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King Arthur Fic: Errant
Title: Errant
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Errant. 1: traveling or given to traveling (an errant knight). 2a: straying outside the proper path or bounds (an errant calf); b: moving about aimlessly or irregularly (an errant breeze) c: behaving wrongly (an errant child) d: fallible. ~From The Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary.
Notes: With a few lines from Guy Gavriel Kay’s Fionavar Tapestry stolen and abused, and with a bit of backhanded homage to T.H. White, and, as always, Malory.
Arthur did not let his weariness show in step, did not hunch his shoulders against the perceived cold, even after he slipped into the dim, narrow corridor used mostly by the household staff and where none of the wrangling council members he had just left behind were likely to tread. He was unaccountably tired and had been for days.
He hesitated only when he reached the turn off that would take him to the queen's chambers. Guinevere, besides meticulous appearances at public functions, where she had been as hard and glimmering as winter ice, had not left her rooms for the last fortnight. Arthur's awkward visits had plainly been unwelcome.
Expression remaining stoic, rather than choosing either to go forward or take the side corridor, he turned about and headed back the way he had come. He felt the sudden need for sunlight and fresh air, although he could not remember if there was any sunlight to be had this day. There were windows in the council chamber, but he had not noticed one way or the other.
The corridor that led out to the courtyard passed by the kitchens, and he paused there, watching the bustling activity, careful to keep himself hidden in the shadows. He knew that, if anyone caught sight of him, everything would change into respectful deference, or, worse, as was lately the case, into solemn, silent sympathy. He did not want either. What he wanted was to remember that, whatever else, he had made this bright place possible. As the continent crumbled under barbarian pressure, for seven years he had kept the invaders at bay, so that the people of Britain could live in peace and prosperity.
The staff here were only a small example of that: healthy and content, their demeanors were cheerful as they worked to prepare the evening meal. Even the lame-footed chief cook's half-hearted glowers could not dampen the happy chatter as the staff worked, nor send on their way the members of the household who lingered without any real business, nor chase off the children underfoot, who waited for an opportunity to snatch some tasty morsel as they played games whose rules only they understood. Arthur watched with a strange mixture of feelings. Pleasure—these were his people—and yet also something that was startlingly close to envy.
He pushed the emotion aside and instead listened to their voices, hoping to soak in some of the warmth he saw here.
"—and that Lady, Morgaine, she threw the tray at his head!"
"—one of Bors's , I think Nine—or was Ten?—anyway, he—"
"Half a cup! I said half a cup!”
"—my wife, she says to me, it's me or the goat, and so I says back—"
The voices rose and fell, and Arthur found himself drifting, lulled, until his mind woke to a change in rhythm.
"And then, just as all seemed lost—" the storyteller paused dramatically, a long spoon poised high in the air. He had captured the attention of most of the others, and even the children had stilled to listen.
"What? What happened?" a voice demanded, but the tone was hushed with anticipation, even as a bit of batter dripped from the storyteller's spoon.
"Who should appear but a man on a dark horse, steel gleaming in each hand—"
"Lancelot!" the children cheered. And Arthur, his half-brightened mood darkening, turned to go, but then a child's piping voice caught his ear.
"But why does Lancelot never come to court?" the child demanded. "He's the king's knight, but he never does. I want to see him too!"
If the storyteller was annoyed by the interruption of his tale, he gave no sign. With a flourish of his spoon, he answered. "Who can say? Perhaps because he knows he cannot rest his vigilance and keep the kingdom safe from the barbaric Saxons. Perhaps he doesn't care for the confining stonewalls. Perhaps it is true that he loves the queen whose life he saved and so cannot abide being here at court—"
The children moaned in protest at the mention of love, and another yelled to general acclaim, "It's because there's no adventure here!"
Arthur slipped away, turning back, once more, the way he had come. It was too late to go out. The sun must have set by now.
