King Arthur Fic: Rumors Of War (Resurrection AU)

[amari_z]

Title: Rumors of War

Warnings: Slash

Series: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The series (with links) is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town, Weapons of Choice, Myths, Legends and Lies, Lessons in Deportment, Ties to Bind, The Shopping Expedition, Dangerous Games, Rude Awakenings, All Things Mortal, In Twilight's Kingdom, and this one. To make sense, the stories should be read in order.

Notes: It's the longest chapter yet (it qualifies for novella status on its own), so hopefully that makes up somewhat for the wait. Fair warning, though: Anyone who asks for "more" in the comments risks me throwing something at them. Flattering as it is, just don't do that right now.

Thanks to starry_diadem for suggesting the use of Cheltenham Ladies' College. I don't know much more about the school than what I saw on its website, and no offense is meant by my using the name for my own crack'ed purposes. Thanks also to darklyscarlett for her comments and some inspired names and sasha_b for pre-reading.

This starts up directly after Twilight's Kingdom; it has been a while, so if you don't remember where we left off, you might want to refresh your recollection.



~~~

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
~T.S. Eliot, The Journey of the Magi

You will hear of wars and the rumor of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is yet to come. ~Matthew 24:6

~~~

The trip back from Eboracum passed as a gray haze, punctured by occasional small flares of dread at the sight of each landmark signaling their progress toward Badon Hill. For the first time he could remember, Arthur had no desire to return to the garrison.

The knights rode around him in eerie silence. No jokes, no songs, and the few arguments that started broke off abruptly.

The miles went by too quickly. The swiftness of their passage seemed a bitter mockery of their last ride to the garrison, when, for all their desperate haste, each mile had lingered on as if the world itself was stretching beneath their horses' hooves.

Arthur had ridden the first part of that other return journey with Lancelot's deadweight in his arms and faltering prayers on his lips. He had surrendered Lancelot to Dagonet later, yielding gracelessly to the need to share the extra weight between the hard-ridden horses. He had wanted to refuse; they had stripped Lancelot of his armor, and, with the blood draining out of him, with the fury of his spirit quenched, he had seemed of little more substance than the air. Yet there had been no arguing against the desperate need to squeeze every last bit of speed out of their horses. Palomides had done the best he could, but Lancelot needed a surgeon. And while Arthur would not have cared if they had ridden every last one of the horses to death, he had enough presence of mind left to know his men would never allow it.

But when Lancelot had gone from limp to raving, Arthur had insisted on taking him back. Arthur had wanted to think that Lancelot had calmed because he had recognized the arms holding him, but more likely he had just no longer had the strength to continue his feverish thrashing. He had still been breathing when they had reached the garrison at last, but the surgeon had been able to offer no hope for his recovery.

Arthur shook his head, ignoring the sharp pain the movement drove through his skull. He had resigned himself to it when he had left Lancelot's bedside to obey the senseless orders that had the knights cooling their heels in Eboracum for the last month. There was little left to do now but wait. He would remain at Badon through the winter, and with the coming of spring he would be gone from the North. He clung to the knowledge that a new purpose awaited him. He had not planned it, yet he had not resisted. Perhaps it had been Providence. But Arthur was not yet ready to be grateful for God's mercy—if it were that.

It was nearing sunset when they approached the garrison; the days had begun to wane, with more than half of the summer season gone. The land was bathed in the deceptive golden glow that presaged twilight and brought with it long shadows. Arthur's horse, which had been restive throughout the journey, reduced its pace as Arthur leaned back in the saddle. But even as Arthur slowed, his knights broke and galloped past him, veering off the road that led to the fort, like a tide held back too long.

Arthur wanted to call them back, but his throat closed. He caught a glimpse of Tristan's face as the man rode past him. The blank features seemed to twist before he too was gone and Arthur was left alone on the road.

Arthur's mount snorted and tossed its head, wanting to run with its fellows. Arthur held it back, his hands harder than the horse was accustomed. Still, he did not stop it from leaving the road to follow the others, and horse and rider approached the familiar plot of land.

Most of the knights had dismounted. The wind whipped back their strident voices, but Arthur could not make out the words.

When his horse came to a stop at the edge of the cemetery, he blinked as Bors's contorted face appeared by his stirrup. He howled up at Arthur, a sound of animal anguish. "The bastards didn't even bury him!" Arthur blinked, but before he could make sense of the words, Bors was gone. He reappeared swinging up on his own horse, which he spun toward the fort before he was settled in the saddle.

Arthur knew he should say something, but the words were echoing through his head, making it impossible to think.

Didn't even bury him.

He had thought himself resigned. Already moving on. He had believed he would return to a past already safely laid to rest. But the past would not be so easily put behind him, it seemed. And perhaps the resignation had only been the numbness that follows a hard blow before the real pain strikes.

He forced himself to look around.

There was no fresh grave in the cemetery.

It was Kay's cool voice that rang out, making Bors and the others who were mounting their horses pause. "What do you intend to do?"

