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amari_zRumors of War, continued from here.
He heard the sound of the tent flap behind him. "Are you ready?" his elder sister asked.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet-smelling smoke rising from the brazier before him and considered. Was he ready? There was no way to know until he stood before the fire.
Without answering, he rose and walked to the entrance. He paused there, meeting her eyes, dark like his. Her gaze was fierce and proud. He had sometimes entertained the blasphemous thought that their ancestors had been mistaken: Their totem should have been the eagle, not the lion.
She stepped aside, and he ducked out of the tent. He blinked against the sunlight, although the day was grey, bright only in comparison to the darkness of the tent.
The People were waiting outside the tent, but they had left a wide corridor open for him. It was strange to see so many gathered, yet in such silence. It was so quiet that he could hear the crackle of flames. Or was that the wind through the grass?
He began to walk down the path they had created for him. He knew his sister followed at his back, but did not look around. His eyes now fixed on what stood at the end of the human corridor.
Wood was a precious, hoarded thing, but they had stinted nothing here. The fire was greater than any he had ever seen, but for when the Sky unleashed his lightening and the flames raced across the grasslands like a ravenous beast. Even at the distance, he could feel its heat.
The walk seemed both too long and too short. The gathered People gave way some lengths from the fire itself. Closest stood a boy, the first hints of a beard on his cheeks. Their eyes met, and he could see the hint of tears in the other's eyes. Weak. So weak. He would have to learn to be strong. This would be only the first of his burdens. He passed the boy, walking alone, his sister halting to stand beside the boy.
It was the fire now that filled his vision, roaring and dancing its hunger. He came to a stop close enough that its embers singed his skin and its heat seemed to reach out for him.
Are you ready?
He turned his head to the side so the heat licked at his cheek, and he could see the clear path left free between the fire and the People. Beyond stretched open land and wide sky in the direction of the setting sun. New lands, not yet known. Longing filled him, to gallop over them, to learn every subtle rise and fall of the earth, as free as the wind that rose up to sweep down from the grasses through the space between, cooling his heated skin.
He could turn and go, he knew. No one would stop him. A surge of power filled him. He could simply walk away and leave them all to their destruction.
He closed his eyes, feeling the beckoning wind, hearing the angry fire, sensing behind him the stillness of the People, the tears of the new king. A smile no one saw touched his mouth as he turned his face from Earth and Sky back to the fire.
Are you ready?
He walked into the flames.
~
Lancelot woke and looked blearily around the hospital room, fighting the heavy lethargy that threatened to drag his lids down again.
Kay was sitting in the chair beside the bed reading a fat book with a great deal of attention. So much attention that he did not realize that Lancelot was awake. There was an acrid, burning smell in the room, but Kay would be one of the last knights Lancelot would suspect to have been smoking.
Lancelot blinked, trying to free himself of the haziness that settled over his brain. Fucking drugs. He seemed to do little but sleep, but he could not tell if that was part of his body recovering or just the perversity of the medicines. He was betting the medicine. He really should have killed that little shit of a doctor straight off.
But with the last round, they had given him pills rather than injections. When the nurse had brought the medicine, he had charmed her into explaining what each of the multi-colored pills did. There were quite an astounding number of them.
Whatever else they did, they left him unable to think. Every time he started to ask one of the knights for news, he found himself being brushed off with vague statements, which he was too muddled to pursue. In his brief lucid moments it infuriated him—although even the anger was a muffled, distant thing.
At this point, he was positively longing for some honest pain.
The drugs were wearing off now; he could tell by his ability to string two thoughts together. But that meant that the next dosing could not be far away. These people seemed bent on keeping him drugged. Perhaps rather than killing the doctor, he should have been a bit nicer.
Well, it was not going to continue much longer. He had had enough. He shifted experimentally. His head still ached with every motion, and was making dire threats about cracking open. His chest was sore, and every breath sent a stab of pain through him. It was nothing he could not handle. He had felt worse. He could not quite remember when, though.
His shifting did not draw Kay's attention as it should have, and he studied what he could see of Kay's book. A smirk twitched over his lips just as the nurse entered. It was a different woman from before, one he did not recognize. She placed a paper cup of pills before him and poured out some water from the ugly pink plastic pitcher beside the bed.
"I'm guessing you're about ready for these, Mr. Banson," she said. She moved around the room with brisk efficiency, checking the monitors and then tucking the disordered sheets back firmly under the mattress. He restrained a snarl at that, and instead smiled at her. She smiled back, then looked surprised at herself and jerked her eyes away.
She was flushed as she hurried out of the room. Kay was watching Lancelot now, a suspicious light in his eyes. Lancelot wiggled his feet, trying to build some give so he could kick loose the sheets. He did not acknowledge Kay's look.
"You need to take those," Kay said after a while.
Ignoring the shakiness of his hands, Lancelot picked up the paper cup of pills and dumped them into his palm. "What are you reading?" he asked with every appearance of vague disinterest.
"It's research." Kay's tone was too curt.
"On what?"
With uncharacteristic reluctance, Kay supplied, "On Merlin."
Lancelot kept his tone bland. "Really? That's strange. Your book looks a lot like that one that these people went mad for. That children's story with the boy who's bricklayer."
"Potter." Kay's correction was automatic. "It's just a surname name." Kay then seemed to remember that he did not want to talk about this, and his gaze returned to fix on his book. If Lancelot did not know better, he might have thought there was a tinge of color to his cheeks. At Lancelot's continued silence, Kay glanced up, cleared his throat and offered: "I had heard there was a mention of Merlin in the book, so I thought it was best to see what it said for myself. I read all the previous books and I'm nearly finished with this, the last one." He sounded quite officious.
Lancelot yanked at the corner of a pillow that had gotten rucked up before reaching for the glass of water the nurse had left. "Ah, very diligent. And is there?"
"Is there what?"
"Anything helpful about Merlin in the book?" he prompted. He popped the pills in his hand into his mouth and raised the glass of water.
"Not unless you count his pants," Kay muttered.
Lancelot nearly choked. "What was that?" he managed after forcing down the pills.
"I said there's nothing of consequence." Kay cleared his throat. "But I think it's best to read through to the end to make sure."
"By all means," Lancelot said. Kay gave him another suspicious look but went back to reading.
Lancelot smirked to himself. Half the pills were under his pillow.
Lancelot went back to working his feet free. Kay was too absorbed in his children's book to notice anything, but there would be no use in fishing for information from him. He would see which of the knights took the next shift.
~
Voices carried through the door, and Kay tore his gaze from his book. Damn. He was close to the end and Professor Trelawney had just appeared armed with— He sighed as the voices rose in volume and put aside the book. He went to the door and found the two police inspectors arguing with Lamorak and Percival.
"I thought you two gentleman were told that Mr. Banson was not up to having visitors yet," Kay interrupted. Kay could have sworn that Percival had been reaching for his gun, the little idiot. Kay sighed. He would have to sit the boy down again and explain to him the proper usage of force. And why it was a bad idea to draw a weapon on the authorities of this time.
"We just need a few moments," the one called Tanner said. "Surely Mr. Banson wants to have the perpetrator caught?"
"Perhaps if we could speak to your associate Mr. Collingwood—" Stephens said.
Kay was about to tell the man what he thought about that (to the best of Kay's knowledge "Mr. Collingwood" was passed out in the house kitchen, as was usual before noon), when Lancelot's voice called from behind, "Let them come in, Kay." Kay sighed. He had hoped Lancelot was asleep—had he not just taken his medicines? Resigned, he held the door open.
The inspectors took seats and pulled notebooks out. Lancelot was eyeing them with a glint in his eye that Kay did not like. Lancelot was evidently not being provided with sufficient entertainment. Always a dangerous thing.
"So, Mr. Banson," Stephens started, "we'll keep this as brief as possible, and follow up when you're feeling better. Can you tell us what you remember about the shooting?"
"Remember? I think it must have hurt."
"No," Tanner said, "DCI Stephens means, what do you remember before the shooting."
"Starting when?"
Stephens cleared his throat. Kay gave Lancelot a look that said, behave, which Lancelot ignored. Trying to sound jovial, Stephens said, "Let's try this: You pushed Mr. Castus before the bullet hit you. How did you know to do that? Did you see or hear something?"
"Sixth sense."
"Sixth sense," Tanner echoed. "You mean like second sight or something?"
"That. Or maybe I tripped."
"Tripped?"
"Or I was quite angry at Arthur—Mr. Castus—at the time. Perhaps I shoved him just because I felt like it."
"Did you two have an argument?" Tanner made a note in his book.
"I'm not really sure. I'm afraid it's all rather hazy." Lancelot blinked at them innocently. "Why don't you tell me what you think happened. It might jog my memory." Both inspectors eyed him dubiously.
Kay cleared his throat and gave the men a pointed look. "I told you he was not ready for visitors. You should come back some other time. Mr. Banson has suffered a severe head injury, and is clearly . . . not himself."
Stephens' frown lost its severity, and he actually looked a little contrite. Lancelot, on the other hand, gave Kay a furious look—Kay was taking his toys away. Stephens however, had already snapped his notebook shut. "Maybe we should do that."
"Just a moment," Tanner said. "Is there any reason why anyone would want to hurt you, Mr. Banson? Anyone with a grudge?"
"Against me?” Lancelot’s angry eyes were still fixed on Kay. “No. Everyone likes me."
~
When Lancelot woke up again—he found to his disgust that he had fallen asleep at some point after the police had left—Dinaden was in the room with him. He blinked at the other man for a moment, surprised. He had not seen Dinaden since before the shooting. Lancelot had assumed he was out doing something useful.
He certainly was not doing anything productive right now (and sitting with Lancelot did not count and as soon as he could stand up without his legs threatening to buckle, they would all be hearing his opinion on that). The man was just sitting there with his arms crossed, staring at the wall. Lancelot followed his gaze, thinking perhaps to find something there, but no, just blank, white, if somewhat scuffed, wall.
The movement must have caught Dinaden's attention, since he looked over at Lancelot. "You're awake. Do you want anything?"
There were several things Lancelot wanted, but there was no use asking for any of them. "No." He shifted. He was sore from lying in bed so long. "What are you doing babysitting," he sneered out the word, "anyway?"
Dinaden tried out a smile, but it was not particularly successful. Lancelot did not fail to notice the darkness under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth. "Actually, it was Gawain's turn, but he asked me to take over for him." He shrugged and his eyes strayed back to the wall.
