Almost a fortnight of being essentially a prisoner in the infirmary is starting to drive Artorius a little stir crazy. Not to mention, he's currently famished. Again. Closing the door to his room behind him, the young captain takes a deep breath, satisfied at the slight twinge of pain as he does so. It proves far better than the excruciating ache he's felt the last few days on account of his bruised ribs. If he continues to heal like this, he should be out of the infirmary in a matter of a week or so. At least that's what he thinks to himself as he begins walking down the darkened hallways. The oil lamp he carries being the only light, he tries to make his way to the dining hall. But his unfamiliarity with the building is proving quite a hindrance. Within a matter of minutes he's lost, cursing the darkness as he tries to double back. He's hungry, dammit. While by all rights he should be asleep, considering the late night hour, his stomach demands otherwise having kept him up for most of the night. The only way to settle it is raiding the larder.

Suddenly he hears groans of pain and random mutterings, followed by the hushed whimpers of someone. They seem to be coming from the around him. Arching an eyebrow in question, Artorius holds a candle up to the wall, immediately making out the outline of the door of one of the infirmary quarters, similar to his own. Pressing an ear to it, he quickly determines it proves the source of the noises. Reaching down and surprised find it unlocked, he slowly pushes it open, the creaking of its ancient hinges echoing dramatically in the night.

Blinking against the comparatively bright light of the roaring fire in the hearth, he moves forward. The groans come again, this time from the huddled figure sleeping soundly on the pallet on the side of the room. Well, he would be sleeping soundly, save the fact that he's tangled in the blankets that seem to drown him. Dark hair matted, damp brow creased, fingers clutching at the air, his lips move frantically with hushed words as, though caught in some silent fearful prayer of deliverance. His cheeks flushed with apparent fever, his movements become increasingly frantic as Artorius hurries to side.

"Lancelot?" he questions, seeing the young knight in his troubled state. Reaching out, he attempts to shake him awake but to no avail, Lancelot's murmurs becoming louder and more anxious. "Lancelot, wake up. It only proves a dream…"

Without warning, Artorius finds himself far too close to the end of a rather sharp looking blade wielded by a scarcely awake Lancelot. The knight's suddenly sitting upright, attempting to catch his breath, his hand going to the weapon out of instinct at finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings, someone in his room. Still trying to catch his breath, he stares at Artorius, eyes clouded with confusion. After some moments, he finally begins to get his bearings, though he still holds his weapon at ready.

"A nightmare," he whispers, not realizing who's there until his dark eyes suddenly blaze with recognition. "W-what in the hell are you doing here?" he grunts, Artorius shrugging in response. "You're lucky I don't gut you right here and now, Roman," he continues with a tired sigh of annoyance.

"You don't say? They'd crucify you for mutiny," Artorius counters indignantly, eyes narrowing.

"Would that be before or after you explain why you're in my room in the middle of the night? I mean, you're not a bad looking sort," he continues disdainfully, "But I tend to prefer the fairer sex…"

"It would still be mutiny," Artorius shrugs, ignoring his previous words.

"Typical," Lancelot sneers. "All you hold dear to you in that rather thick head of yours are the rules," he snorts. Wiping his feverish brow with the back of his hand, he quickly rubs his eyes, destroying any evidence of previous distress. Easily palming the dagger and sheathing it, he carelessly tosses it onto the table next to his bed.

"You really think that so?" Artorius questions, voice sounding oddly distressed.

"Why should I not?" Lancelot retorts bitterly, sitting up straighter. "That's why we're here, at this accursed citadel on this wretched island. Bloody rules. Some old pact from a thousand damned years ago…"

"350 years ago," Artorius immediately corrects him, at once regretting it as he sees the dark look of fury that crosses the other knight's face.

"'Tis the bloody problem, that right there!" Lancelot begins, voice becoming angrier as he throws back the blankets and begins to get to his feet. He thinks the better of it though as his vision swims before his eyes, forcing him to take a series of deep breaths and drop back down on the pallet. "Y-you always think you're right!" he gasps out, closing his eyes as he brings a hand to his head in an effort to regain his composure. Artorius' eyes go wide at the knight's words, though he says nothing. Watching as Lancelot begins rubbing his temples and taking more deep breaths, Artorius backs away, leaning against the opposite wall and crossing his arms. Silence falls, the air thick with unsaid words and tight unease.