Bors turned on him, furious. "What, by the Lady's bloody flow, do you think? I'm going to find out what those Romans did with his body while we were ordered off to stinking Eboracum!" Angry voices came, as if in echo, but joined together into a furious crescendo.

"They know our customs," Agravaine snarled, his voice rising above the others. He allowed his horse dance about in agitation, clearing a space around him. "If he had to die alone among Romans"—Arthur barely registered the dark look directed his way—"it would have cost them nothing to see him properly buried." He drew his sword, a vicious rasp of steel. "Who knows what desecration those sons of whores have committed."

For all that his father had chosen their ways as his own, Arthur had never questioned the meaning of Sarmatian burial customs, which his knights took seriously as they took little else. They had never failed to recover the body of a fallen knight, and each dead man had been seen into the earth by Sarmatian hands. Until now.

"And would you start a war?" Kay's voice broke through the shouts. Dagonet had wheeled up beside him.

"It is they who started it!" Agravaine was roaring back when Gawain's voice cut through his.

"It hardly matters who started it." He pointed, and they all turned to see Tristan's horse racing toward the fort, Dinaden's flying at its heels. "It's begun regardless."

And then Arthur could picture it as though it were happening before his eyes. He knew the enraged knights would have little trouble slaughtering the surprised legionaries at the gate, but the sheer numbers of Rome would overwhelm them in the end, and, one by one, they would fall, each of them exultant to finally fight Rome. Each of them triumphant even at the last.

For a moment, pain bursting out of him, he welcomed the vision. Let them all do as they wanted, let all the meaningless strife be ended. What was the point of it any longer? Let his knights die in a battle of their own choosing. And they would all die. Bors, howling his battle cry and beating his chest; Gawain and Gaheris, back to back before Galahad; Dagonet, in silent determination; Kay, cool to the last; Agravaine, screaming his rage; Gareth, standing before the rest; Dinaden, all quiet precision, first, then Tristan, graceful until death broke him; and Bedivere, and Urré, and Bruenor and—

The vision lasted only as long as it took for him to draw another breath. Then the horror of it surged over him in a flood as red as blood. He took a breath. Another. Shaken, he started thinking clearly for the first time in over a month.

"Hold!" he bellowed. They froze, startled. Most of them had forgotten he was even there. They could not be blamed for that.

He made his voice hard and decisive, although it sounded rough and unrecognizable to his own ears. It was the voice that brooked no dissent—from any but one. He thrust the thought away. "Kay and Dagonet! After Tristan and Dinaden—stop them from doing anything foolish." The pair exchanged a look but did not hesitate. They were galloping toward the fort even as Arthur continued speaking. There was little hope they would be able to catch up before the scouts reached the gate, but perhaps they could stop them before they did irreversible damage.

"We will have an explanation for this, and whoever is responsible will be punished." He stilled their protests with a raised hand. "Your anger is justified, but this is not the way." He swept his gaze over them, meeting furious gaze after furious gaze. "There will be no fighting in the garrison. Is that understood?"

The silence stretched until it was taut as a pulled bowstring. It was as if they were all waiting for something. But it never came. No cutting voice sliced through the tension. No voice goaded them on, or struck through their anger with the force a blow to the chest, or laughed, mocking them all. No voice would come this time. Nor ever again. Arthur closed his eyes. He took a breath. He could not forget his duty. He still had that, and he would not see his knights dead at Roman hands, not as long as they remained in his charge. Which would not be much longer now. He had ceased to be fit for this command—how far he had let things go here proved that.

He did not let himself think about what had been done with the body as he led them toward the waiting fort. Not yet. That way was the flicker of madness and the red wash of blood.

Arthur blinked back the dampness in his eyes. It took a moment, but he became aware that he was not alone. Lancelot was sprawled against his side, his pliant relaxation signaling rare, deep sleep. Arthur might have laughed at his own foolishness if his heart were not aching in his chest. Of course Lancelot was not dead. The contrary man had defied all expectations and somehow survived. They had arrived at the fort to find no blood washing over the flagstones, but Tristan, Dinaden, Dagonet and Kay by Lancelot's sickbed, where he lay, little more than skin, bones and violent temper, spitting fury at being left behind, but stubbornly, maddeningly not dead.

But Arthur's joy at that miracle had been tempered by the realization of just what he had done. His world had been crumbling into ruins around him, and he had clung to whatever came to hand, fearing that it too would turn to ashes in his hands, and leave him alone and adrift.

That long winter had passed in an irreconcilable mix of exultation and consternation. He had kept tight control of the dread building like acid in his gut and had hidden it the best he could. He had been terrified that Lancelot would discover the truth before the end. He could not have borne that. It would have spoiled the little time they had left, even as Lancelot's convalescence had brought with it a softening of his manner toward Arthur and a unfamiliar hint of peace in his eyes. But then with spring the news from the south had come; Arthur had been guilt-ridden but free again.

Back then, he had viewed himself as justly punished. Lack of faith was a great sin. Sometimes Arthur thought it was the greatest sin a man could commit. What he had not realized at the time was that the full tale had not yet been told. He had not learned his true lesson, and the real punishment was yet to come.