His rooms were dark and cold, despite the fire Jols had lit. Of Jols himself there was no sign, which was strange. Arthur's one-time squire, now undisputed master of the household, had never stopped viewing Arthur's comfort as his primary duty. The man had been deeply affronted when Arthur had gently tried to suggest that his new duties might not leave him time for his old ones. Somehow, unruffled, he managed both with aplomb. And over the years, his uncanny knack for showing up just as he was needed—if not wanted—had only sharpened.
But today the rooms were empty, and the high backs of the two chairs placed before the fire, looming there like crouched shadowy beasts, seemed to mock him. They seemed to Arthur a sign of his pitiful optimism. Since he had first occupied these rooms, how often had he sat before the fire, passing the time with any company? Arthur could not remember a single instance.
Arthur sighed silently as he unbelted his outer tunic and pulled it over his head. He tossed it carelessly on the bed on the way to the table where a flagon of wine awaited him. It was only when he had poured himself a cup and turned around that he realized the room was not empty after all.
He blinked, wondering if he were imagining it, given his maudlin turn of thought. But, at the angle he stood now, he could view the chairs from their sides, and he saw a pair of long legs stretching from one, crossed carelessly at the ankles. He blinked again, thinking the shifting, fire-edged shadows were playing tricks on him, but the image did not disappear. He peered deeper into the shadows that shrouded the chair, telling himself he was just tired, even as the pace of his heart quickened.
He set the cup down carefully on the table and took a few steps forward. The image only became clearer, and he realized that the man sprawled deep in the chair was asleep, dark head resting against the cushions. Arthur took a deep breath and, with a hand that was not quite steady, reached out to see if he could touch—
Before his fingers could make contact, the long body jerked, tensing like a wild thing startled, and hands closed convulsively, seeking weapons that were not there. Eyes snapped open to meet Arthur's, and Arthur knew that this was no phantom conjured by his mind.
Lancelot sat up, tense posture easing as he moved from the shadows into the fire's light. His hair was damp, and he was dressed only in shirt and trousers, as if he had just come from bathing when he had collapsed into the chair. His eyes were deeply shadowed, betraying a weariness that bellied the sharpness of his gaze. He looked at Arthur, unsmiling, and when he spoke, it was only to say Arthur's name.
Arthur had not thought he could have forgotten the sound of that voice, but he found it struck through him like the flicker of lightening across a cloudless night sky.
He opened his mouth, but at first no speech would come. Instead, a sound ripped from him and he sank to his knees beside the chair. When he spoke, the words burst out with the violence of a battering ram at last splintering through well-defended gate. "Why did you not come?"
His head was in Lancelot's lap and long fingers soothed though his hair. "I came as soon as I heard." There was a pause, even the hands stilling for a moment. When he spoke again, that voice had lost some of its smoothness. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
As though they had lain in wait for this, the tears came then, tears such as he had not wept in years, not perhaps since his mother had died. Tears denied these last weeks, but now allowed at last, and he was aware of no shame, but only the hands on him and the voice murmuring to him, the familiar cadence of unknown words. A stray thought—that he understood now why it was that the horses always eased under Lancelot's care—was swept away and forgotten.
It was a long time before he finally lifted his head. Lancelot's hands fell away, and his gaze was fixed on the fire, allowing Arthur time to regain his composure. Arthur scrubbed at his face and then took the opportunity to study the man before him, looking for changes, dreading to find them. There was little to see. Lancelot looked the same as ever. Even leaner and harder, perhaps, and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth a little deeper. The hint of contained stillness in his gaze was not new, but something that Arthur had first found when Lancelot had returned after nearly two years away. As soon as Lancelot had recovered from the wound he had suffered at Badon, he had left for Sarmatia, and Arthur had never expected to see him again. He had been brought back only by the promise that Arthur had managed to extract from him at the last moment: that if he were unable to find his family, he would return to Britain. Lancelot's response at the time had been flippant, angry, but he had promised. For all that Lancelot sneered openly at the idea of honor, Arthur had never known him to break his word once given.