Lancelot considered him. He pulled himself up on the bed a little, ignoring the way his entire body protested. He had never much bothered to listen to its complaints.
"So what's the news?" he asked.
Dinaden shrugged again. "Nothing new."
Lancelot wanted to reach across the bed and hit him. Fucking unhelpful bugger. But at least, if there were some conspiracy to keep him in the dark, as he was suspecting there was, Dinaden seemed unaware of it. Gareth, Kay and the others were like old woman sometimes. No doubt they had decided it was better if he was not told anything until he was "better." Maybe they were afraid he would try to escape if they told him what was happening. Like he could when they had posted guards on the door and he was as about as steady on his feet as a newborn foal.
What did they think he was going to do, anyway, climb out the window? He eyed the window with sudden interest. But he did not seem to have much luck with windows.
He took a gamble. "I thought you'd at least have come up with something by now."
"Don't you think I've been trying!" Dinaden snapped. "But we don't have any bloody leads! And the police are worse than useless." Lancelot had gotten what he wanted with that uncharacteristic reaction, but he still felt a flare of fury, wondering what the fuck the rest of them had been doing while he was in this place. No wonder they had been trying to keep it secret from him. Someone tried to kill Arthur, and they had not managed to figure out anything? Had living a few months in this stupid time made them all soft in the head?
He resisted the urge to snarl. "When you and Tristan put your heads together you usually manage," he prodded, testing out another theory.
The levelheaded Dinaden glared at him and then looked away, scowling. Yes, that was it. Now, Lancelot wanted him out of the room. Then he was going to get out of this bloody bed and check out that window. It seemed like if wanted anything done, he was going to have to do it his bloody self. But first he was going to track down Arthur. That Roman coward was hiding from him.
Lacing his voice with contempt, he spoke. "I should have known. How fucking stupid are you anyway? What did you do to Tristan this time?"
"This time?" Dinaden hissed. He was on his feet. "It's none of your bloody business Lancelot! I asked for your help before, and you couldn't be bothered. So just shut up!" He knocked his chair against the wall and stormed out of the room.
Huh. That had been far easier than he had been expecting. He needed to corner Tristan later. But first—
He had levered himself into a sitting position when the door opened and two faces showed themselves.
"Er, Lancelot, is Dinaden coming back?" Bruenor asked. "He's not suppose to leave, but, um, he wouldn't say."
"How should I know?" Lancelot snapped. Bruenor looked like a kicked puppy. Lancelot was about to tell him and Lavaine to get out when another thought occurred to him. Might as well see what these two knew while they were here. He could get rid of them later. He smoothed his expression. "Come in and talk to me until he comes back. It's boring in here."
"We're not suppose to leave the door," Bruenor said, glancing uneasily at Lavaine.
Lavaine just shrugged, and stepped into the room.
~
It was a cold, dark place, but Gawain tried to categorize what little his senses could pick up. Think, he reminded himself. Be logical. Do not panic. Gawain never panicked. At least not where anyone could see it. Unfortunately, he was alone here.
His hands were chained, the chain attached to the wall, with little give. He had discovered that upon wakening. His legs were also bound.
The cold was enough to make him shiver. The air was dank. Underground?
He closed his eyes again and then opened them, straining. There was no hint of light in this place.
His head was pounding. That fact had been inescapable from the first moment he had woken with no memory of how he had gotten himself into this predicament. His recent memories were hazy—not uncommon with a head blow, he reminded himself. He had been hit on the head before and suffered effects like this. It had been some years ago, though, when a startled horse had gotten beyond its young rider's control, and the poor, panicked creature had managing to knock Gawain head first into a fence post. Galahad had been insufferable after that—torn between fussing worry and mockery. He had teased Gawain that he was getting old if he had allowed himself to get in the way of a bolting horse.
Was Galahad worried now? Gawain had no idea how long he had been here or any idea of when he would be missed. A smile stretched Gawain's lips as he pictured the ruckus Galahad would cause when he realized that Gawain had gone missing. He would be driving everyone mad and Bors would be offering to knock him down and sit on him. The smile died. Galahad would be frantic.
There were no weaknesses to the chains that he could detect. The only thing he could do was wait, and he reminded himself of that logical conclusion again. And he did not need to jump into fruitless speculation about who had decided to chain him up in this hole. There was no need to imagine the worst until he had more information. Not when there was nothing he could do about it
Gawain shivered and shifted to try to find a more comfortable position. His bones protested. Galahad was right; he was getting old. Soon he would be spending his days sitting beside the fire, trading tall tales with Galahad and Bors and answering Bors's grandchildren's impudent questions. He looked forward it.
He must have dozed off, because he dreamed. It had to have been a dream. He dreamed of the table in the brightly lit hall—not the hall in which it stood now, but that other place, the first place, with its painted walls that had borne witness to both the best and worst time of Gawain's life.
They were there, nearly all of them—all but four places filled. They were laughing and drinking wine, each of them as familiar to Gawain as if they had only been parted for an hour. His breath caught as one of them turned to look over to where Gawain was standing in the shadows.
Gaheris's face broke out into that familiar crooked grin. "What are you sulking over there for?" he asked. He pulled out Gawain's old chair, beside his own, in invitation.
He started at the sound of the door rasping open. It was directly across from where he was bound. He had been wondering.
He squinted into the sudden flare of light. The shape of a man appeared, backlit by torches.
Even in little more than outline, he knew the man. For had he not been the one who had trained this one from gangly youth to the formidable figure that the torchlight limned? Had he not been there to witness when this man had shown himself to be a serpent in their midst?
Gawain had been wrong not to let himself think the worst. He wanted to be angry, but fear rose up instead and, for the first time since he had found himself in this place, he had no means to quell it.
The man took a step into the cell, the torchlight catching on the metal held in each hand.
"Gawain!" He opened his eyes to find Gaheris's eyes fixed on him. The other man was kneeling beside Gawain's chair. Gawain took a deep, shuddering breath. He must have dozed off.
"You were dreaming."
"Yes." He sighed. "It was nothing." At Gaheris's skeptical look, he shook his head. "I never dream the worst part." He seemed to lack the courage for that.
"Galahad dreams of that enough for both of you." Gaheris's voice sounded bitter.
Gawain squeezed the hand resting on his knee. The nightmares were a recent thing. After waking here, he had hardly thought of it. Even when he had told Gaheris, it had not really touched him. It was only since he had caught sight of that man that the dreams had started.
His own uneasiness must have transferred to Galahad as well. They had been woken by Galahad's nightmares several times in the last few days. Galahad would never say what he dreamed of, but, from the way that Galahad grasped at Gawain when he woke, and the things he cried out in his sleep, it was no mystery. For the first time, Gawain had wondered what it had been like for Galahad afterward. But now he knew that Galahad had been there when they had found his mutilated body. It had been a declaration of war, after all, and the man would have made sure that it had been found.
"I have to tell Arthur," Gawain said at last, knowing Gaheris would go along whatever Gawain wished. "The others, they think it can wait until we have more facts. They don't understand. That man— With that man, by the time you have facts it will be far too late. If there's any possibility he's out there somewhere . . . ." His hand tightened on Gaheris's. "That man will be out to destroy us. I won't let him succeed. Not again."
"There are too many secrets," Gaheris said, sighing. "Nothing good ever came of secrets."
Gawain felt a flare of panic. "You promised not to tell Galahad."
Gaheris picked up his hand, kissing Gawain's palm before folding Gawain's fingers over the spot.
~
Bruenor sat fidgeting in one of the chairs beside Lancelot's bed. They were going to get in such trouble if they were caught in here rather than guarding the door.
Lavaine did not seem to care. Since those first days in Britain, when he had trailed after Lancelot and Galehaut like a shadow, he had always been more than willing to go along with anything Lancelot did. It was only because Lancelot had seemed oddly disinterested in taking advantage that Lavaine had not spent his entire, if brief, conscription in deep, deep trouble.
Lavaine pulled the knit cap he was wearing off and tossed it at Lancelot. His hair had begun to grow back, and the short cut suited him, even if it reminded Bruenor of that time they had all been ordered to cut their hair when there had been a particularly bad outbreak of lice in the barracks. It also made him look about five years old.
"I think you need it more than me," Lavaine said.
Lancelot had caught the cap. After eyeing it dubiously, he pulled it on over the bandages. Lavaine grinned at him. "So who are you going to be killing for that?"
Lancelot raised an eyebrow, but did not answer. His eyes seemed over bright, almost frenetic. And he was far too thin, even for him. His hands looked skeletal. Bruenor had started bringing food whenever he came to the hospital, but Lancelot did not seem to be eating much. He had come in here last time to find Bors polishing off the meals he had made. But Lancelot had never been very interested in food—if you did not count alcohol as food, anyway. Still, the hospital food was vile, and evidently Lancelot thought so too, since Lionel claimed that he had heard that Lancelot had thrown one of the food trays at his doctor.
Lavaine was being talkative, as he rarely was with anyone except Lancelot or Galehaut, and Lancelot seemed to be interested in what had been going on while he had been in the hospital, even asking occasional questions. Lancelot was more alert today. Maybe he would be better soon. Bruenor waited for a chance to jump in and tell the woeful tale of his blenders, but Lavaine had moved on from complaining about the way Agravaine hogged the bathroom on their floor and elaborating some of his schemes of retaliation to explaining all about the broken security cameras.
Bruenor listened for a moment in horror. "Lavaine! Gareth said you're not supposed to tell—" He clamped his mouth shut as Lancelot's narrowed gaze fixed on him. Oops. Lavaine gave him a disgusted look, but not, Bruenor realized, for this slip.
"Gareth said what?" Lancelot's tone was dangerous.
Bruenor gulped, but Lavaine jumped in. "Gareth and Kay said we weren't suppose to tell you anything about what they've been dong to look into the shooting." Lavaine shrugged, showing his contempt for those orders. Gareth had miscalculated when he given his instructions to Lavaine, Bruenor realized. Lavaine had just been waiting for a chance to tell Lancelot all about it. "They—all of that lot—have been acting secretive lately." Lavaine paused, thinking about it. "Actually, it's been going on for awhile—maybe since we got here. Gareth, Gawain, Kay, Dag, Bors and some others. They pretend they're playing cards." He snorted. "Kay doesn't even like to gamble. And I've never heard Bors bragging about how much he's won at these supposed card games."