"Forgive me but I heard something odd, so I entered," he murmurs after a long while. "You…look as though you suffered…a nightmare."

"He talks of my suffering!" Lancelot mutters ruefully. "As though you give a bloody damn," he spits, voice louder though his eyes are still closed as his hands drop into his lap. "By the gods, just end it now!" he mumbles as he falls back onto the pallet, chest heaving with unfettered rage. The room is quiet again, save for Lancelot's labored breathing.

"You may…tell me of it…" Artorius begins to mutter uncomfortably.

"I would've hunted you down and told you if I wanted you to know, now wouldn't I?" Lancelot snaps, sitting up again, eyes snapping open. "For the love of whatever god you pray to, why don't you just leave?"

"This must be settled…"

"I'd say it is settled. We're at a stalemate, are we not? I'll never attempt to cross you in the ring, especially after that little lovely display of your skills. Quite a knock to the head you gave me. Not that that I blame you," he spitefully adds, seeing Artorius about to interrupt. "Thus, you'll never bother with me either. We may keep that truce for the next fourteen years or so, wouldn't you say?"

"We could," Artorius begins slowly with a shrug.

"Fine. It is 'settled,' as you said."

"Whatever suites you," Artorius replies gloomily with another shrug, his face despondent, eyes betraying his distress. It doesn't escape Lancelot's dark gaze, causing him to swallow hard. A twinge of guilt unexpectedly pulls at him. But he quickly swallows it down, the bitterness of its taste almost perceptible. Falling back onto his pallet and yanking up the blankets, he turns over to face the wall, his back to Artorius. After what seems an eternity of silence, Lancelot finally hears the creak of the door opening, the sound of it clicking shut following after a time.

Bloody arse, Lancelot thinks to himself as he closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Whether or not he's describing his own actions, he cannot really say.

Ceridwen purposefully drops the plate of bread of between them as they sit in the dining hall for supper the next afternoon. Glaring at each other over it, Artorius and Lancelot don't say word, each taking an end of the loaf of bread in such a way to ensure they don't touch each other. Giving them each a scornful once over, she sighs with annoyance, leaving to get the rest of the meal. The oppressive silence between them seems to echo off the walls, the malice so thick in the air they swear they can taste it. Ceridwen promptly returns, two of her serving women in tow also carrying various plates of food. As they all put the rest of the meal on the table, the serving women exchange puzzled glances, looking from one knight to the other as they stare each other down, completely ignoring the servers.

"Eh, what's the trouble with them?" one of the women promptly whispers to the other once they're out of earshot of the table, Ceridwen following closely behind.

"They're fools," Ceridwen replies, loud enough for both men to clearly hear her agitation. "Bloody boys who refuse to settle their issues like men."

"Oooh," the serving women reply in unison, nodding their heads in understanding. All three of them leave, shaking their heads in disbelief and talking amongst themselves, the two at the table pretending not to hear them.

The dining hall falls relatively silent, again, save the sounds eating, the occasional scraping of a plate or sloshing of wine interrupting the strained stillness. After what seems an unbearable eternity, Artorius moves to leave, beginning to gather up his dishes. Lancelot suddenly moves to say something. But he quickly shuts his mouth as soon as Artorius looks up at him, the annoyance on his face clear as day. Lancelot returns his glare, to which Artorius silently shrugs. He goes back to gathering his dishes, then hastily turning on his heel and leaving.

Halfwit, Lancelot thinks as he munches on a bit of bread. Whether or not he's describing his own actions, he cannot really say.

In a repeat of the scene from supper that afternoon, the two men find themselves in the same situation for dinner. In all honesty, they would try to find a way out of the situation if they could. Except that Ceridwen only allows meals to be taken at a certain time to fit her schedule. And she refuses to have them sit at separate tables on account of having to clean both rather than one. So here they are yet again, alternately actively ignoring or staring down each other across from the table. "Ruttin' idiots," Ceridwen scathingly mutters as she slams down the last dish between them, swiftly making her way out of the room followed by the same serving women from before.