He had not told Arthur where he had searched or what he had found during those two years, and Arthur had not asked. His return to much-hated Britain had been story enough. Since then, Arthur had put him in charge of the kingdom's defenses. With the new cavalry trained by Gawain and Galahad and the forts built on the shore, Lancelot's retribution against any Saxon invader who dared to set ashore was swift and merciless, and the heartland of Britain slept secure under the watch of a man who cared for it no more than he had once cared for Rome.
Dark eyes turned from the fire but did not quite look at Arthur. "Your wife's health?" he asked without inflection. Arthur was surprised by the question. Lancelot was not one for polite niceties. Perhaps he was genuinely concerned, for all that he managed to drive Guinevere into furies with the string of penitent wrong doers he sent to her, groveling to seek her pardon in full view of the court. On these occasions, Guinevere was forced to smile graciously and act pleased even as she fumed and the court whispered about Lancelot's devotion to her. It was this byplay, part pure malice, part wicked mischief, that had reassured Arthur that, whatever else, Lancelot, fundamentally, had not changed.
"She is well." He did not bother to elaborate on her emotional state. Lancelot had not asked that, and Arthur did not care to speak of it to him. He did not want to think of Guinevere now. He was drinking in the sight of Lancelot like a man parched nearly to death, and, when Lancelot finally met his eyes, he found, as if bewitched, he could not look away. Pulling Lancelot down from the chair occurred without thought, and kissing him was more necessary than breathing. He tasted both familiar and strange, and Arthur desired nothing more than to kiss him until all traces of that strangeness were gone.
When he pushed at Lancelot, wanting him prone, he thought at first that Lancelot was challenging him for dominance, but Lancelot's hard shove separated them and Lancelot's hand against his chest kept them apart. Arthur’s snarl died, and he blinked, his mind clearing a bit, but he did not understand. Lancelot's cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen with Arthur's kisses, and there was no mistaking his arousal. Arthur grasped at Lancelot's arm, to thrust the barrier between them aside, but Lancelot was shaking his head. "No. You're upset, Arthur. Think."
Arthur tried. But all the reasons not to do this seemed little more than ash in the wind. Without warning, he surged forward, sending Lancelot sprawling, himself crouched above. "You'll regret this," Lancelot said, bitter anger flaring in his voice, but his resistance was crumbling as Arthur's weight pressed down on him. When Arthur's hand found its way into his trousers, he arched up into it, and he did not protest again.
Arthur woke with a warm weight sprawled over him, and for a moment a joy so piercing it was almost pain stabbed through him. Lancelot was asleep, his head on Arthur's shoulder. One of Arthur’s hands was buried deep in the wild curls, and Arthur breathed in deeply their mingled scents.
Arthur had been half-mad last night. He could not count how many times he had lost himself in Lancelot’s flesh; he had been frantic and had not allowed himself a moment to think. Luckily, they had been undisturbed. Jols’ doing, no doubt.
It was only as his mind turned sluggishly to the dinner he had missed, that realization sank in, waking him fully. He squeezed his eyes shut as grief and guilt took hold of him, both all the worse for the respite. All the worse for the form that respite had taken.
He had fallen into this sin again, made all the more grievous now by the vows he had broken to Guinevere, the vows he had taken before God.
He floundered, drowning, even as his traitorous arms tightened around Lancelot. He had kept faith since his marriage, and he dared to hope that his efforts could wash away some of his past sins. But he had fallen again. He, who had been arrogant enough to believe himself stronger than this when Lancelot had first returned and Arthur had sent him away. At the first true testing—
Perhaps this was why God had let Arthur's child die.
It was a sign of just how weary Lancelot was that he did not wake as the tension rose in Arthur. Lancelot, who slept nearly as easily on horseback as on a bed, must have driven himself hard to reach Arthur after hearing the news—had he not been far in the North, by the last report? And it was Lancelot, who had nothing but contempt for Arthur’s faith, who had been too furious and hurt to even to meet Arthur's eyes the day he had left Britain, who had nevertheless tried to protect Arthur from himself when Arthur's own will had failed.