Bruenor opened his mouth to protest, but then remembered how late they had all been to dinner the other night, and how the food had gotten cold. And Lavaine had complained that they had been locking the door. Why would they need to lock the door?
He looked up and caught the look on Lancelot's face.
"And there's something else going on, too," Lavaine began looking uneasy for the first time. "Lionel said—"
Before he could continue, there was a knock on the door. Bruenor started. The medical staff did not bother knocking, they just barged in, no matter how nasty Lancelot was when they did it. They were in so much trouble . . . . But why would one of the knights actually knock, either?
He got up and went to the door and was surprised to find Galehaut standing there. Galehaut looked into the room and seemed relieved at the sight of Bruenor and Lavaine. "Who else is here?" he demanded without bothering with a greeting. "Not Gawain?"
"No. Dinaden took his place. But he's gone off somewhere. I don't know—"
"Good," Galehaut interrupted, his eyes fixed on Lancelot, who was watching them without expression. "Both of you, get out. I need to talk to Lancelot."
~
Galehaut had rehearsed this scene a hundred times in his head, but the reality of it was nothing like he had imagined. His words were halting, and while he had been prepared for Lancelot's fury, he was not ready for the cold, steady gaze that Lancelot rested on him.
He finally stumbled into silence.
"Who told you this?" Lancelot's voice was as flat as his expression. "You weren't there. Not even at Eboracum. It sounds to me like you've been reading too many of those ridiculous stories."
Galehaut winced. "Agravaine found out, but—"
"You believe Agravaine."
"It's the truth! Ask them—Bors, Gawain or Galahad! If you ask them outright, they'll have to tell you."
"Bors said Arthur did not have any—" he broke off, and some of iciness left his expression as he considered. Abruptly, he looked away, and Galehaut felt his heart ache.
"You're saying that they've been hiding this deliberately?" He still did not look back at Galehaut, but his voice revealed little.
Galehaut shifted in his seat. "I don't know about deliberately, but it's strange they've never once mentioned it in all the stories they've told."
Lancelot did not say anything for a long time. Galehaut opened and shut his mouth several times. He had wanted this moment so badly, but it had turned out to be little more than ashes in his hands. He had never wanted to hurt Lancelot. And he had been so focused on exposing Arthur that he had overlooked what this said about the other knights. There was more than one betrayal here. The words that he had been aching to say for so long now seemed to be too unnecessarily cruel to voice: If Arthur lied to you about this, what else has he been lying about?
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I thought you needed to know, especially after what's happened. I don't know how they're connected, but it just can't be a coincidence. I would have told you earlier, but I wasn't sure—"
"If I would believe you."
"I'm telling the truth. I would never lie to you."
Lancelot finally looked back at him. "I believe you." Before Galehaut could take heart from that, he continued. "I believe that you believe you're telling the truth."
"I'm sorry." Galehaut felt more miserable than he could ever remember. He longed to stay, but he knew that closed off expression. Helpless, he stood up, pausing at the door. "If you want me to do anything, just tell me. You know I'll do anything for you." He left the room, his steps leaden.
Bruenor was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and affront, Lavaine with hurt in his eyes. Galehaut did not care. "Don't go in there," he demanded, "unless he calls for you." This much he could do at least.
~
Bruenor watched Galehaut's retreating figure, scowling. He looked over at Lavaine. "What's that about?" Lavaine did not look any more enlightened. "Well," Bruenor said, still resentful at being ordered about, "we're supposed to stay at the door anyway."
Bruenor had only begun to think about what he might cook for dinner tomorrow (now that he had a blender again, there were so many soup recipes he might finally try), when he noticed a beautiful woman walking down the corridor. She was dressed elegantly, more like one of the people you saw on the telly than in real life. He was startled when she stopped before them and said, "I'm here to see Lancelot." She had gotten the door open before either of them thought to stop her.
Lavaine made a grab at her arm, which she somehow evaded, and Bruenor was reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his trousers, when they heard Lancelot's voice. "I had been wondering when you'd show up." He sounded as if he were about to start laughing.
~
Tor trailed Galahad around the racks of clothing like a bored child forced to accompany his mother. He whined nearly as much, too.
After yesterday's success—somehow, for once, they had returned to the house with no one the wiser about their trip, despite the frosting Tor had managed to smear all over his shirt and the box of cupcakes he had stashed under his bed (hiding places in the kitchen were clearly not safe)—they had ventured out again today, this time risking a trip to London. Galahad had somehow managed to get hold of a credit card and had been making full use of it. Tor had been afraid to ask whose exactly it was.
Galahad had been shopping for what felt like hours. "My feet hurt," Tor complained. Galahad ignored him as he studied the shirts on display. Tor glanced at them. They were all hideous, he decided. Only a blind man would wear something like that. He shifted from one foot to the other. Tor could swing a sword all day, but this slow, stop-and-start pace that Galahad maintained when he shopped was exhausting. He would rather go on a forced march through woad-infested woods—in the dead of winter. It did not help that he was the one who always seemed to end up holding all the bags. The thin rope handles bit into his hands and made them smart. The only thing that was making this bearable was that there would be donuts later. Krispy Kreme donuts. But even that was paling as the day dragged on.
He let out a gusty sigh. Galahad gave him an irritated look. "What?"
"I'm bored. And—" he added quickly, realizing that this frequent refrain would be unlikely to have an impact—"I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?" He had stuffed his pockets with Lion Bars before they had left the house, but he had finished them all before they had even arrived in London.
Galahad assessed the area—surely he had already looked at every item of clothing in here—and Tor held his breath. But then Galahad nodded. "Okay. Let's go eat something."
Brilliant! "I get to pick!" He hoped that Galahad would be as free with the credit card on food purchases as he had been with his clothes.
They headed toward the exit of the large store, but on the way Tor caught sight of something amazing that distracted him even from the prospect of food. He halted before it, mesmerized. "It's huge," he murmured, awed. "I didn't know they came that big." Unable to look away, he reached blindly for Galahad's arm. "Do you think—" he began to wheedle.
Galahad was tempted, Tor could tell, but he had other things to do with the credit card, and he had no doubt already burned through at least half of its limit. "How'll we get it back there without anyone noticing it?" Galahad asked pointedly. The idiot was implied.
"But it's, it's so, so—" Tor groped after the word.
"Big. Come on, we already have a couple big ones at home."
Tor tore his gaze from the television. "But not this big." Tor began to scheme. "I bet if we got Bors here, or maybe—"
Galahad was not listening. He was staring at another nearby television, where there was some kind of news program. His face had gone strange and white. Tor looked at the screen. He did not recognize any of the people being shown—except, was that the leader of the country? Tor had never paid much attention, but he thought so. "What—" he began to ask, but Galahad interrupted him.
"Did you see—?"
"The prime leader person? I thought it was him—"
"No! The man behind him." Galahad stabbed an unsteady finger at the screen. "Look! There he is again!"
There was a man near the leader guy, although he was hard to see. It was only because this telly was also huge that he was noticeable at all. "Huh. Is that Arthur—? Why would Arthur be there with them? I thought they were kind of the enemy. And when did Arthur grow his hair like that?"
"It's not Arthur." At the tone, Tor jerked around to stare at him. Tor did not know the expression on Galahad's face, but a shiver went through him at the sight.
"Do you have a gun?"
"What? Here?" Tor was frightened and not sure he was hearing right. "You know I don't!" Gaheris always made him give them right back. They were not supposed to leave the house unarmed anymore, but then again his and Galahad's outing had not exactly been officially authorized.
He looked at the telly again, but the scene had changed to a woman's talking head. When he glanced back over at Galahad, he found only empty space. He looked wildly around and caught sight of Galahad striding toward the doors. Tor tried to run after him. "Hey! Wait!" he yelled. "I can't run with all these bags!" They banged into his legs and kept trying to trip him.
"Leave them!"
Tor halted, his mouth gapping open. He stared after Galahad's retreating figure. It was only when he realized that Galahad had reached the doors and would soon disappear from sight that he shut his mouth. He glanced down at the bags. Gingerly, he let them slide to the ground. He glanced back at them once, a forlorn-looking abandoned pile in the center of the aisle, before he took off running.
He had a sinking feeling that there would be no donuts today.
~
"Nice hat," Guinevere said as soon as a reluctant Lavaine and a confused Bruenor had left the room.
"It was a gift." Lancelot was still fighting the urge to laugh. Of course this woman would show up right at this moment.
Things were supposed to happen in threes, after all. He wondered whose betrayal the third would be and what form it would take. It was a good thing he did not believe in such superstitious nonsense.
Without invitation, she sat down in one the chairs. She was older than the last time he had seen her. It suited her. She had an air of poise and confidence about her that before had been little more than youthful bravado and the unwavering belief in her own charms. But since then she had been a queen, Arthur's queen, for fifteen years, so it was not surprising.
She examined him with cool detachment. Lancelot stared straight back at her, unabashed by her gaze. If she had come here to try to kill him, she was not gong about it properly at all. If she were unarmed, he had little doubt that he could manage to snap her neck, but then again those heels on her shoes looked rather deadly.
Lancelot had no prejudice against killing women. Unlike Arthur, with his ridiculous Roman attitudes, Lancelot had never been dismayed by the presence of women among the British fighters. Sarmatian women were deadlier than the men, and it been his mother who had first taught him how to handle a knife.
"Most of my visitors at least bring me flowers," Lancelot said after it became clear that she had no intention of speaking first.
She raised her eyebrows. "I might have if I realized you fancied such things. You're not looking too well."
Lancelot shrugged slightly, realized his mistake, but refused to allow the pain to show on his face. He suddenly wanted her gone, all the black humor draining out of him. It left something very different behind. "If you didn't come by to bring me flowers, what is it you're here for?"
"Arthur," she pronounced his name deliberately, "has been a bit slow about certain things."
"So you decided to take matters into your own hands."
A small smile hovered across her lips. "Wouldn't you? His reluctance is becoming a detriment to our plans." He took note of the "our" but did not comment on it. The half smile lingered on her perfect face. "You don't seem surprised to see me. Perhaps some of your fellow knights had given you the news."
He controlled his reaction to that, and did not bother to respond. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he gathered the iciness that lay under the fury. Lancelot watched her with the attention he would give an opponent on the field of battle.
Her manner was nearly flawless, but he caught her eyes lingering just a little too long. And then there was the look in the back of her eyes that Lancelot recognized, although it, unlike the other, had not been there when they had first met. Good. For she would find the same in his own eyes—if she knew to look.