Lancelot finally looks away from Arthur, actively studying the mosaics that line the wall. His eyes carefully examine the various images, having never bothered to pay much attention to them before. Suddenly, his gaze stops on a particular scene, the mosaic illustrating Judgment Day. In heaven there stands the Holy Father, the holy Virgin to his left, the placid looking Savior on his right, his right hand held up in the usual sign of holiness. Just below them stand the saved, faces lifted towards their eternal reward. Those still left to be judged are in center, looking expectantly towards heaven. But below them are the hopeless, falling into the roaring fires of the Land of Damned. Seeing the bright orange, red and yellow of the flames, the color drains from Lancelot's his face, his eyes going wide with fear. He quickly takes a long drink of his wine, almost choking on it in his haste.

"Fire…" he stutters, sputtering into his cup.

"Ehrm…come again?" Artorius retorts, looking up from where he glumly moves the food around his plate, startled by the sudden sound of his voice.

"Never mind," Lancelot replies resignedly, taking another long drink.

"I see," Artorius gradually says. But this time, rather than fixing him with a stare of annoyance or outright disdain, Artorius looks downright concerned. How it is possible, Lancelot doesn't know. The fact that he notices such a thing and that he's even talking to the little Roman bothers him even more.

"I dreamt of fire," Lancelot counters after a while, voice strained and almost a whisper, eyes shifting over to the wall again. "Last night….My village…burnt ash and smoke, gone," he sputters out. "No one left, the earth torched and salted…" he continues, eyes flitting away from the mosaics and coming to rest on Artorius, who stares at him in utter bewilderment. "For the love of the god, don't try to figure it out…just listen!" Lancelot rasps, feeling as though he can see the gears spinning in the young captain's head, judging by the look on his face.

"Come again?" Artorius slowly replies.

"Look, you're the only here, so it's not as though I have a choice in who I may carry on with. Is that what you want to hear? The fact that you're the last resort? That frankly, I'd rather fall on my own sword than acknowledge you?" Lancelot snaps, voice ragged. "Why am I even telling you this?" he mutters.

"You've made it very clear I'm a last resort," Artorius replies flatly.

"Aye. At least you've made your peace with it," Lancelot retorts with an unexpected half-grin before he's able to catch himself.

"You were saying something about fire and your dream?" Artorius counters, unmoved. That is until he sees Lancelot close his eyes again, his mood shifting yet again as his face becomes pale and anxious.

"We are so damned far from home," Lancelot begins to mutter. "Having to cross the great sea to get to this place…sometimes, the mind simply can't take it all in, the shock of it, you know. So…we do things…things that are terribly unbecoming and serve little purpose, except to create discord and disharmony. And then, because we keep it locked away, the mind uses it against us, makes our greatest fears come to the light, over and over again at our most vulnerable. Such are dreams. Or nightmares, really." He opens his eyes to find Artorius warily staring at him from across the table. And then he takes a deep breath, finding the words beginning to tumble out despite his best efforts at control.

"Have you ever seen Sarmatia, Artorius?" Artorius barely has time mutely shake his head "no" before Lancelot babbles on. "It proves nothing like this accursed island; 'tis never dreary and misty or cold and frozen for half the year. The sky doesn't weep out its pitiful rains or blow its blinding fogs. No mournful stretches of muddy green grass, no grim grey cliffs leading to deadly ravines scattered with razor-sharp rocks, no gravelly beaches kissed by the raging, boiling tides. No forlorn citadels tearing into the earth, no stony outposts filled with cynical, weary soldiers, struggling to maintain some foreign sense of order and civility," Lancelot chokes.

"Sarmatia is a land of endless golden plains and warm black earth, covered by the cap of the blue sky. The waves of yellow grass stretch out as far as the eye can see, save to the south, where there lies the great Black Sea. Great packs of untamed horses run wild, their spirits that of warriors long dead, ecstatic to free of the petty concerns of man. The earth is dotted with tents of various villages and settlements, filled with people living off the land. We are tied to nothing but the sacred soil. We move from place to place as we please, not as the result of some empire looking to rape the land for its own supposed glory," he breathes wistfully, staring at some distant place beyond them.

"Such is the Sarmatia I fear I shall never see again," he continues, voice hushed, "For in my nightmares it is burned away. Slashed and set ablaze, salted and scorched. Men, women, children and horses are slain, their twisted, blackened corpses scarring the plain. The earth is stained with blood, the golden grass dead and rotting, the sky a choking black cloud of ash and dust. This is how I find my village after fifteen long years of the waking nightmare that is my Roman pact. Its existence wiped from memory because I was not there to defend it."