He clenched his eyes shut as if he could ward off the memory and tightened the arm that lay around Lancelot. He rubbed his cheek against soft curls, breathing deeply, and forced himself to relax, to feel nothing but the warm weight of the body against his. Let him just enjoy this for a moment. All else could wait. His hand moved down Lancelot's back, and then, inevitably, given what he had been dreaming about, over to Lancelot's side to find the thick, twisted scar that had never faded. But his fingers encountered nothing but warm, smooth skin. His hand stilled, his thumb stroking over unmarred flesh. What had happened to Lancelot's scar?

But— Was he not in his bed at the garrison? He lay on the familiar straw filled mattress. Yet this scar had disappeared along with all the others when Lancelot had come back—

But those memories, they came later . . . .

Confused, he could only blink at Lancelot as the man stirred and lifted his head. Dark eyes blinked down at Arthur for a moment before the gaze sharpened. Arthur felt as though Lancelot's gaze cut straight through him, and dread ripped through Arthur at what Lancelot would see.

And then there was blood everywhere, covering Lancelot's pale skin, soaking the sheets, on Arthur's hands—

He startled awake.

He went still, his heartbeat drumming through him. What? Had it been a dream? No, the first part had been a memory. The rest . . . . He looked around. He was in a bed, but there was no blood. No Lancelot.

"What is it?"

He turned his head, and saw her standing near the foot of the bed, folding his discarded clothes.

Reality, little better than dreams, settled back over him. "What time is it?" he croaked.

"It's very late. You only slept a few hours. Go back to sleep."

"I should check—"

"They'll call you if something changes. You need to rest." She came and sat down on edge of the bed. She stroked a hand through his hair and over his brow. He let the familiar touch soothe him. His eyes closed.

~

Gareth watched Lancelot's eyes as they fluttered open for the first time since he had been shot. Gareth leaned closer, hoping for recognition, but the dark eyes were unfocused, and then hidden again by the fall of long lashes.

Lancelot's right hand was still moving against the white sheet, and Gareth grasped it, fighting not to crush the thin fingers with his clasp. He spoke softly in Sarmatian, calling Lancelot's name, but trying to restrain the hope rising in him. The doctors had warned that Lancelot would be disoriented when he woke, and that they were to expect a time when he would drift between unconsciousness and full awakening. And Gareth himself had seen enough head wounds to know better than to expect too much.

Still, he could not help holding his breath as he watched Lancelot's face.

Lancelot's fingers twitched in his, but then his grip strengthened. Dark eyes opened again and seemed to drift around the room before resting on Gareth. Lancelot's fine brows furrowed, and he blinked a few times. Then, his hand convulsed on Gareth's. He tried to turn his head—to look around the room, Gareth realized—but he squeezed his eyes shut before he managed to move his head more than a few inches.

"Where—?" It was barely a whisper, more just a shaping of the word.

The rush of relief almost had Gareth sagging back into his chair. "The hospital," he stumbled over his own tongue in his hurry to speak, using the Latin word for military hospital. "You were hurt, but you're going to be—" Lancelot's fingers bit into Gareth's, and he stopped short.

"No." Lancelot's eyes were open and focused on him at last. Gareth had never been so grateful to be seared by that furious look. "Arthur?"

Belated understanding came to Gareth. It seemed an age had passed since the shooting. "He's fine! You pushed him out of the way. He wasn't hurt at all." Lancelot's breathing was growing erratic—with pain and effort, Gareth realized. Where was Tor with the bloody doctor?

Lancelot's eyes fell shut, and Gareth thought he had slipped away again, but then he spoke, the rough whisper of his voice a little louder and edged with suspicion. "Where?"

This time, Gareth understood what he was asking. "He's gone to rest a bit. He's been here almost the whole time. Wouldn't leave." He saw no reason to mention whom Arthur had left with. Not now. Lancelot's fingers were still clenched on Gareth's and his other hand was digging into the bedding, but he was staring hard at Gareth, anger, as always, giving him focus. But as he started to ask something else, the door banged open and then Tor was hauling a doctor inside by the sleeve of her white coat.

She was protesting vigorously. "I keep telling you! I'm not this patient's physician." She was whacking hard at Tor's arm trying to free herself, but he held on doggedly. "I'm a gynecologist, you bloody imbecile!" But Tor, who tended to ignore words he did not understand, merely looked stubborn and held on.

~

When Lancelot's actual doctor arrived, he injected Lancelot with a sedative, but not before nearly getting his wrist broken when he had presumptuously assumed he had the right to examine his patient. He probably did not realize that he had escaped lightly. Lancelot had done a lot worse to some of the Roman doctors. It was one of the reasons that the long-suffering Palomides had so often ended up stitching up his wounds.

The sedative had eventually been injected—with Lancelot's begrudging consent—by needle into Lancelot's arm, since Lancelot had yanked out his IV when Gareth had turned his back to try to apologize to the irate doctor Tor had waylaid. Despite the blood spurting from his hand, Lancelot had given the medical sensors similar summary treatment, which had made the machines wail in panic. This had at least had the virtue of bringing Lancelot's actual doctor running.