"He'll be angry with you for this," he commented.
"Will you tell on me, then?" she asked with a hint of the old coquetry.
He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that why you've come?"
Her smile changed before it vanished. She stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. "Goodbye, Lancelot. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again soon."
~
Bruenor stood fidgeting by the door. He was not sure whether or not believe the story Lavaine had just told him. It was gossip from Lionel, after all. "Do you really think that she's—?" he asked again.
Lavaine gave him a contemptuous look, and Bruenor fell silent.
It felt like an eternity, but it was only a few minutes before the door opened and the woman swept out. She did not spare them a glance. When she was gone, he exchanged a look with Lavaine, and was reassured to find that Lavaine looked just as uncertain as Bruenor felt. They eyed each other and the door several times, unable to make up their minds about whether to go in.
The dilemma was solved for them when the door jerked open. Lavaine started to say something, but Lancelot, who had raked a look up and down them both, interrupted. "Give me your shoes," he said to Lavaine. He turned back into the room. Lavaine followed him.
Lavaine was already pulling off his ratty trainers and offering them to Lancelot by the time Bruenor stepped inside. Lancelot was dead white, and Bruenor was sure his hands were trembling a little, but he pulled on the shoes without a change of expression, despite the way bending over had to hurt him. Without a word, Lavaine stripped off his coat and offered that as well. Bruenor watched as Lancelot put it on over the long-sleeved t-shirt and loose sweatpants he was wearing (he had made his violent dislike of the gaping hospital gown known early on). It was only then that Bruenor registered what all this meant.
"You can't leave!" he blurted. Lancelot did not even bother to look at him before he headed out the door. Lavaine followed, and Bruenor chased after them both. He caught up before they had gone far. Lancelot was not moving all that quickly, but steadily enough. With the cap and the coat, no one gave him a second look. And no one seemed to look down to notice that Lavaine was wandering about in his socks. Lancelot stumbled once, but when Bruenor tried to catch him with a hand under his elbow, the look he got him had him drawing away as if he had touched fire.
"The lift’s that way," Lavaine said when Lancelot looked around where the corridor met the main hallway. Bruenor gave Lavaine a reproachful look. Ancestors, why did this happen when he was here with Lavaine, of all people? Lavaine was far worse than useless when it came to Lancelot. They needed one of the others who Lancelot might listen to, or at least someone who wouldn't be afraid to get into a fight with him when he looked like this. And, wounded or not, Bruenor was not ashamed to admit that he was not one of those people.
And why the bloody hell had Dinaden gone off like that?
Bruenor opened his mouth again, but shut it helplessly as he caught a glimpse of Lancelot's face.
He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, wondering he could manage to surreptitiously call someone while still keeping Lancelot within his sight. He hid the mobile against his trouser leg as he followed them into the lift. It was of course now that Lancelot finally chose to pay attention to him, and Bruenor really wished he had not. Bruenor flinched but Lancelot merely held his hand out. Bruenor handed the mobile over. He grimaced as Lancelot smashed it against the wall. It fell to floor in several pieces. Lancelot had to steady himself afterward, but Bruenor did not dare try to help him.
Bruenor had no idea what to do. They had reached the main doors when Lancelot spoke again. "Do you have any money?"
"In the coat pocket," Lavaine volunteered promptly. Did he have to be so bloody helpful? It least he could have tried to stall. Lavaine went on, "We don't have a car, we got dropped off, but—"
Lancelot was not listening. He was already walking toward the line of taxis parked near the door.
Lavaine hurried after him. "We can—" he began again.
Lancelot got into the car and shut the door in his face.
"Wait, let me go with you— At least tell me where you're going!" Lavaine yelled at the taxi as it roared away from the curb. He finally looked dismayed. Bruenor wanted to hit him. What had the little bare-footed fool expected to happen?
He took a deep breath. "Give me your mobile," he demanded.
"It was in the coat," Lavaine said.
Bruenor resisted the urge to scream at him. He sprinted back into the hospital in search of a payphone. They were in so much trouble. But he would have no qualms throwing both Lavaine and Dinaden to the wolves.
And neither one of them were going to get so much as a crumb of anything he cooked for weeks. Months.
He had just gotten through the doors when a terrifying thought hit him. By all that was sacred, he hoped to the Christian hell that he would not be the one who had to tell Arthur that they had lost Lancelot.
~~~
He heard the sound of the tent flap behind him. "Are you ready?" his elder sister asked.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet-smelling smoke rising from the brazier before him and considered. Was he ready? There was no way to know until he stood before the fire.
Without answering, he rose and walked to the entrance. He paused there, meeting her eyes, dark like his. Her gaze was fierce and proud. He had sometimes entertained the blasphemous thought that their ancestors had been mistaken: Their totem should have been the eagle, not the lion.
She stepped aside, and he ducked out of the tent. He blinked against the sunlight, although the day was grey, bright only in comparison to the darkness of the tent.
The People were waiting outside the tent, but they had left a wide corridor open for him. It was strange to see so many gathered, yet in such silence. It was so quiet that he could hear the crackle of flames. Or was that the wind through the grass?
He began to walk down the path they had created for him. He knew his sister followed at his back, but did not look around. His eyes now fixed on what stood at the end of the human corridor.
Wood was a precious, hoarded thing, but they had stinted nothing here. The fire was greater than any he had ever seen, but for when the Sky unleashed his lightening and the flames raced across the grasslands like a ravenous beast. Even at the distance, he could feel its heat.
The walk seemed both too long and too short. The gathered People gave way some lengths from the fire itself. Closest stood a boy, the first hints of a beard on his cheeks. Their eyes met, and he could see the hint of tears in the other's eyes. Weak. So weak. He would have to learn to be strong. This would be only the first of his burdens. He passed the boy, walking alone, his sister halting to stand beside the boy.
It was the fire now that filled his vision, roaring and dancing its hunger. He came to a stop close enough that its embers singed his skin and its heat seemed to reach out for him.
Are you ready?
He turned his head to the side so the heat licked at his cheek, and he could see the clear path left free between the fire and the People. Beyond stretched open land and wide sky in the direction of the setting sun. New lands, not yet known. Longing filled him, to gallop over them, to learn every subtle rise and fall of the earth, as free as the wind that rose up to sweep down from the grasses through the space between, cooling his heated skin.
He could turn and go, he knew. No one would stop him. A surge of power filled him. He could simply walk away and leave them all to their destruction.
He closed his eyes, feeling the beckoning wind, hearing the angry fire, sensing behind him the stillness of the People, the tears of the new king. A smile no one saw touched his mouth as he turned his face from Earth and Sky back to the fire.
Are you ready?
He walked into the flames.
Lancelot woke and looked blearily around the hospital room, fighting the heavy lethargy that threatened to drag his lids down again.
Kay was sitting in the chair beside the bed reading a fat book with a great deal of attention. So much attention that he did not realize that Lancelot was awake. There was an acrid, burning smell in the room, but Kay would be one of the last knights Lancelot would suspect to have been smoking.
Lancelot blinked, trying to free himself of the haziness that settled over his brain. Fucking drugs. He seemed to do little but sleep, but he could not tell if that was part of his body recovering or just the perversity of the medicines. He was betting the medicine. He really should have killed that little shit of a doctor straight off.
But with the last round, they had given him pills rather than injections. When the nurse had brought the medicine, he had charmed her into explaining what each of the multi-colored pills did. There were quite an astounding number of them.
Whatever else they did, they left him unable to think. Every time he started to ask one of the knights for news, he found himself being brushed off with vague statements, which he was too muddled to pursue. In his brief lucid moments it infuriated him—although even the anger was a muffled, distant thing.
At this point, he was positively longing for some honest pain.
The drugs were wearing off now; he could tell by his ability to string two thoughts together. But that meant that the next dosing could not be far away. These people seemed bent on keeping him drugged. Perhaps rather than killing the doctor, he should have been a bit nicer.
Well, it was not going to continue much longer. He had had enough. He shifted experimentally. His head still ached with every motion, and was making dire threats about cracking open. His chest was sore, and every breath sent a stab of pain through him. It was nothing he could not handle. He had felt worse. He could not quite remember when, though.
His shifting did not draw Kay's attention as it should have, and he studied what he could see of Kay's book. A smirk twitched over his lips just as the nurse entered. It was a different woman from before, one he did not recognize. She placed a paper cup of pills before him and poured out some water from the ugly pink plastic pitcher beside the bed.
"I'm guessing you're about ready for these, Mr. Banson," she said. She moved around the room with brisk efficiency, checking the monitors and then tucking the disordered sheets back firmly under the mattress. He restrained a snarl at that, and instead smiled at her. She smiled back, then looked surprised at herself and jerked her eyes away.
She was flushed as she hurried out of the room. Kay was watching Lancelot now, a suspicious light in his eyes. Lancelot wiggled his feet, trying to build some give so he could kick loose the sheets. He did not acknowledge Kay's look.
"You need to take those," Kay said after a while.
Ignoring the shakiness of his hands, Lancelot picked up the paper cup of pills and dumped them into his palm. "What are you reading?" he asked with every appearance of vague disinterest.
"It's research." Kay's tone was too curt.
"On what?"
With uncharacteristic reluctance, Kay supplied, "On Merlin."
Lancelot kept his tone bland. "Really? That's strange. Your book looks a lot like that one that these people went mad for. That children's story with the boy who's bricklayer."
"Potter." Kay's correction was automatic. "It's just a surname name." Kay then seemed to remember that he did not want to talk about this, and his gaze returned to fix on his book. If Lancelot did not know better, he might have thought there was a tinge of color to his cheeks. At Lancelot's continued silence, Kay glanced up, cleared his throat and offered: "I had heard there was a mention of Merlin in the book, so I thought it was best to see what it said for myself. I read all the previous books and I'm nearly finished with this, the last one." He sounded quite officious.
Lancelot yanked at the corner of a pillow that had gotten rucked up before reaching for the glass of water the nurse had left. "Ah, very diligent. And is there?"
"Is there what?"
"Anything helpful about Merlin in the book?" he prompted. He popped the pills in his hand into his mouth and raised the glass of water.
"Not unless you count his pants," Kay muttered.
Lancelot nearly choked. "What was that?" he managed after forcing down the pills.
"I said there's nothing of consequence." Kay cleared his throat. "But I think it's best to read through to the end to make sure."