Arthur lay still, unable to let go of the warm body in his arms, even as he tore at himself for his weakness. He did not have any measure of the amount of time that passed, but a dull, grey twilight had filled the room when Lancelot stirred, his lashes brushing against the skin of Arthur's shoulder as his eyes fluttered opened. When he shifted to look up at Arthur's face, his eyes were warm and open for an instance before they met Arthur's gaze and shuttered. Arthur's self hatred grew.
Lancelot sat up, and even now Arthur's arms were reluctant to let him go. Lancelot said nothing, but the muscles of his back were rigid. They were too defined, his bones too close to the surface, and Arthur was reminded of all the new scars his hands had found last night. In the stories that the people of Arthur's kingdom told, Lancelot was invincible. But those stories were full of lies.
"I'm sorry," Arthur said at last. It was pitiful, but what else was there? There was no need for explanations. Lancelot had always understood him better than anyone, and that had not changed.
Lancelot kept his back to Arthur. When he spoke, his voice was low, weary with defeat. "Shall I go?"
Arthur stilled his heart against the pain of it. Arthur had never been strong enough for Lancelot. He would have preferred it if Lancelot were angry, but that was not the way this went. These words, although spoken between them only once before, on the day Lancelot had returned from Sarmatia, had the weight of a ritual to be enacted each time Lancelot had the courage to come back to him. "Yes."
"Where shall I go?"
He forced himself to think. After a moment, he said, "There are reports of some Saxon probing in the vicinity of—"
Arthur sat at the head of the long table, trying to listen as his council argued. He could not concentrate on their words. His knees were aching from a morning spent in prayer. He had pled with God, not for forgiveness, but that the punishment for his sins be visited only upon himself and no one else, although he knew such a prayer was futile.
The small discomfort was of no matter, but his eyes kept straying to the large windows where, despite the dimness of the dawn, a rare, bright sunlight streamed through, hurtful in its brilliance. He told himself to be glad; Lancelot would have a fine day of riding. Perhaps he had stopped at Gawain and Galahad's to see the new foals, and perhaps they had understood enough to offer to accompany him on his journey. And perhaps Lancelot had even accepted their company. Yes, Arthur decided, that would be the way it would have happened.
He glanced back down the table. The council was debating the different proposals to standardize weight measurements. It was banal and not at all interesting—and either proposal would work well enough—but fists pounded on the table, and voices rose in vehemence. Such were the preoccupations of a kingdom secure in its peace.
He spoke then, and they listened. He did not look again at the sun-filled windows, but after they agreed with him, and all were relatively content, he turned to the next matter on the day's agenda.
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Errant. 1: traveling or given to traveling (an errant knight). 2a: straying outside the proper path or bounds (an errant calf); b: moving about aimlessly or irregularly (an errant breeze) c: behaving wrongly (an errant child) d: fallible. ~From The Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary.
Notes: With a few lines from Guy Gavriel Kay’s Fionavar Tapestry stolen and abused, and with a bit of backhanded homage to T.H. White, and, as always, Malory.
Arthur did not let his weariness show in step, did not hunch his shoulders against the perceived cold, even after he slipped into the dim, narrow corridor used mostly by the household staff and where none of the wrangling council members he had just left behind were likely to tread. He was unaccountably tired and had been for days.
He hesitated only when he reached the turn off that would take him to the queen's chambers. Guinevere, besides meticulous appearances at public functions, where she had been as hard and glimmering as winter ice, had not left her rooms for the last fortnight. Arthur's awkward visits had plainly been unwelcome.
Expression remaining stoic, rather than choosing either to go forward or take the side corridor, he turned about and headed back the way he had come. He felt the sudden need for sunlight and fresh air, although he could not remember if there was any sunlight to be had this day. There were windows in the council chamber, but he had not noticed one way or the other.
The corridor that led out to the courtyard passed by the kitchens, and he paused there, watching the bustling activity, careful to keep himself hidden in the shadows. He knew that, if anyone caught sight of him, everything would change into respectful deference, or, worse, as was lately the case, into solemn, silent sympathy. He did not want either. What he wanted was to remember that, whatever else, he had made this bright place possible. As the continent crumbled under barbarian pressure, for seven years he had kept the invaders at bay, so that the people of Britain could live in peace and prosperity.
