproach. "That temper 'o yours is gonna get you killed!" Lancelot doesn't respond. Only after some long seconds is he able to finally get to his feet, though he only manages to stand with the assistance of Bors and Pellinore, an arm slung around each of their shoulders.
"He threw the first blow," Palamedes says with a shrug watching the scene across from them. "It's the least he deserves."
Bors and Pellinore quickly move to get Lancelot out of the ring and towards the infirmary. But they have to cross Artorius' path to get to that side of the ring. They try to cut a large swath around him, but the numerous knights surrounding them make it impossible and they're forced to squeeze by the group surrounding Artorius.
"You manipulative bastard," Lancelot pants out sleepily as they brush by. He's met by silence from the other knights, many of them nodding in disapproval at his words.
"You've got some bloody nerve, you insolent whelp," Dagonet replies evenly, though his eyes narrow in irritation as he still keeps his captain on his feet. "By the way, Artorius," he continues to no one in particular. "You disarmed him even more easily on the second try, even with all the injuries from the low blows and such. Good show, wouldn't you say?"
"Perhaps he should have used two swords," Artorius says almost giddily, the pain nearly getting the better of him and making him lightheaded. Agravaine throws back his head letting out of a gleeful cackle as Cador does his best to hold back a snicker along with Palamedes, Tristan shrugging in his turn, though the side of his mouth twitches with detached amusement. Suddenly the knights surrounding Lancelot, save Bors and Pellinore, scatter like rats as Lot crashes into the center of the ring, Jols following him with a bit more self-control.
"You bloody bastard! Have you lost what little wits ye have!" Lot roars, smacking Lancelot in the back of the head, causing the young knight to all but slump over. Shaking his head, he fights to remain conscious as Bors blanches and Pellinore rolls his eyes.
"He's injured, Praefectus Castrorum…" Pellinore sneers.
"You think I don't see that, you slobbering little tit!"
"Well…"
"One more word out of you and I'll hang you by your thumbs myself!" The color drains from Pellinore's face a he snaps his mouth shut. Shoving Bors and Pellinore out of the way, ignoring Pellinore's rasping cry of pain as he lands awkwardly on his two-week-old broken wrist, Lot grabs Lancelot by the collar. Frankly that's now the only thing keeping the young knight on his feet at this point.
"Now, I don't know if your brains are too addled right now to hear me, you sack of waste," Lot says, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "But you pull another mutinous little stunt like that, you will be punished to the fullest extent of the law, you understand!" Lancelot does his best to nod to his head, but his body is not responding to what his brain is commanding it to do.
"He's too far gone for now," Lot snaps at the other two knights as he lets go of Lancelot, letting him crumble to the ground. "Get him out of my sight," he continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Take him to the infirmary. I want to see him very well rested before he receives his punishment," he grinds out. The two move at lightening speed, getting Lancelot to his feet and getting him out of the ring. "The rest of you, scatter. NOW!" Lot bellows. The silent crowd suddenly erupts with noise, doing its best to break out and get as far away from the scene as possible, disappearing within minutes.
"As for you," Lot all but yells, suddenly turning around to face Artorius, Dagonet and the others still standing there resolutely. "I fail to believe that as Uther's son, someone with your supposed high level of intellect fell for that little rat's ploy!"
"He was defending 'imself, m'lord," Dagonet replies purposefully, the others nodding in silent agreement.
"He should've walked the hell away the minute that mouthy little git started the initial argument!" Lot counters with a growl. "Check that temper of yours, Castus, and you just might not get yourself killed in the not-so-distant future." Artorius lets out a resigned sigh, though he attempts to nod in agreement.
"Get him out of here as well," Lot mutters with a wave. "The whole lot of you bastards will be the death of me," he grumbles as Dagonet and the others take their captain to the infirmary, Jols silently shaking his head in disbelief and leading the way.
"By the Goddess!" Maeve mutters, shocked at the sight of the injured commander sitting before her on the pallet. Watching as Tristan gently peels away Artorius' bloodied undershirt, she gasps again, tears coming to her eyes as she takes in the black and blue bruises littering his stomach, allow with the various cuts and abrasions. She can't take it anymore, watching as he struggles to lift his arms to allow the shirt to be pulled over his head, his breath coming in sort bursts at the pain.
"Just cut it off," she chokes out, voice catching in throat as Dagonet squeezes her shoulder in an attempt at keeping her calm. She passes the dagger that lies on the table next her to Tristan. He easily palms it, proceeding to swiftly cut away the last of the shirt. "I-I wouldn't know where to start," she stutters, the tears flowing freely down her face now once she gets full sight of the bruises. Saying a silent prayer that Leonius finds her grandmother as soon as possible, she attempts to collect herself. The first rule of healing is never lose it in front of the patient, something she is currently failing at. Well, at least she remembered to give him the sleeping draught as soon as they dragged him in. He would be asleep within a few minutes, which would help with the pain.