"By all means," Lancelot said. Kay gave him another suspicious look but went back to reading.
Lancelot smirked to himself. Half the pills were under his pillow.
Lancelot went back to working his feet free. Kay was too absorbed in his children's book to notice anything, but there would be no use in fishing for information from him. He would see which of the knights took the next shift.
Voices carried through the door, and Kay tore his gaze from his book. Damn. He was close to the end and Professor Trelawney had just appeared armed with— He sighed as the voices rose in volume and put aside the book. He went to the door and found the two police inspectors arguing with Lamorak and Percival.
"I thought you two gentleman were told that Mr. Banson was not up to having visitors yet," Kay interrupted. Kay could have sworn that Percival had been reaching for his gun, the little idiot. Kay sighed. He would have to sit the boy down again and explain to him the proper usage of force. And why it was a bad idea to draw a weapon on the authorities of this time.
"We just need a few moments," the one called Tanner said. "Surely Mr. Banson wants to have the perpetrator caught?"
"Perhaps if we could speak to your associate Mr. Collingwood—" Stephens said.
Kay was about to tell the man what he thought about that (to the best of Kay's knowledge "Mr. Collingwood" was passed out in the house kitchen, as was usual before noon), when Lancelot's voice called from behind, "Let them come in, Kay." Kay sighed. He had hoped Lancelot was asleep—had he not just taken his medicines? Resigned, he held the door open.
The inspectors took seats and pulled notebooks out. Lancelot was eyeing them with a glint in his eye that Kay did not like. Lancelot was evidently not being provided with sufficient entertainment. Always a dangerous thing.
"So, Mr. Banson," Stephens started, "we'll keep this as brief as possible, and follow up when you're feeling better. Can you tell us what you remember about the shooting?"
"Remember? I think it must have hurt."
"No," Tanner said, "DCI Stephens means, what do you remember before the shooting."
"Starting when?"
Stephens cleared his throat. Kay gave Lancelot a look that said, behave, which Lancelot ignored. Trying to sound jovial, Stephens said, "Let's try this: You pushed Mr. Castus before the bullet hit you. How did you know to do that? Did you see or hear something?"
"Sixth sense."
"Sixth sense," Tanner echoed. "You mean like second sight or something?"
"That. Or maybe I tripped."
"Tripped?"
"Or I was quite angry at Arthur—Mr. Castus—at the time. Perhaps I shoved him just because I felt like it."
"Did you two have an argument?" Tanner made a note in his book.
"I'm not really sure. I'm afraid it's all rather hazy." Lancelot blinked at them innocently. "Why don't you tell me what you think happened. It might jog my memory." Both inspectors eyed him dubiously.
Kay cleared his throat and gave the men a pointed look. "I told you he was not ready for visitors. You should come back some other time. Mr. Banson has suffered a severe head injury, and is clearly . . . not himself."
Stephens' frown lost its severity, and he actually looked a little contrite. Lancelot, on the other hand, gave Kay a furious look—Kay was taking his toys away. Stephens however, had already snapped his notebook shut. "Maybe we should do that."
"Just a moment," Tanner said. "Is there any reason why anyone would want to hurt you, Mr. Banson? Anyone with a grudge?"
"Against me?” Lancelot’s angry eyes were still fixed on Kay. “No. Everyone likes me."
When Lancelot woke up again—he found to his disgust that he had fallen asleep at some point after the police had left—Dinaden was in the room with him. He blinked at the other man for a moment, surprised. He had not seen Dinaden since before the shooting. Lancelot had assumed he was out doing something useful.
He certainly was not doing anything productive right now (and sitting with Lancelot did not count and as soon as he could stand up without his legs threatening to buckle, they would all be hearing his opinion on that). The man was just sitting there with his arms crossed, staring at the wall. Lancelot followed his gaze, thinking perhaps to find something there, but no, just blank, white, if somewhat scuffed, wall.
The movement must have caught Dinaden's attention, since he looked over at Lancelot. "You're awake. Do you want anything?"
There were several things Lancelot wanted, but there was no use asking for any of them. "No." He shifted. He was sore from lying in bed so long. "What are you doing babysitting," he sneered out the word, "anyway?"
Dinaden tried out a smile, but it was not particularly successful. Lancelot did not fail to notice the darkness under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth. "Actually, it was Gawain's turn, but he asked me to take over for him." He shrugged and his eyes strayed back to the wall.
Lancelot considered him. He pulled himself up on the bed a little, ignoring the way his entire body protested. He had never much bothered to listen to its complaints.
"So what's the news?" he asked.
Dinaden shrugged again. "Nothing new."
Lancelot wanted to reach across the bed and hit him. Fucking unhelpful bugger. But at least, if there were some conspiracy to keep him in the dark, as he was suspecting there was, Dinaden seemed unaware of it. Gareth, Kay and the others were like old woman sometimes. No doubt they had decided it was better if he was not told anything until he was "better." Maybe they were afraid he would try to escape if they told him what was happening. Like he could when they had posted guards on the door and he was as about as steady on his feet as a newborn foal.
What did they think he was going to do, anyway, climb out the window? He eyed the window with sudden interest. But he did not seem to have much luck with windows.
He took a gamble. "I thought you'd at least have come up with something by now."
"Don't you think I've been trying!" Dinaden snapped. "But we don't have any bloody leads! And the police are worse than useless." Lancelot had gotten what he wanted with that uncharacteristic reaction, but he still felt a flare of fury, wondering what the fuck the rest of them had been doing while he was in this place. No wonder they had been trying to keep it secret from him. Someone tried to kill Arthur, and they had not managed to figure out anything? Had living a few months in this stupid time made them all soft in the head?
He resisted the urge to snarl. "When you and Tristan put your heads together you usually manage," he prodded, testing out another theory.
The levelheaded Dinaden glared at him and then looked away, scowling. Yes, that was it. Now, Lancelot wanted him out of the room. Then he was going to get out of this bloody bed and check out that window. It seemed like if wanted anything done, he was going to have to do it his bloody self. But first he was going to track down Arthur. That Roman coward was hiding from him.
Lacing his voice with contempt, he spoke. "I should have known. How fucking stupid are you anyway? What did you do to Tristan this time?"
"This time?" Dinaden hissed. He was on his feet. "It's none of your bloody business Lancelot! I asked for your help before, and you couldn't be bothered. So just shut up!" He knocked his chair against the wall and stormed out of the room.
Huh. That had been far easier than he had been expecting. He needed to corner Tristan later. But first—
He had levered himself into a sitting position when the door opened and two faces showed themselves.
"Er, Lancelot, is Dinaden coming back?" Bruenor asked. "He's not suppose to leave, but, um, he wouldn't say."
"How should I know?" Lancelot snapped. Bruenor looked like a kicked puppy. Lancelot was about to tell him and Lavaine to get out when another thought occurred to him. Might as well see what these two knew while they were here. He could get rid of them later. He smoothed his expression. "Come in and talk to me until he comes back. It's boring in here."
"We're not suppose to leave the door," Bruenor said, glancing uneasily at Lavaine.
Lavaine just shrugged, and stepped into the room.
It was a cold, dark place, but Gawain tried to categorize what little his senses could pick up. Think, he reminded himself. Be logical. Do not panic. Gawain never panicked. At least not where anyone could see it. Unfortunately, he was alone here.
His hands were chained, the chain attached to the wall, with little give. He had discovered that upon wakening. His legs were also bound.
The cold was enough to make him shiver. The air was dank. Underground?
He closed his eyes again and then opened them, straining. There was no hint of light in this place.
His head was pounding. That fact had been inescapable from the first moment he had woken with no memory of how he had gotten himself into this predicament. His recent memories were hazy—not uncommon with a head blow, he reminded himself. He had been hit on the head before and suffered effects like this. It had been some years ago, though, when a startled horse had gotten beyond its young rider's control, and the poor, panicked creature had managing to knock Gawain head first into a fence post. Galahad had been insufferable after that—torn between fussing worry and mockery. He had teased Gawain that he was getting old if he had allowed himself to get in the way of a bolting horse.
Was Galahad worried now? Gawain had no idea how long he had been here or any idea of when he would be missed. A smile stretched Gawain's lips as he pictured the ruckus Galahad would cause when he realized that Gawain had gone missing. He would be driving everyone mad and Bors would be offering to knock him down and sit on him. The smile died. Galahad would be frantic.
There were no weaknesses to the chains that he could detect. The only thing he could do was wait, and he reminded himself of that logical conclusion again. And he did not need to jump into fruitless speculation about who had decided to chain him up in this hole. There was no need to imagine the worst until he had more information. Not when there was nothing he could do about it
Gawain shivered and shifted to try to find a more comfortable position. His bones protested. Galahad was right; he was getting old. Soon he would be spending his days sitting beside the fire, trading tall tales with Galahad and Bors and answering Bors's grandchildren's impudent questions. He looked forward it.
He must have dozed off, because he dreamed. It had to have been a dream. He dreamed of the table in the brightly lit hall—not the hall in which it stood now, but that other place, the first place, with its painted walls that had borne witness to both the best and worst time of Gawain's life.
They were there, nearly all of them—all but four places filled. They were laughing and drinking wine, each of them as familiar to Gawain as if they had only been parted for an hour. His breath caught as one of them turned to look over to where Gawain was standing in the shadows.
Gaheris's face broke out into that familiar crooked grin. "What are you sulking over there for?" he asked. He pulled out Gawain's old chair, beside his own, in invitation.
He started at the sound of the door rasping open. It was directly across from where he was bound. He had been wondering.
He squinted into the sudden flare of light. The shape of a man appeared, backlit by torches.
Even in little more than outline, he knew the man. For had he not been the one who had trained this one from gangly youth to the formidable figure that the torchlight limned? Had he not been there to witness when this man had shown himself to be a serpent in their midst?
Gawain had been wrong not to let himself think the worst. He wanted to be angry, but fear rose up instead and, for the first time since he had found himself in this place, he had no means to quell it.
The man took a step into the cell, the torchlight catching on the metal held in each hand.
"Gawain!" He opened his eyes to find Gaheris's eyes fixed on him. The other man was kneeling beside Gawain's chair. Gawain took a deep, shuddering breath. He must have dozed off.
"You were dreaming."
"Yes." He sighed. "It was nothing." At Gaheris's skeptical look, he shook his head. "I never dream the worst part." He seemed to lack the courage for that.