The staff here were only a small example of that: healthy and content, their demeanors were cheerful as they worked to prepare the evening meal. Even the lame-footed chief cook's half-hearted glowers could not dampen the happy chatter as the staff worked, nor send on their way the members of the household who lingered without any real business, nor chase off the children underfoot, who waited for an opportunity to snatch some tasty morsel as they played games whose rules only they understood. Arthur watched with a strange mixture of feelings. Pleasure—these were his people—and yet also something that was startlingly close to envy.
He pushed the emotion aside and instead listened to their voices, hoping to soak in some of the warmth he saw here.
"—and that Lady, Morgaine, she threw the tray at his head!"
"—one of Bors's , I think Nine—or was Ten?—anyway, he—"
"Half a cup! I said half a cup!”
"—my wife, she says to me, it's me or the goat, and so I says back—"
The voices rose and fell, and Arthur found himself drifting, lulled, until his mind woke to a change in rhythm.
"And then, just as all seemed lost—" the storyteller paused dramatically, a long spoon poised high in the air. He had captured the attention of most of the others, and even the children had stilled to listen.
"What? What happened?" a voice demanded, but the tone was hushed with anticipation, even as a bit of batter dripped from the storyteller's spoon.
"Who should appear but a man on a dark horse, steel gleaming in each hand—"
"Lancelot!" the children cheered. And Arthur, his half-brightened mood darkening, turned to go, but then a child's piping voice caught his ear.
"But why does Lancelot never come to court?" the child demanded. "He's the king's knight, but he never does. I want to see him too!"
If the storyteller was annoyed by the interruption of his tale, he gave no sign. With a flourish of his spoon, he answered. "Who can say? Perhaps because he knows he cannot rest his vigilance and keep the kingdom safe from the barbaric Saxons. Perhaps he doesn't care for the confining stonewalls. Perhaps it is true that he loves the queen whose life he saved and so cannot abide being here at court—"
The children moaned in protest at the mention of love, and another yelled to general acclaim, "It's because there's no adventure here!"
Arthur slipped away, turning back, once more, the way he had come. It was too late to go out. The sun must have set by now.
His rooms were dark and cold, despite the fire Jols had lit. Of Jols himself there was no sign, which was strange. Arthur's one-time squire, now undisputed master of the household, had never stopped viewing Arthur's comfort as his primary duty. The man had been deeply affronted when Arthur had gently tried to suggest that his new duties might not leave him time for his old ones. Somehow, unruffled, he managed both with aplomb. And over the years, his uncanny knack for showing up just as he was needed—if not wanted—had only sharpened.
But today the rooms were empty, and the high backs of the two chairs placed before the fire, looming there like crouched shadowy beasts, seemed to mock him. They seemed to Arthur a sign of his pitiful optimism. Since he had first occupied these rooms, how often had he sat before the fire, passing the time with any company? Arthur could not remember a single instance.
Arthur sighed silently as he unbelted his outer tunic and pulled it over his head. He tossed it carelessly on the bed on the way to the table where a flagon of wine awaited him. It was only when he had poured himself a cup and turned around that he realized the room was not empty after all.
He blinked, wondering if he were imagining it, given his maudlin turn of thought. But, at the angle he stood now, he could view the chairs from their sides, and he saw a pair of long legs stretching from one, crossed carelessly at the ankles. He blinked again, thinking the shifting, fire-edged shadows were playing tricks on him, but the image did not disappear. He peered deeper into the shadows that shrouded the chair, telling himself he was just tired, even as the pace of his heart quickened.
He set the cup down carefully on the table and took a few steps forward. The image only became clearer, and he realized that the man sprawled deep in the chair was asleep, dark head resting against the cushions. Arthur took a deep breath and, with a hand that was not quite steady, reached out to see if he could touch—
Before his fingers could make contact, the long body jerked, tensing like a wild thing startled, and hands closed convulsively, seeking weapons that were not there. Eyes snapped open to meet Arthur's, and Arthur knew that this was no phantom conjured by his mind.