Once the doctor thought that the drugs had taken some effect, he, with admirable professional daring, checked his patient over. When he finished, he scribbled on the papers in the metal covers. He then turned to them and, after eying Tor—who was still tomato red to the ear-tips from Gareth's whispered explanation of what kind of doctor a gynecologist actually was and why such a doctor would not be suitable to treat their friend—he asked Gareth to accompany him into the hallway.

Gareth cast one look back at the bed before following the doctor. Lancelot seemed to be asleep, but it was reassuring to see how his brows were furrowed and how his lips hinted at a scowl. There was no doubt that Lancelot was fully aware of who he was and what had happened. Although the knowledge was not making Lancelot more tractable, it filled Gareth with relief. All the doctors' sober warnings had proven wrong.

But Lancelot was in pain, twitchy, ill, and weak, and over all just very, very annoyed. And he had not even noticed his hair yet.

Gareth found he could not stop grinning.

He tried to keep his face straight as he faced the doctor, who frowned as he rubbed at his wrist. The man looked a little pale.

Gareth tried to pay attention as the doctor began to speak in serious, hushed tones, but it took him a few minutes to understand what the man was getting at. He was saying solemn things about personality shifts and unpredictable, violent behavior, and how it was not uncommon with head trauma, but he kept losing his train of thought each time Gareth's beaming smile broke free.

Sounding somewhat testy, the doctor said, "I realize you're just happy to have your friend awake at last, but such altered states are, I must warn you, a sign of damage to the brain. It's important to note all changes in personality in order to—"

Gareth clapped the man on the shoulder, making him stagger. "No. No changes. He's exactly like always. He's absolutely perfect."

The doctor gave him a look of disbelief, but then went off, muttering about ordering some scans and tests. The man probably was just not used to patients who threatened to eviscerate him with his penlight if he shined it in their eyes one more time.

Lancelot going to be even more delightful when they started poking at him in earnest, now that he was awake to notice. Gareth let the laughter break out.

It died when he pulled out his mobile to try Arthur again. He had already called the house. Rather unfortunately, it had been Lionel who answered the phone. Gareth should not have, but he had been unable to stop himself from blurting the news. Lionel, always a loudmouth, had bellowed it out at the top his lungs, and, from the sound of it, had woken the entire house. Gareth did wonder what method Kay and the others would use to restrain the entire lot of them from turning up at the hospital. Well, that was not Gareth's problem. And he found he did not care if all two score knights arrived to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting hospital. If nothing else, it might prepare the staff for dealing with Lancelot.

Now, if he could just get hold of Arthur. Gareth was not sure that Lancelot had believed him about Arthur being unhurt. After all, what else would be stopping the man from being here?

Arthur's mobile once more went directly to voicemail. Gareth did not leave a message this time. The four he had previously left would have to do.

When Gareth reentered the room, he found that Tristan had somehow slipped past him and joined the still red-faced Tor. Gareth knew that Tristan had been lurking around the hospital. He did not bother to wonder how Tristan had gotten word that Lancelot had woken. Tristan sometimes seemed to pull information out of the very air.

"Tristan," Gareth said in acknowledgment. Lancelot should have been knocked out by the drugs, but his eyelids twitched at the sound of Tristan's name. He gazed at Tristan with glassy eyes, but they drifted shut again after a moment. The drugs they had these days were powerful stuff. Gareth could think of a time or two in the past that he would have been grateful to have them. Then again, copious amounts of alcohol did pretty well too. It was just the resulting headaches and vomiting that sometimes made that treatment seem worse than what it was meant to cure.

"Where's Arthur?" Tristan demanded after a moment.

"He went to get some sleep. He must be exhausted—he's slept through his mobile ringing." It sounded plausible, although it was not true. Arthur's phone had to be off. Nor did he inform Tristan of what Bors and Dagonet had passed on earlier. This was not the time to get Tristan riled up. Especially since he would not put it past Lancelot, although filled with drugs up to the top of his shaved and bandaged head, to be listening to every word.

~

Arthur turned his head, and saw a familiar sleek head on the other pillow. He rubbed at his eyes. They felt gritty and it took him a long moment to refocus after he moved his hand away.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table and then jerked upright as he saw the time. It was well into morning. He had not meant to stay this long. He slipped from the bed and found his trousers folded on a chair. He pulled them on, and habit had him pulling his mobile from his pocket. It had not rung so—

He stared in disbelief at the blank face of it.

He felt sick. How had he turned it off? He stabbed at the green power button, and an eternity passed while it powered on and then searched for service. Dread was choking him even before he saw the number of calls he had missed and whom they were from.

Arthur was in a taxi—shoes unlaced, collar askew and hair rumpled—before he dared to pull out his mobile again.

His hands trembled as he hesitated. Rather than hitting the button for voicemail, he took a deep breath and scrolled through the contacts for Gareth.

"Arthur? Arthur!" Gareth's voice sounded distorted and overloud in Arthur's ear. "Why haven't— Never mind. You heard my messages? Lancelot's awake and he seems fine. Well, as fine as someone with a hole in his chest can be—" Gareth's happy voice continued to bubble on, but Arthur had dropped the phone and doubled over his knees.