"Galahad dreams of that enough for both of you." Gaheris's voice sounded bitter.
Gawain squeezed the hand resting on his knee. The nightmares were a recent thing. After waking here, he had hardly thought of it. Even when he had told Gaheris, it had not really touched him. It was only since he had caught sight of that man that the dreams had started.
His own uneasiness must have transferred to Galahad as well. They had been woken by Galahad's nightmares several times in the last few days. Galahad would never say what he dreamed of, but, from the way that Galahad grasped at Gawain when he woke, and the things he cried out in his sleep, it was no mystery. For the first time, Gawain had wondered what it had been like for Galahad afterward. But now he knew that Galahad had been there when they had found his mutilated body. It had been a declaration of war, after all, and the man would have made sure that it had been found.
"I have to tell Arthur," Gawain said at last, knowing Gaheris would go along whatever Gawain wished. "The others, they think it can wait until we have more facts. They don't understand. That man— With that man, by the time you have facts it will be far too late. If there's any possibility he's out there somewhere . . . ." His hand tightened on Gaheris's. "That man will be out to destroy us. I won't let him succeed. Not again."
"There are too many secrets," Gaheris said, sighing. "Nothing good ever came of secrets."
Gawain felt a flare of panic. "You promised not to tell Galahad."
Gaheris picked up his hand, kissing Gawain's palm before folding Gawain's fingers over the spot.
Bruenor sat fidgeting in one of the chairs beside Lancelot's bed. They were going to get in such trouble if they were caught in here rather than guarding the door.
Lavaine did not seem to care. Since those first days in Britain, when he had trailed after Lancelot and Galehaut like a shadow, he had always been more than willing to go along with anything Lancelot did. It was only because Lancelot had seemed oddly disinterested in taking advantage that Lavaine had not spent his entire, if brief, conscription in deep, deep trouble.
Lavaine pulled the knit cap he was wearing off and tossed it at Lancelot. His hair had begun to grow back, and the short cut suited him, even if it reminded Bruenor of that time they had all been ordered to cut their hair when there had been a particularly bad outbreak of lice in the barracks. It also made him look about five years old.
"I think you need it more than me," Lavaine said.
Lancelot had caught the cap. After eyeing it dubiously, he pulled it on over the bandages. Lavaine grinned at him. "So who are you going to be killing for that?"
Lancelot raised an eyebrow, but did not answer. His eyes seemed over bright, almost frenetic. And he was far too thin, even for him. His hands looked skeletal. Bruenor had started bringing food whenever he came to the hospital, but Lancelot did not seem to be eating much. He had come in here last time to find Bors polishing off the meals he had made. But Lancelot had never been very interested in food—if you did not count alcohol as food, anyway. Still, the hospital food was vile, and evidently Lancelot thought so too, since Lionel claimed that he had heard that Lancelot had thrown one of the food trays at his doctor.
Lavaine was being talkative, as he rarely was with anyone except Lancelot or Galehaut, and Lancelot seemed to be interested in what had been going on while he had been in the hospital, even asking occasional questions. Lancelot was more alert today. Maybe he would be better soon. Bruenor waited for a chance to jump in and tell the woeful tale of his blenders, but Lavaine had moved on from complaining about the way Agravaine hogged the bathroom on their floor and elaborating some of his schemes of retaliation to explaining all about the broken security cameras.
Bruenor listened for a moment in horror. "Lavaine! Gareth said you're not supposed to tell—" He clamped his mouth shut as Lancelot's narrowed gaze fixed on him. Oops. Lavaine gave him a disgusted look, but not, Bruenor realized, for this slip.
"Gareth said what?" Lancelot's tone was dangerous.
Bruenor gulped, but Lavaine jumped in. "Gareth and Kay said we weren't suppose to tell you anything about what they've been dong to look into the shooting." Lavaine shrugged, showing his contempt for those orders. Gareth had miscalculated when he given his instructions to Lavaine, Bruenor realized. Lavaine had just been waiting for a chance to tell Lancelot all about it. "They—all of that lot—have been acting secretive lately." Lavaine paused, thinking about it. "Actually, it's been going on for awhile—maybe since we got here. Gareth, Gawain, Kay, Dag, Bors and some others. They pretend they're playing cards." He snorted. "Kay doesn't even like to gamble. And I've never heard Bors bragging about how much he's won at these supposed card games."
Bruenor opened his mouth to protest, but then remembered how late they had all been to dinner the other night, and how the food had gotten cold. And Lavaine had complained that they had been locking the door. Why would they need to lock the door?
He looked up and caught the look on Lancelot's face.
"And there's something else going on, too," Lavaine began looking uneasy for the first time. "Lionel said—"
Before he could continue, there was a knock on the door. Bruenor started. The medical staff did not bother knocking, they just barged in, no matter how nasty Lancelot was when they did it. They were in so much trouble . . . . But why would one of the knights actually knock, either?
He got up and went to the door and was surprised to find Galehaut standing there. Galehaut looked into the room and seemed relieved at the sight of Bruenor and Lavaine. "Who else is here?" he demanded without bothering with a greeting. "Not Gawain?"
"No. Dinaden took his place. But he's gone off somewhere. I don't know—"
"Good," Galehaut interrupted, his eyes fixed on Lancelot, who was watching them without expression. "Both of you, get out. I need to talk to Lancelot."
Galehaut had rehearsed this scene a hundred times in his head, but the reality of it was nothing like he had imagined. His words were halting, and while he had been prepared for Lancelot's fury, he was not ready for the cold, steady gaze that Lancelot rested on him.
He finally stumbled into silence.
"Who told you this?" Lancelot's voice was as flat as his expression. "You weren't there. Not even at Eboracum. It sounds to me like you've been reading too many of those ridiculous stories."
Galehaut winced. "Agravaine found out, but—"
"You believe Agravaine."
"It's the truth! Ask them—Bors, Gawain or Galahad! If you ask them outright, they'll have to tell you."
"Bors said Arthur did not have any—" he broke off, and some of iciness left his expression as he considered. Abruptly, he looked away, and Galehaut felt his heart ache.
"You're saying that they've been hiding this deliberately?" He still did not look back at Galehaut, but his voice revealed little.
Galehaut shifted in his seat. "I don't know about deliberately, but it's strange they've never once mentioned it in all the stories they've told."
Lancelot did not say anything for a long time. Galehaut opened and shut his mouth several times. He had wanted this moment so badly, but it had turned out to be little more than ashes in his hands. He had never wanted to hurt Lancelot. And he had been so focused on exposing Arthur that he had overlooked what this said about the other knights. There was more than one betrayal here. The words that he had been aching to say for so long now seemed to be too unnecessarily cruel to voice: If Arthur lied to you about this, what else has he been lying about?
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I thought you needed to know, especially after what's happened. I don't know how they're connected, but it just can't be a coincidence. I would have told you earlier, but I wasn't sure—"
"If I would believe you."
"I'm telling the truth. I would never lie to you."
Lancelot finally looked back at him. "I believe you." Before Galehaut could take heart from that, he continued. "I believe that you believe you're telling the truth."
"I'm sorry." Galehaut felt more miserable than he could ever remember. He longed to stay, but he knew that closed off expression. Helpless, he stood up, pausing at the door. "If you want me to do anything, just tell me. You know I'll do anything for you." He left the room, his steps leaden.
Bruenor was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and affront, Lavaine with hurt in his eyes. Galehaut did not care. "Don't go in there," he demanded, "unless he calls for you." This much he could do at least.
Bruenor watched Galehaut's retreating figure, scowling. He looked over at Lavaine. "What's that about?" Lavaine did not look any more enlightened. "Well," Bruenor said, still resentful at being ordered about, "we're supposed to stay at the door anyway."
Bruenor had only begun to think about what he might cook for dinner tomorrow (now that he had a blender again, there were so many soup recipes he might finally try), when he noticed a beautiful woman walking down the corridor. She was dressed elegantly, more like one of the people you saw on the telly than in real life. He was startled when she stopped before them and said, "I'm here to see Lancelot." She had gotten the door open before either of them thought to stop her.
Lavaine made a grab at her arm, which she somehow evaded, and Bruenor was reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his trousers, when they heard Lancelot's voice. "I had been wondering when you'd show up." He sounded as if he were about to start laughing.
Tor trailed Galahad around the racks of clothing like a bored child forced to accompany his mother. He whined nearly as much, too.
After yesterday's success—somehow, for once, they had returned to the house with no one the wiser about their trip, despite the frosting Tor had managed to smear all over his shirt and the box of cupcakes he had stashed under his bed (hiding places in the kitchen were clearly not safe)—they had ventured out again today, this time risking a trip to London. Galahad had somehow managed to get hold of a credit card and had been making full use of it. Tor had been afraid to ask whose exactly it was.
Galahad had been shopping for what felt like hours. "My feet hurt," Tor complained. Galahad ignored him as he studied the shirts on display. Tor glanced at them. They were all hideous, he decided. Only a blind man would wear something like that. He shifted from one foot to the other. Tor could swing a sword all day, but this slow, stop-and-start pace that Galahad maintained when he shopped was exhausting. He would rather go on a forced march through woad-infested woods—in the dead of winter. It did not help that he was the one who always seemed to end up holding all the bags. The thin rope handles bit into his hands and made them smart. The only thing that was making this bearable was that there would be donuts later. Krispy Kreme donuts. But even that was paling as the day dragged on.
He let out a gusty sigh. Galahad gave him an irritated look. "What?"
"I'm bored. And—" he added quickly, realizing that this frequent refrain would be unlikely to have an impact—"I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?" He had stuffed his pockets with Lion Bars before they had left the house, but he had finished them all before they had even arrived in London.
Galahad assessed the area—surely he had already looked at every item of clothing in here—and Tor held his breath. But then Galahad nodded. "Okay. Let's go eat something."
Brilliant! "I get to pick!" He hoped that Galahad would be as free with the credit card on food purchases as he had been with his clothes.
They headed toward the exit of the large store, but on the way Tor caught sight of something amazing that distracted him even from the prospect of food. He halted before it, mesmerized. "It's huge," he murmured, awed. "I didn't know they came that big." Unable to look away, he reached blindly for Galahad's arm. "Do you think—" he began to wheedle.
Galahad was tempted, Tor could tell, but he had other things to do with the credit card, and he had no doubt already burned through at least half of its limit. "How'll we get it back there without anyone noticing it?" Galahad asked pointedly. The idiot was implied.