"You're smart enough for having seven seasons to you," Agravaine drawls, casual tone belying his rising panic. "Just start…cleaning his wounds."
"But a possible broken rib. It could go wrong…Okay," she says as Dagonet pulls up a chair, taking the cloth hanging on her arm and dipping it into the bowl of oddly smelling herbs and water she holds in her hands. "Or, uh, he can do it," she says as she attempts to sniff back her tears. Dagonet's fingers are surprisingly gentle as he wipes away the blood coming from the few reopened scratches that run down his captain's sword-arm. Feeling along his ribs, he breathes a sigh of relief at the lack of knots or displaced bone.
"'Tis not broken," Dagonet says evenly, causing everyone in the room to let out a sigh of relief. "Bruised as hell, probably, but not broken."
"Figures that rat would be too weak to cause any real damage," Agravaine mutters.
"S-so, um, all he'll need is a wrap, something for the scratches and cut above his eye?" Maeve says, voice finally coming to her.
"Looks like that'll be all. Oh, and also a bit of the cooling water for the black eye, yeah?" Dagonet replies
"Y-yes. I'll g-go get it?" she replies, wiping her teary eyes with the back of her hand and sniffling.
"Good girl," Tristan intones, taking the bowl from her hands and pushing her out of the room as he looks over his shoulder at Artorius. He's steadily slouching down against the wall, eyes closed and his breathe slowing down. He's not completely asleep yet, but he'll be there soon. "He didn't suffer any injury to the head?" the scout asks, voice rising with concern.
"No, it's just the sleeping draught," Dagonet replies matter-of-factly, moving Artorius so that he sits up straighter and doesn't put any pressure on his ribs. The captain mutters something aloud before he begins snoring, head falling back against the wall. "He'll be out for a few hours," Dagonet continues.
"Those bastards have really been giving it to him something fierce," Cador intones, voice rising as his eyes flit over the old bruises. "I should've done something sooner…"
"We've all should've done something, sooner" Agravaine replies in an irritated voice. "Been going on since we got here: the cheap shots in the ring and during the drills, the decidedly unfunny pranks, various acts of what can only be called insubordination," he sighs. "However," he continues, face lighting up. "I suspect changes will occur after this. He pretty much pounded that mouthy little git into the ground."
"'Tis about time," Palamedes replies. "Between this and Pellinore's wrist being snapped in two like a twig, I smell some changes on the wind…" Suddenly the door to their room swings open, revealing a scowling Ceridwen being pulled along by Leonius.
"…and then whack! Right across the shoulder and he drops his sword and you should have seen it!" the boy chatters excitedly, arms flailing about as he describes the battle. "This one whacked 'im across the head and then bang! He went down like a rock. The other one's is across the way. Possible head injury, a break of the bones in the chest, bruised shins, slash across his sword-hand and other general malarkey," he counts off on his fingers. "And this one has the broken ribs, bruises…" he continues.
"No broken ribs from what I can see, m'lady," Dagonet says with a nod of respect, rising from his seat.
"Can you let one of the other girls take care of Artorius for now?" she snaps. "Not that I really care whether the other one never wakes up or not, but I can't have his angry little spirit flitting around me if he should die," she says, voice softening as she gets a good look at Artorius slumped against the wall. "The other one's a head injury, unfortunately."
"I can get 'im stable, I think…" Dagonet replies.
"Good," she replies. "One of the healers should be here shortly. In the meantime, the rest of you can go." No one makes any move to leave, causing Ceridwen to sigh. "I swear I'll take good care of him. The best," she finishes, voice becoming low and serious.
"Only the best," Cador says for emphasis after a while as he moves to leave.
"You sure you can't let the other one die?" Agravaine says, voice completely serious as he walks towards the door, grabbing Leonius by the hand and pulling him along with him.
"Sorry. Goes against the oath," she replies with a shake of her head.
"'Tis a shame," Palamedes retorts, sidestepping her and leaving as well.
"As much as I'm sure you'd like to slice him up something good, I can't let you," Ceridwen retorts, though her mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smile as she leaves as well, crossing the hall to the room where Lancelot lies, Bors and Pellinore waiting for her.
"Again, 'tis a shame," Tristan replies with a smirk.
"Go on, out with you," Ceridwen says, pushing him away, through he tries to look back and get one last look at Artorius.
"Aye," he replies evenly. "Take good care of 'im, yeah?"
"I swear it."
"Good, good," he says. Making his way down the stairs and out of the infirmary, he heads over to the tavern. Maybe a good drink or four will heal his raging mind.