Gareth was waiting for him by the hospital entrance. Luckily, the reporters had grown tired of holding vigil at the doors a few days ago, and no one noticed Arthur's arrival.

Gareth led Arthur, not to the ward where Lancelot had been before, but to a different floor. "They just moved him. Good thing too. I don't know what Lancelot would have done to the doctor if they'd tried to keep him in a room without windows." Gareth chuckled. Arthur frowned, half listening. He had not even realized that the room had not had a window, but his Sarmatians were particular about such things. Lancelot had always tended to get into a temper when made to stay in enclosed spaces.

Gareth was still talking as they turned a corner and Arthur caught sight of a number of knights lingering near a closed door. There were smiles and bright voices, like a sudden break of day after a long, cold night. But the conversations died when they saw Arthur. For a moment, Arthur thought he saw accusation in their eyes, but that had to be his own fancy. "Knights," he greeted them. The word slipped from his lips without thought.

He got a few nods and "Arthur"s in return as they made way to allow him to get to the door.

He could do little more than nod back. His heart pounded in his throat as he opened the door and went in. Gareth, his chattering having broken off unnoticed, did not follow.

Gawain was sitting by Lancelot's bed. Tristan was leaning in a shadowed corner. Gawain opened his mouth at the sight of Arthur and then shut it after a moment, as though thinking better. He glanced at Lancelot, and Arthur followed his gaze and forgot about him.

Lancelot looked as if he were asleep. Really asleep. His limbs were not laid out in someone else's positioning, like the neat arrangement of a corpse. His left hand—the IV was nowhere in sight—curled slightly where it lay flung palm up against the bedclothes. The outlines under the sheets showed one leg twisted, as though in an aborted movement to fling off the confining covers.

"He's woken a few times," Gawain said, making Arthur start, just as the frantic beating of his heart was beginning to grow more tranquil.

"The doctor gave him something that's making him sleep again." Gawain sounded skeptical of that course of action. "They seem to think he's agitated," Gawain added, his tone dry. "He remembers everything, and he's just as sweet tempered as you'd expect."

After a pause, Gawain continued, his voice dropping, "He's going to be even more pleasant when he realizes that we haven't yet strangled whatever pissant did this with his own still-steaming intestines."

"The authorities are looking into it," Arthur said absently as he moved closer to the bed. Since his conversation with Merlin, he had not thought about it. Now, with Lancelot awake again—

"Arthur, do you really think that this is something that—" Gawain began, but he broke off as Tristan who had seemed to be ignoring them both, swiveled his head, putting Arthur in mind of his long-lost hawk.

Gawain, in his quick glance in Tristan's direction, seemed to avoid Tristan's eyes. He stood. "They've doped him up good, so he probably won't be awake for a few hours. We'll, er, leave you alone with him." He cleared his throat, and then said, "We'll make sure no one comes in without some warning."

He held the door open for Tristan. For a moment, Arthur thought Tristan would refuse to leave, but then the scout moved away from the wall. Arthur could not read the flat gaze that fixed on him before Tristan left the room. Gawain followed him.

Once the door clicked closed, Arthur moved closer to the bed and slumped into the chair that Gawain had vacated. He reached for Lancelot's upturned hand, wincing as saw the ugly marks on the back. But the hand was warm in his, and the skin was pliant when he brushed his lips over it.

He bowed his head over Lancelot's hand and offered, Thank you. Peace washed over him as the words of prayer rose, the serenity touching him again as it had not in these many days.

He did not know how much time had passed—it did not occur to him to check his watch—but the shadows in the room had shifted when he looked up from his study of Lancelot's hand to find dark eyes fixed on him.

His breath left him. When he managed to find his voice, the only words he had were banal ones. "You—you're awake. I've— We've been waiting for you."

Lancelot continued to stare at him, his eyes narrowed. Arthur was taken aback by the strangeness of his gaze, until he realized that Lancelot's pupils were constricted to pin points, giving his gaze a strange quality. He was reminded of something. He had dreamed—

He continued to speak, not sure what else to do. "You're going to be fine. You'll probably need to stay here for a few days." In fact, Arthur had no idea how long Lancelot would have to stay in the hospital; Gareth might have said, but Arthur had not been listening. It still seemed a good thing to say. "It's really quite amazing what the doctors can do now—"

Lancelot's fingernails dug into Arthur's skin and brought his babbling to an end. Lancelot was still studying him, but then he spoke at last. "You're alright?" His whispering voice had a painful rasp to it.

It was not anything Arthur was expecting to hear. "I'm fine."

"You look like someone dragged you face down through the dung heap."

Startled, Arthur self-consciously rubbed at his stubbled jaw with his free hand, before he recognized the tilt to one side of Lancelot's mouth and realized he was being teased. Lancelot was not glaring at him; the drugs were just making his eyes hard to read. "Who would dare do something like that to me besides you?" he returned, a grin tugging at his own lips. It felt strange, as though he had not smiled in a long time, but there was no stopping it

Lancelot was having trouble keeping his eyes open, but he pulled at Arthur's hand. Arthur did not understand what he wanted, but then Lancelot muttered, sounding annoyed, "Come on, then."