"But it's, it's so, so—" Tor groped after the word.
"Big. Come on, we already have a couple big ones at home."
Tor tore his gaze from the television. "But not this big." Tor began to scheme. "I bet if we got Bors here, or maybe—"
Galahad was not listening. He was staring at another nearby television, where there was some kind of news program. His face had gone strange and white. Tor looked at the screen. He did not recognize any of the people being shown—except, was that the leader of the country? Tor had never paid much attention, but he thought so. "What—" he began to ask, but Galahad interrupted him.
"Did you see—?"
"The prime leader person? I thought it was him—"
"No! The man behind him." Galahad stabbed an unsteady finger at the screen. "Look! There he is again!"
There was a man near the leader guy, although he was hard to see. It was only because this telly was also huge that he was noticeable at all. "Huh. Is that Arthur—? Why would Arthur be there with them? I thought they were kind of the enemy. And when did Arthur grow his hair like that?"
"It's not Arthur." At the tone, Tor jerked around to stare at him. Tor did not know the expression on Galahad's face, but a shiver went through him at the sight.
"Do you have a gun?"
"What? Here?" Tor was frightened and not sure he was hearing right. "You know I don't!" Gaheris always made him give them right back. They were not supposed to leave the house unarmed anymore, but then again his and Galahad's outing had not exactly been officially authorized.
He looked at the telly again, but the scene had changed to a woman's talking head. When he glanced back over at Galahad, he found only empty space. He looked wildly around and caught sight of Galahad striding toward the doors. Tor tried to run after him. "Hey! Wait!" he yelled. "I can't run with all these bags!" They banged into his legs and kept trying to trip him.
"Leave them!"
Tor halted, his mouth gapping open. He stared after Galahad's retreating figure. It was only when he realized that Galahad had reached the doors and would soon disappear from sight that he shut his mouth. He glanced down at the bags. Gingerly, he let them slide to the ground. He glanced back at them once, a forlorn-looking abandoned pile in the center of the aisle, before he took off running.
He had a sinking feeling that there would be no donuts today.
"Nice hat," Guinevere said as soon as a reluctant Lavaine and a confused Bruenor had left the room.
"It was a gift." Lancelot was still fighting the urge to laugh. Of course this woman would show up right at this moment.
Things were supposed to happen in threes, after all. He wondered whose betrayal the third would be and what form it would take. It was a good thing he did not believe in such superstitious nonsense.
Without invitation, she sat down in one the chairs. She was older than the last time he had seen her. It suited her. She had an air of poise and confidence about her that before had been little more than youthful bravado and the unwavering belief in her own charms. But since then she had been a queen, Arthur's queen, for fifteen years, so it was not surprising.
She examined him with cool detachment. Lancelot stared straight back at her, unabashed by her gaze. If she had come here to try to kill him, she was not gong about it properly at all. If she were unarmed, he had little doubt that he could manage to snap her neck, but then again those heels on her shoes looked rather deadly.
Lancelot had no prejudice against killing women. Unlike Arthur, with his ridiculous Roman attitudes, Lancelot had never been dismayed by the presence of women among the British fighters. Sarmatian women were deadlier than the men, and it been his mother who had first taught him how to handle a knife.
"Most of my visitors at least bring me flowers," Lancelot said after it became clear that she had no intention of speaking first.
She raised her eyebrows. "I might have if I realized you fancied such things. You're not looking too well."
Lancelot shrugged slightly, realized his mistake, but refused to allow the pain to show on his face. He suddenly wanted her gone, all the black humor draining out of him. It left something very different behind. "If you didn't come by to bring me flowers, what is it you're here for?"
"Arthur," she pronounced his name deliberately, "has been a bit slow about certain things."
"So you decided to take matters into your own hands."
A small smile hovered across her lips. "Wouldn't you? His reluctance is becoming a detriment to our plans." He took note of the "our" but did not comment on it. The half smile lingered on her perfect face. "You don't seem surprised to see me. Perhaps some of your fellow knights had given you the news."
He controlled his reaction to that, and did not bother to respond. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he gathered the iciness that lay under the fury. Lancelot watched her with the attention he would give an opponent on the field of battle.
Her manner was nearly flawless, but he caught her eyes lingering just a little too long. And then there was the look in the back of her eyes that Lancelot recognized, although it, unlike the other, had not been there when they had first met. Good. For she would find the same in his own eyes—if she knew to look.
"He'll be angry with you for this," he commented.
"Will you tell on me, then?" she asked with a hint of the old coquetry.
He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that why you've come?"
Her smile changed before it vanished. She stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. "Goodbye, Lancelot. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again soon."
Bruenor stood fidgeting by the door. He was not sure whether or not believe the story Lavaine had just told him. It was gossip from Lionel, after all. "Do you really think that she's—?" he asked again.
Lavaine gave him a contemptuous look, and Bruenor fell silent.
It felt like an eternity, but it was only a few minutes before the door opened and the woman swept out. She did not spare them a glance. When she was gone, he exchanged a look with Lavaine, and was reassured to find that Lavaine looked just as uncertain as Bruenor felt. They eyed each other and the door several times, unable to make up their minds about whether to go in.
The dilemma was solved for them when the door jerked open. Lavaine started to say something, but Lancelot, who had raked a look up and down them both, interrupted. "Give me your shoes," he said to Lavaine. He turned back into the room. Lavaine followed him.
Lavaine was already pulling off his ratty trainers and offering them to Lancelot by the time Bruenor stepped inside. Lancelot was dead white, and Bruenor was sure his hands were trembling a little, but he pulled on the shoes without a change of expression, despite the way bending over had to hurt him. Without a word, Lavaine stripped off his coat and offered that as well. Bruenor watched as Lancelot put it on over the long-sleeved t-shirt and loose sweatpants he was wearing (he had made his violent dislike of the gaping hospital gown known early on). It was only then that Bruenor registered what all this meant.
"You can't leave!" he blurted. Lancelot did not even bother to look at him before he headed out the door. Lavaine followed, and Bruenor chased after them both. He caught up before they had gone far. Lancelot was not moving all that quickly, but steadily enough. With the cap and the coat, no one gave him a second look. And no one seemed to look down to notice that Lavaine was wandering about in his socks. Lancelot stumbled once, but when Bruenor tried to catch him with a hand under his elbow, the look he got him had him drawing away as if he had touched fire.
"The lift’s that way," Lavaine said when Lancelot looked around where the corridor met the main hallway. Bruenor gave Lavaine a reproachful look. Ancestors, why did this happen when he was here with Lavaine, of all people? Lavaine was far worse than useless when it came to Lancelot. They needed one of the others who Lancelot might listen to, or at least someone who wouldn't be afraid to get into a fight with him when he looked like this. And, wounded or not, Bruenor was not ashamed to admit that he was not one of those people.
And why the bloody hell had Dinaden gone off like that?
Bruenor opened his mouth again, but shut it helplessly as he caught a glimpse of Lancelot's face.
He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, wondering he could manage to surreptitiously call someone while still keeping Lancelot within his sight. He hid the mobile against his trouser leg as he followed them into the lift. It was of course now that Lancelot finally chose to pay attention to him, and Bruenor really wished he had not. Bruenor flinched but Lancelot merely held his hand out. Bruenor handed the mobile over. He grimaced as Lancelot smashed it against the wall. It fell to floor in several pieces. Lancelot had to steady himself afterward, but Bruenor did not dare try to help him.
Bruenor had no idea what to do. They had reached the main doors when Lancelot spoke again. "Do you have any money?"
"In the coat pocket," Lavaine volunteered promptly. Did he have to be so bloody helpful? It least he could have tried to stall. Lavaine went on, "We don't have a car, we got dropped off, but—"
Lancelot was not listening. He was already walking toward the line of taxis parked near the door.
Lavaine hurried after him. "We can—" he began again.
Lancelot got into the car and shut the door in his face.
"Wait, let me go with you— At least tell me where you're going!" Lavaine yelled at the taxi as it roared away from the curb. He finally looked dismayed. Bruenor wanted to hit him. What had the little bare-footed fool expected to happen?
He took a deep breath. "Give me your mobile," he demanded.
"It was in the coat," Lavaine said.
Bruenor resisted the urge to scream at him. He sprinted back into the hospital in search of a payphone. They were in so much trouble. But he would have no qualms throwing both Lavaine and Dinaden to the wolves.
And neither one of them were going to get so much as a crumb of anything he cooked for weeks. Months.
He had just gotten through the doors when a terrifying thought hit him. By all that was sacred, he hoped to the Christian hell that he would not be the one who had to tell Arthur that they had lost Lancelot.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-12-03 12:06 pm (UTC)Gah, I don't have time to read this now, but it's totally made my day anyway.
*bookmarks to come back to later*
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Date: 2007-12-05 04:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-03 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-05 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 08:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-06 04:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-03 04:07 pm (UTC)And again you leave things open to wonder how things could mess up even more!!!!! *grrrr*
You are great!! Please keep it up!
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Date: 2007-12-05 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-03 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-05 04:56 pm (UTC)Getting this done was long, slow torture in ways that made it seemed like a cursed chapter--we'll see how the next one goes.
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Date: 2007-12-04 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-05 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-04 03:23 pm (UTC)You juggle all the balls so prefectly I am truly amazed at how all the characters fit together.
I do wish that Tor would get a clue but he seems a little lost and simple.
I am curious to know where Lance is going to loose himself but after writing such a mamouth piece I understand you wanting a rest.
When you come back please be assured you have a eager reader here.
Well done on keeping both the energy and the movement of this story going so strongly.
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Date: 2007-12-05 05:03 pm (UTC)I'm glad that all the various parts are fitting together for you. One of the reasons it takes me so long to write these suckers (aside from the fact that they're just looong) is that it takes a while before I can figure out how to get all those balls in the air and to stop dropping them on my head. ;)
Tor is very young (Gally just acts young), so he's clueless about some things. I like to think it's one of his endearing qualities. :)
What Lancelot's going to do is known to Lancelot alone, I'm afraid.
Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2007-12-04 05:01 pm (UTC)I do wish I'd found this, oh, say a couple of years from now, when it was finished, though.....
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Date: 2007-12-05 05:05 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading.
SQUEEE!