"You think you prove the only one missing home?" Artorius whispers after what seems an eternity of silence. "You think you're the only one who dreams of home broken and wiped out? At least you haven't lived through such a thing," he retorts. Lancelot's eyes widen, his dark gaze resting on the opposite man, who now sits stock still, save for the heave of his shoulders.

"You're of the empire," Lancelot begins, voice full of skepticism, "A general. A native Roman. You've lived in a villa all your life, in the countryside, servants and slaves at your beck and call. What did you have to fear coming up in the world?"

Without warning, Artorius begins to laugh out loud, the bitterness in it leaving Lancelot speechless, even withdrawing a bit.

"And you…" Artorius chokes out between his laughter, "Accuse me of making assumptions? How ironic indeed," the young captain snorts out. "We can die at any time," he suddenly says with a growl, voice deadly serious, all signs of laughter vanished. "Our lives blown away in many terrible and hopeless ways: battle, plague, injury, accident, suicide, murder, torture, starvation. We could die screaming and bloodied or silent with nary a visible scratch. We could die miserable and alone or surrounded by our mourning friends. We could die by the hand of the enemy or by the hand of a merciful friend putting us out of our wretched pain. We could die old and sick, a long life of behind us, or young and strong, a life of prospect and fortune snuffed out like candles in a storm."

"And yet…you allow figments of the mind to control you? You allow some feverish moments of an ugly but nonexistent fate to bring all of your capabilities crashing to the ground? I'd like to think you're stronger than that. I know your weaknesses prove less evident. Or are my assumptions as false as yours?" Lancelot's now the one who sits stock still, eyes staring almost lifelessly at Artorius. Suddenly, his brow begins to furrow, his face turning red, lip curling in derision as his hands grip the table and he swiftly gets to his feet.

"Y-you don't know me!" he all but yells. "You've never tried to know me, Roman…"

"You've refused to same thing on your part!" Artorius retorts, getting to his feet as well. "From day one, you've ignored every sense of protocol, of order! You purposefully made my life very close to a living hell! You're the very reason why I'm here, slowly going insane from account of being locked up. You, Lancelot, judged me, never allowing anything in return. Of course I don't know you! You refuse to know me!"

The noise of their tirade causes one of the serving women to come running to the hall, tailed by the other one and Ceridwen. The first woman attempts to move into the room to settle them down, but Ceridwen grabs her wrist, quickly pulling her back before either of the knights notice them. "Not yet," Ceridwen murmurs. "They need to settle this and interrupting it now won't help," she nods knowingly. The other two women nod in disagreement, but fall back. "I know it sounds mad, but trust me," Ceridwen counters, moving back into the shadows. All three disappear out of the doorway leading to the dining hall.

The two still stand across the table, staring daggers at one another, neither refusing to back down. That is until an unexpected wave of regret washes over Artorius.

Hubris. Ceridwen warned him of it.

"So what do we do now," he mumurs, causing Lancelot to start. Quickly regaining his composure, the other knight squares his shoulders.

"What do you mean 'what do we do?'" he asks, not bothering to hide the doubt in his voice.

"It needs to be settled," Artorius shrugs. Lancelot doesn't reply but quickly finds himself taking a seat, this time not really caring about who's backed down first, Artorius quickly following suit.

"They say that death is the great equalizer," Lancelot hears himself say after a while, looking up from his half-eaten plate of food.

"What?"

"No matter how you were in life, everyone dies; rich, poor, Roman, Sarmatian, Briton. Everyone dies."

"Um…"

"All I'm saying is that we have to have something in common. The inevitability of dying is one of them."

"That's a little morbid, don't you think?" Artorius finds himself saying with an uncomfortable chuckle. Lancelot shrugs, though a ghost of a grin is on his face.

"Well, what else would you propose, Roman?"

"That you stop calling me 'Roman?'" Artorius replies, though it is a request rather than a demand. Lancelot shrugs again. Cocking his head to the side, his eyes flit over the Roman. It looks like he's sincere.

"Fine. What do you propose, Rom…M'lord?" Lancelot finds he all but chokes on the final word. It doesn't escape his captain's notice.