Arthur directed a dubious glance at the door, but then gave in, kicking off his shoes—realizing only then that he had never tied them—and lying down gingerly beside Lancelot on the hospital bed. He lay rigid at first, afraid of jostling Lancelot, but the warmth of the body beside him had him relaxing despite himself. The last straw was when Lancelot turned his bandaged head so it rested on Arthur's shoulder.

His eyes were dropping shut, when Lancelot murmured into his neck. "Don't think I've forgotten anything, Arthur." Arthur's eyes flew open and he craned his neck as he tried to get a look at Lancelot's face without dislodging him. Arthur opened his mouth, but Lancelot cut him off. "Later."

Arthur had relaxed once more by the time Lancelot spoke again, sleep and the drugs blurring his voice. "And don't think I haven't noticed what you let them do to my hair."

~

When Galehaut burst into his room, Agravaine was not exactly surprised—he had been expecting it at some point—but he was still startled. He swept the plastic package he had been reaching for into a drawer and tried to look as if he had been working on the gun parts spread across the desk. He began to snap a sharp, deflecting comment, but caught himself as he realized that Galehaut was not paying any attention to him. Agravaine ran his tongue over his teeth to make sure they would not give him away.

Galehaut was pacing around the room, radiating his confused emotions. The strongest of them seemed to be relieved joy, but his movements jerked with agitation. He spun around and fixed his gaze on Agravaine. "There's no point in waiting any longer. I'm going to tell him."

Agravaine wanted to roll his eyes at the pronouncement. Of course the idiot wanted to tell Lancelot. He was like a squeaky wagon wheel. Agravaine rubbed at his chin and pretended to consider, although his tone came out a little curt. "We still have the same problem as before. Neither one of us was there and we don't have any proof, so why should he believe us? We still need to wait. The truth will come out by itself." Sort of.

Galehaut shook his head . "We can't wait any longer! After what happened? He has to be warned—we don't know who did this! And he's got to be suspicious that something is going on that Castus isn't telling him. Besides, despite what you think, Lancelot wouldn't believe that I would lie to him."

"And I've been telling you that you're a fool to think that Lancelot would take your word over Castus's."

Galehaut's face twisted, but then hardened. "He will have to now."

Agravaine restrained the impulse to just hit him. But before he could speak, someone else burst into his room. What was it with these people and their inability to something as simple as knock at a door? Meligaunt's face was alight with excitement.

"You'll never guess what I just overheard, Agravaine!" he blurted.

"I'm not interested in your idiotic gossip!" Agravaine barked. When Meligaunt looked bewildered, Agravaine cast a quick, pointed look at Galehaut. Meligaunt's expression turned abashed and he muttered an apology before slinking out of the door.

What had he done to deserve being surrounded by such idiots? Galehaut stared after Meligaunt. Agravaine needed to distract him. "Tell me why you think Lancelot would doubt Castus now?" he demanded.

He did not bother listening to Galehaut's earnest explanation. It was not as if he had not heard it all before. Many times. He had finally gotten word from that insufferable bastard yesterday. The text message had only contained a time and a number. That arrogant little shit had better be ready to explain himself. Or it might just be Agravaine who took things into his own hands.

~

Tristan lay on his back and stared up at the darkness. He could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing.

He had been sleeping in this room for months. It was his room. Tonight it felt strange. Too silent. The bed was too soft. Too big.

Tristan always fell asleep and woke up at will. Always.

He rose and dressed.

The hospital was quiet at this time. He found Lucan and Meliot at Lancelot's door. They had procured chairs from somewhere and were playing cards. They met his stare without a hint of remorse.

Gawain was dozing in the chair by Lancelot's bed, but he startled awake when Tristan entered.

"I'll stay, you can go," Tristan said.

Gawain blinked at him blearily. "Huh?"

"I'll stay, you can go," Tristan repeated, an edge entering his voice. He did not like repeating himself. "You're sleeping anyway." It was not an accusation, but a flat statement of fact. It should have been enough, but he found himself adding, "And those two idiots of yours—who knows what they'll be doing."

Gawain ran his hand through his hair and his mouth crooked into something that was probably attempting to be a smile. "They do need supervision. You sure? I'm supposed to be here until morning when Bors is coming."

Tristan only looked back at him.

Gawain's eyes did not meet his, but he yawned and stood. "Okay, then. Thanks. The nurse was just here and gave him more drugs, so I doubt anyone will come in until morning. And he should probably just keep sleeping, I guess."

When he was gone, Tristan drew his chair closer to the bed and sat down. He closed his eyes and listened. There was an occasional murmur of sound from the hallway. He could pick out Lucan and Meliot's familiar voices, as well as those that must belong to the hospital staff. There were the soft, regular sounds from the equipment in the room. But beneath it all he could still hear it: Lancelot breathing.