Date: 2007-12-05 01:50 am (UTC)Thank you, thank you! I am so excited about all these developments; Tristan and Dinaden, Bruenor and his blenders, Galahad and Tor shopping and seeing YKW, Lancelot and Guin meeting, AND the dreams! Oh Yay! I totally understand the need to take a break - so I won't say it, but you KNOW I'm thinking it, don't you?
Re: SQUEEE!
Date: 2007-12-05 05:14 pm (UTC)So nice that you enjoyed it! The plot just keeps thickening (pretty soon it'll have a cement-like consistency ;) ).
And yes, yes, I can feel you thinking over there.
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Date: 2007-12-06 05:10 am (UTC)Dani
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Date: 2007-12-06 04:27 pm (UTC)Since these chapters take me so long to write, I often feel like I'm talking to myself. It's a great motivating factor--and a vindication of some degree of sanity : )--to know that someone is reading. :D
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Date: 2007-12-07 12:49 am (UTC)I loved the exchange between Lance and Guinny...and I loved Tor's reaction to learning he'd hyjacked a 'female' doctor *giggles madly*
And:
Tanner echoed. "You mean like second sight or something?"
*amused snort* Nice hommage to Clive's old show. *g*
Cheers, darlin' Another fantactic chapter. I know these are hard for you...but gods, we love teh crack.
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Date: 2007-12-09 11:55 pm (UTC)Hee! Glad you picked up on the little Second Sight joke. :)
As to where Lancelot thinks he's going . . . I think the answer might be anywhere he damn well pleases.
Glad you enjoyed it and thanks for reading!
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Date: 2007-12-07 02:42 am (UTC)This chapter was SO worth the wait - I love how we get to see "thoughts/actions" from all the different knights. Seems like several of them are having bad nightmares/flashbacks and such.
Arthur......you got some explaining to do.......and I don't envy him at all. A mad Lancelot is not a good thing. Just send Lance to us over here in the USA and I will take good care of him. (*wink*)
And Ms. Impatient (Gwen) - needs to mind her own business....although she "thinks" Lancelot IS her business and the quicker she gets rid of him the better her success will be with Arthur. And of course, her plan to get Lancelot riled up worked like a charm. I am so ready for her to get her just desserts in all this.
Can't wait for more - and hopefully, the computer won't crash and burn and you lose your original thoughts - although, I don't think you could have written this part any better. GREAT JOB!!!!
*Gerdie*
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Date: 2007-12-10 12:04 am (UTC)I'm glad you found it worth the wait. :)
Just send Lance to us over here. I'm not sure anyone's exactly in a position to send Lancelot anywhere right now, but who knows where he'll end up?
As for Gwen, as you say, she no doubt thinks this is very much her business. Now, whether anyone else will agree with her is an entirely different question.
Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2007-12-08 03:36 am (UTC)Even though I've read this a few times, it's still entertaining and maddening the third time through.
Keep 'em coming, dear. :)))
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Date: 2007-12-10 12:11 am (UTC)And also, I realize that you may think you're being sly with the "keep'em coming" but I can see through that. You might want to duck. ;)
Teh Crack
Date: 2007-12-08 03:55 am (UTC)Gotta go read it all again. . .
Re: Teh Crack
Date: 2007-12-10 12:20 am (UTC)where the heck is Lancelot going in that taxi? As I think I said somewhere above, the answer to that is probably wherever he pleases--and it's probably not a good idea to get in his way right now. ;)
Bruenor knows all about the proper use of blenders. He's read the manual, and everything. It's Percival who needs some blender training, although I think he might have learned better now (about rocks and blenders, anyway). Tor, of course, didn't learn much. Whatever lesson temporary milkshake deprivation might have taught him was erased by the pure glee of managing to get that pig Percy in trouble.
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Date: 2007-12-11 06:38 pm (UTC)Aw, Lancelot is heartbreaking. And Arthur is still a cowardly idiot, though a well-intentioned one! I love watching this dynamic play out; we can see how much they care about each other but how that's still not enough. And how Arthur thinks he knows everything about Lancelot, but really doesn't know anything at all. I'm such a fan of this series, I can't tell you.
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Date: 2007-12-12 06:37 pm (UTC)I'm glad that you're able to keep track of what's going on. I worry that I've made it too complicated and have too many characters running about (but then again, they're all so damn pushy!), so it's good to know that you're able to follow along.
I like what you wrote about Arthur and Lancelot. They are both very
stupidflawed in their own way. Some might argue Arthur more so than Lancelot, but I'm actually not really sure about that.Thanks for reading and I'm glad to hear that you're still enjoying this monster!
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Date: 2007-12-12 06:43 pm (UTC)It's easier to blame Arthur, since he's the one who still thinks everything is fine and Lancelot's the one in pain, but that's because Lancelot has deliberately, over their entire relationship, hid his true feelings from Arthur. Arthur doesn't know how conflicted Lancelot is over their relationship since Lancelot never told him, and really, how could Arthur know if Lancelot always pretends it's fine? It's one of those "if you don't know why I'm upset, I'm not going to tell you" dynamics that plays out so frequently in relationships.
Yeah, they're both to blame. But I just love it. It's such perfect angst. It's complicated, and interesting, and I always feel like their relationship is on a knife's edge--with just a few words they could finally resolve their problems and be happy together or they could finally tear each other apart. Which is why I'm still here, what, 130,000 words and two years later?
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Date: 2007-12-13 09:50 pm (UTC)Arthur has a rather unfortunate tendency to only let himself see what he wants to see, and Lancelot, let's just say that he's been burned before. Together they are not exactly the best pair to form a healthy relationship. Add to that the male tendency not to talk to each other, and, well, yeah.
I'd probably add a cautionary note that I think I've been a little opaque about Arthur's motivations, so it might be easier to view him as the bad guy at this point.
I’m really thrilled that you’re enjoying the story so much, even if the word count is getting a little scary. As long as someone is still interested in reading, I'll no doubt keep writing (if slowly).
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Date: 2007-12-16 05:43 pm (UTC)Oh Lancelot ... you will forever be yourself no matter where you are (and no matter how bald you will be). And Arthur, I do not envy you being the recipient of Lance's anger (although I think I will find myself envying him when they get around to making up ;))
Wonderful as usual darling =).
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Date: 2007-12-17 08:49 pm (UTC)I'm so happy to hear that you're enjoying the fic!
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Date: 2008-01-19 05:45 am (UTC)The part that stuck with me the most was early on when Arthur called Lancelot "Guin" in bed. Ouch. That really hits home here with Guinevere visiting Lancelot in the hospital and with her and Arthur's plan. I'm curious where he's going when he leaves, but the poignancy of him walking out is quite acute.
I absolutely adore the knights. Squabbling over food or just lounging around watching a movie, they make me smile. I keep picturing them living sort of like the X-men in their big mansion. You've written many beautiful scenes and I've loved getting to know them all. They feel almost as much canon characters to me as the knights who were actually in the movie.
Thank you so much for writing this. I'm off now to see what else you've written. I love your style and your imagery. Mind if I friend you so that I can keep updated?
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Date: 2008-01-19 04:46 pm (UTC)trapinterest someone new. :)It's so interesting to me to think that you read the whole thing in the course of a few days (pretty impressive, btw--and I'm with you, sleep is overrated). I've been writing this monster for almost exactly two years now (it'll be the second anniversary of the posting of the first story in six days), and the series has been developing over al that time, so I kind of wonder about how well it's been hanging together when you go back to the earlier stories.
And Lancelot probably doesn't really know where he's going either, but we'll have to see what he decides. ;)
I'm thrilled that you like the OC knights. It's always nice to know that they're getting some love, since developing their characters has been so much fun, especially in that I get to play around a bit the actual mythology (and
abuseuse it for my own nefarious purposes of course).Thank you for reading and for your lovely comments. They fill me with glee, which is especially good, since I‘m supposed to be working on some anniversary stuff. . And of course, feel free to friend me. I always enjoy getting to know new people. :D
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Date: 2008-01-19 08:10 pm (UTC)Concerning reading the whole thing in a few days...well, it speaks to its quality that I was so engrossed and eager always to read the next part. The tone does change a little going through the stories--the first bits feel much more like one-shots, and the later ones much more like a serial epic, but the transition was smooth enough because the topic and the writing are so fascinating.
As for the knights, I love that Tor hangs on to Galahad and has to carry his bags. I love that Galahad is a clothes whore. I love that not all the knights are good necessarily (*cough* Agravaine *cough*). I love that they are like little kids but always with that deadly edge. I love many things.
Anyway, I'm excited to see the anniversary stuff, and well, any other potentially forthcoming stuff. You've been friended, and I look forward to getting to know you, too!
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Date: 2008-05-26 09:37 am (UTC)But it's also good crack in the sense that it is well-written, with fully developed, real characters extended far beyond the comforts of the original film into an entire universe -- one that I adore.
I'm fascinated by the way you write Lancelot, but then again, I've always been fascinated by his character. It's wonderful to see him get his own story like this, and yet, it's also wonderful to have the perspectives of so many of the other knights around him.
This series is endlessly inventive and funny and moving, and although I really should go back to comment on each installment, I don't have the time. I am friending you, as long as you don't mind -- let me know if you do -- so as not to miss any future updates, because I'm hopelessly hooked.
Also, sometimes feedback that comes a significant length of time after a fic posting can stimulate the muses. *nudges you gently and oh, so very unsubtly* :)
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Date: 2008-05-28 08:37 pm (UTC)Feedback at any point is much cherished, so thanks for letting me know you've enjoyed the story. RL has been very distracting for the last some months, so I haven't had much time/interest for recreational writing, but the story will (eventually) continue.
I'm glad to hear that you're liking our hero as well as his posse (or so he probably likes to think of them). Lancelot is of course the main character, but once I had decided that this was going to be more than a one (or two) off, it became important to me to try to fully develop the knights as individuals, each with his own story and pov. Doing that for all 39 of them is impossible (unless this thing is going to be 10 times as long as it already is and I'm willing to drive myself mad(der)), but that hasn't stopped me from giving it my best shot. It has been one of the funnest (and yet exasperating) parts of writing this.
No problem with friending. My personal posts (such as they are) are filtered, but I'm lazy about it, so you're either in or out. Let me know if you want to be included and I can add you to the filter when I friend you back. If you just want the public posts (right now, pretty much all fic is public), no worries that I'll be insulted, just let me know what your preference is.
Thanks for reading! :D
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Date: 2008-06-03 04:40 am (UTC)Thanks, though!
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Date: 2008-06-03 04:05 pm (UTC)