"You also don't have to call me 'M'Lord'" he says. "Artorius is fine."

"Still sounds a little full of it," Lancelot retorts.

"Well, it's my given name. I certainly can't change that," he shrugs.

"Well…" Lancelot sighs.

"Well," Artorius replies. The silence between them is back, though time it is neither heavy nor laced with malice.

"How about…'Arthur?'"

"Eh?"

"'Arthur,'" Lancelot repeats. "It's only a shortening of that rather long 'Artorius' nonsense. Doesn't sound so bloody pretentious…or Roman, frankly."

"So you're looking to strip me of my inheritance as well?" Artorius retorts.

"See, that's what I'm talking abou…"

"I'm attempting to be humorous," Artorius replies with uncharacteristic smirk, causing Lancelot to go silent. "Come now," he quickly adds. "'Arthur' sounds acceptable. It may…it will grow on me. 'Arthur.' I…like it."

"So, eh, what now?" Lancelot begins, cheeks flushing with nervousness. "Not to be the most cynical of sorts, Arthur, but one conversation does not a comrade make…"

"What more do you want of me?" Arthur replies tentatively.

"If you truly see us, Sarmatians, as your equal," the other knight begins thoughtfully, "Then I will give you my unquestionable loyalty. The others will follow, that much I guarantee," he finishes resolutely. "But the minute you slip, none of this means a thing."

I shall concede to that," Arthur replies after a while, equally resolute as he reaches across the table to shake on it. Lancelot looks doubtful but finds he reaches across as well, sealing the promise. "So really," Artorius continues, "How's your head?" His voice is serious as not to draw any sort of ire.

"Hurts like hell. Like I said, quite a knock you gave me…" Lancelot murmurs.

"Well, if it doesn't hurt tomorrow," Arthur continues, cutting him off, not wanting to relive the moment, "Would you like to get a bit practice in?"

"What, you'll teach me to use two swords?"

"I was delirious when I said that," Arthur replies, visibly flinching at the memory of the insult.

"Now it is I attempting to be humorous," Lancelot replies with his characteristic smirk. "And to tell you the truth, it's not such a bad idea."

"But you'd have to be able to use both hands…"

"I can," Lancelot shrugs. "Always have been able to. Runs in the family. It's just that the Roman style of fighting with the gladius requires only the right hand. That infernal piece of crap of a sword they give us isn't terribly effective, especially outside the Roman formations, no offense."

"None taken," Arthur grins. "So you really can use both hands?"

"I actually favor my left more than the right, but it's possible. I practice with my own weapons when not on duty. In fact most of us prefer our own weapons to tell you the truth," he continues, looking sideways at Arthur. "It may not be to Roman design…"

"But it makes you all feel more effective, thereby making the company more effective," Arthur finishes. "And such effectiveness shall be put in place as soon as I get out of here." Lancelot finds he cannot stop from smiling at this grasp of independence. "Anyway," Arthur continues, "It's agreed. I'll have to get old Lamorak to teach you then."

"The arms-master?" Lancelot chuckles. "By the gods, he's old as dirt. I doubt he can swing one sword, let alone two."

"You'd be surprised," Arthur grins, getting up from the table and collecting his plates. Lancelot follows and they walk out of the dining hall, conversation finally flowing between them. Within minutes of their exit, the serving women and Ceridwen enter from the other side of the hall, clearing away the last of the dinner mess.

"And you didn't believe me," Ceridwen intones, a grin on her face. The serving women chuckle in reply, shaking their heads in disbelief. "Boys will be boys," she continues, wiping the table down. "But 'tis only a true nobleman who puts aside the boy within him in order to become a man."

A/N: Don't know if this makes any sense, but for some reason, I see the Sarmatians as a sort of fallen Rohirrim, their land similar to Rohan. Kind of like what if Rohan had been conquered by some outside empire later on down the line in a thousand years. And the result of their loss is why they provide knights to Rome, a living ransom of sorts. I don't know why I think that; it's all probably on account of the obvious love Sarmatians have for their horses. And the fact that I happened to be writing this chapter while listening to The Two Towers soundtrack.

Anyway, I'm taking a break for a bit (work and other things, to say the least). This story is not abandoned, just on hiatus.