The rustle of sheets alerted him, and he opened his eyes to find Lancelot looking at him. His eyes were only half open and unfocused, but he was staring at Tristan. After a moment he shifted, a grimace crossing his face. His eyes closed again, and he seemed to slip back into sleep.

Tristan considered. Finally, he pulled off his coat and boots. He left his gun where it was, tucked into the back of his trousers. He had grown accustomed to its presence long before Lancelot had begun to delight in the idea of making the basement into an armory.

He lay down in the space Lancelot had made for him, and despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the strangers' voices in the hall, despite his intention to keep watch, he fell into his first deep in days.

~

Palomides hovered in the corridor waiting for one of Lancelot's doctors, who had promised to come by and speak to him. The man was hard to pin down, but Ms. Delaney seemed to have put the fear of their God into everyone in the hospital.

It also probably helped that Arthur was famous and that the news media, which seemed to be the modern equivalent of tavern gossip, had latched on to the story of the shooting. Lancelot had been touted as a hero.

None of that, however, meant that the doctors condescended any less to Palomides than their Roman forerunners had.

And, of course, while it was easy to feel sympathy and admiration for a tragically comatose hero, it was quite a different matter to deal with the reality of an awake Lancelot. For all that Lancelot still spent most of the time sleeping, it did not stop him from being entirely himself in his interactions—some might say altercations—with his doctors. Palomides could not help feeling a bit of smug satisfaction at watching the doctors being subjected to Lancelot's bad—if groggy—temper.

A voice calling his name caught his attention. Bors waved and grinned at him. "What are you still doing here?" Palomides asked. Bors had been in with Lancelot earlier, but Palomides had thought he had gone back to the house.

Bors winked. "I went visiting in the maternity ward. I figured Lancelot wouldn't want all those flowers he's been getting."

Palomides stared at him. "You realize that the women there probably have husbands."

The leer on Bors's face was not very attractive. "That's never stopped anyone before. Besides, this way you know that they're fertile."

Palomides rolled his eyes. He hoped Bors was joking. The last thing they needed on top of everything else was Bors accidentally killing some irate husband. He eyed the lavish collection of flowers near the reception desk. Someone gave them away to other patients at the end of each day, but they kept coming and their numbers had surged when the media had found out Lancelot had awoken. Palomides felt sure that there had been a lot more of them earlier in the day. This was going to upset the betting.

Palomides was debating whether or not he wanted to pursue the conversation, when Bors gave a low whistle. "Those are big ones. I wonder if they're for our boy."

Two women had approached the reception desk. The man behind them was just about invisible behind the two huge flower arrangements he carried. Palomides blinked at the flowers. They hurt his eyes. He was no expert on such matters, but to him they looked garish and rather vulgar. It was as if the two glittering vases were in competition over which one of them could hold more flowers of the most lurid (and he presumed expensive) kind.

The two women bore a strong resemblance to one another, and Palomides guessed they were relations. They, like their flower arrangements, looked expensive, and over bright (their platinum colored hair was surely not a shade found in nature), although they appeared slightly more tasteful than the flowers. Just slightly.

Palomides revised that opinion as one of them raised her voice at the receptionist, the shrill sound carrying to the hallway. "What do you mean he's not accepting visitors? Tell him it's Juju Gryffoyn—"

"And Emo Gryffoyn," the other young women cut in, which earned her an irritated look from "Juju."

"And I'm sure he'll want to see me!"

"Us."

"I want to speak to someone in charge!"

"I doubt those flowers are for Lancelot," Palomides said. And was that a rat in "Emo"'s oversized, buckle-adorned handbag? No, he realized, as the creature poked its head further out, revealing a glittering collar around its neck. It was supposed to be a dog. Regardless, surely animals were not allowed in the hospital?

The receptionist must have noticed the dog at the same time, because Emo's voice shrieked in outrage. "Animal? Animal! How dare you! My Barlow isn't an animal! I'll have you know that his agent is shopping his book around! Don't listen to the mean lady, sweetums." The last was directed at the dog, and was followed by what Palomides presumed were more endearments, which Palomides was thankful were too quiet to carry. The cloying tone was quite enough. He did not think he would ever understand the people of this time.

Bors was chuckling. "No, they're for Lancelot. Don't you remember—Emo and Juju?"

Palomides frowned at Bors. Had the man been drinking again? Palomides was sure they did not sell alcohol in the hospital. He had checked several times.

"They were leaving messages for Lancelot at the house—after Arthur took him to that fancy party," Bors explained. "He must have met them there. The sly fox."

Lancelot had never been all that choosey about his female companionship, but Palomides had thought he had better taste than this. "Well, he's asleep now, so even if he wanted to see them—"

Bors shrugged. "If he wanted to see them, he would have bothered to return all those calls."

"So then, here's a ready made chance for you, Bors," Palomides said, mostly facetiously. "They're likely sisters."

Frowning in concentration, Bors considered the two women as they argued with the receptionist. The man accompanying them had put the flowers down, revealing a crisp black uniform. He somehow managed to look both stiff-lipped and long-suffering.

Bors shook his head. "Nah. Look at them. They look brittle, like they'd snap in half if you tried to have any real fun with them. And those hips! No way any brats are going to be squeezed out there."

Luckily, Palomides caught sight of Lancelot's doctor and did not have to answer.

Lancelot's neurologist was a short, balding man with a superior air. Like many short men, he compensated for his lack of height by lording his authority over others. Palomides was familiar with the type. They had a commander like that before Arthur. Lancelot had quite a bit of fun with that man too.

The sad thing was that this man was trying to be nice. He just did not seem to know how to go about it. He was eager to get into the good graces of "Mr. Castus"—whom he had mentioned several times had his vote before launching into a technical and lengthy lectures on why Arthur's health care policies were better than those of his opponent. Of course, when Palomides looked glassy-eyed, the man took on an even smugger and more superior air.

"The last scan looks good," the doctor said without preamble. "There's still some indication of swelling, but it has decreased noticeably. We need to keep monitoring him, but you can tell Mr. Castus I'm optimistic."

"How much longer will he have to stay here?" Palomides asked.

"It's hard to say. It will also depend on Dr. Muthupalaniappan's review of the chest wound."

Palomides nearly rolled his eyes. "But how long would you estimate?" he persisted.

"If the next scan shows continuing progress, I'd think at least another two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Who knew if the hospital would still be standing at that point.

The doctor looked irritated, and the attempt at a polite demeanor crumbled. "It might help if you people could get the patient to cooperate. At least keep him from getting out of bed. We could ease up on some of the sedatives then."

Palomides snorted. Yeah, right. "You try telling him he has to use a bedpan."

At just that moment, hospital security arrived to try to escort Juju, Emo and Barlow from the building. A moment later, Palomides caught sight of a grinning Bors heading in the direction of the lift with two familiar-looking flower arrangements.

~

They had gathered again in that downstairs room that had become their meeting place. All of them were there, with the deliberate exception of Galahad, who was on duty at the hospital.

There had been little need to review their investigation. They had no new information. Nothing on the shooter. Nothing on the man that Gawain thought he had seen, despite the picture that Percival had drawn based on Gawain and Bors's description. Kay eyed the familiar face in the copy of the drawing before him with narrowed eyes. Really, they need not have bothered. They all knew what Arthur looked like, and with only some small differences, this drawing could have been of him.

Despite the lack of any progress, there were still plenty to discuss. They had been arguing back and forth for sometime already. Gawain and Gaheris on one side. The others unconvinced. Gawain was looking haggard, Kay noted. And his insistence on whom he had seen was beginning to verge on the fanatical. They had found no trace of that man anywhere.

"But what about Guinevere?" Gareth asked, changing the subject when Gaheris began to look a little too murderous. "Lancelot is going to find out eventually."

"Someone is going to let it slip," Kay acknowledged. "Who saw her?"

"Besides me and Dag? Lionel and Urré were at the door," Bors said. "I told them both if they said a word to anyone, I'd eat their livers for breakfast." He smacked his lips.

"Like that'll work with Lionel," Gaheris muttered.

"Let Arthur tell Lancelot about her," Dagonet said. "It's between them. Maybe Arthur has already told him?" He sounded a little dubious at his own suggestion.

Bors rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Like we wouldn't be knee deep in blood if—"

Kay interrupted. "How do we know she's not the one who wants Lancelot dead?"

"The shot was aimed at Arthur," Bors, annoyed, shot back at him. "She'd hardly want to kill Arthur." He had apparently dismissed the woman from suspicion. Well, Bors had known her. Kay had not. But Kay would reserve judgment. Bors tended to have unrealistic views of women.

"Arthur's been lying to all of us about that," Gaheris said, still sounding angry. At Dagonet's look, he waved a contemptuous hand. "Fine. Hiding things from us. And at his asking, we've been hiding things from Lancelot for no good reason that anyone can see. And if Gawain is right about what he saw then, for some purpose, Arthur is also hiding the fact that that man is also alive."

"One doesn't necessarily lead to the other," Kay said. "We don't have any proof. And what logical reason would Arthur have to keep that information to himself? We can all understand why he was reluctant for Lancelot to find out about the woman." Bors snorted.

"We should just ask! Ask Arthur to his face. He's got to know that we all know about Guinevere now." Gawain has sitting back in his chair, his arms crossed.

"But if you really think that Arthur's been lying about things for some purpose, why would he tell the truth just because we asked?" Kay said, ignoring the reproachful look Dagonet gave him. "It's better to keep our own counsel and see what we can uncover."

"Like we've managed to uncover anything so far," Gaheris grumbled.

They continued to argue without reaching any agreement, until a knock sounded on the door. Everyone except Gaheris picked up the playing cards Bors had dealt before they had started talking. Gaheris got up and unlocked the door.

"Are you lot still at it?" Lavaine asked. His eyes were on the table, and Kay realized that they all had about the same number of chips in front of them. Careless. "Dinner's been ready for a while. Better come quick. Bruenor's already sulking."

So they were forced to abandon both their card game and their argument, neither with any resolution.


Continued here.