Lancelot sat up, tense posture easing as he moved from the shadows into the fire's light. His hair was damp, and he was dressed only in shirt and trousers, as if he had just come from bathing when he had collapsed into the chair. His eyes were deeply shadowed, betraying a weariness that bellied the sharpness of his gaze. He looked at Arthur, unsmiling, and when he spoke, it was only to say Arthur's name.
Arthur had not thought he could have forgotten the sound of that voice, but he found it struck through him like the flicker of lightening across a cloudless night sky.
He opened his mouth, but at first no speech would come. Instead, a sound ripped from him and he sank to his knees beside the chair. When he spoke, the words burst out with the violence of a battering ram at last splintering through well-defended gate. "Why did you not come?"
His head was in Lancelot's lap and long fingers soothed though his hair. "I came as soon as I heard." There was a pause, even the hands stilling for a moment. When he spoke again, that voice had lost some of its smoothness. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
As though they had lain in wait for this, the tears came then, tears such as he had not wept in years, not perhaps since his mother had died. Tears denied these last weeks, but now allowed at last, and he was aware of no shame, but only the hands on him and the voice murmuring to him, the familiar cadence of unknown words. A stray thought—that he understood now why it was that the horses always eased under Lancelot's care—was swept away and forgotten.
It was a long time before he finally lifted his head. Lancelot's hands fell away, and his gaze was fixed on the fire, allowing Arthur time to regain his composure. Arthur scrubbed at his face and then took the opportunity to study the man before him, looking for changes, dreading to find them. There was little to see. Lancelot looked the same as ever. Even leaner and harder, perhaps, and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth a little deeper. The hint of contained stillness in his gaze was not new, but something that Arthur had first found when Lancelot had returned after nearly two years away. As soon as Lancelot had recovered from the wound he had suffered at Badon, he had left for Sarmatia, and Arthur had never expected to see him again. He had been brought back only by the promise that Arthur had managed to extract from him at the last moment: that if he were unable to find his family, he would return to Britain. Lancelot's response at the time had been flippant, angry, but he had promised. For all that Lancelot sneered openly at the idea of honor, Arthur had never known him to break his word once given.
He had not told Arthur where he had searched or what he had found during those two years, and Arthur had not asked. His return to much-hated Britain had been story enough. Since then, Arthur had put him in charge of the kingdom's defenses. With the new cavalry trained by Gawain and Galahad and the forts built on the shore, Lancelot's retribution against any Saxon invader who dared to set ashore was swift and merciless, and the heartland of Britain slept secure under the watch of a man who cared for it no more than he had once cared for Rome.
Dark eyes turned from the fire but did not quite look at Arthur. "Your wife's health?" he asked without inflection. Arthur was surprised by the question. Lancelot was not one for polite niceties. Perhaps he was genuinely concerned, for all that he managed to drive Guinevere into furies with the string of penitent wrong doers he sent to her, groveling to seek her pardon in full view of the court. On these occasions, Guinevere was forced to smile graciously and act pleased even as she fumed and the court whispered about Lancelot's devotion to her. It was this byplay, part pure malice, part wicked mischief, that had reassured Arthur that, whatever else, Lancelot, fundamentally, had not changed.
"She is well." He did not bother to elaborate on her emotional state. Lancelot had not asked that, and Arthur did not care to speak of it to him. He did not want to think of Guinevere now. He was drinking in the sight of Lancelot like a man parched nearly to death, and, when Lancelot finally met his eyes, he found, as if bewitched, he could not look away. Pulling Lancelot down from the chair occurred without thought, and kissing him was more necessary than breathing. He tasted both familiar and strange, and Arthur desired nothing more than to kiss him until all traces of that strangeness were gone.
When he pushed at Lancelot, wanting him prone, he thought at first that Lancelot was challenging him for dominance, but Lancelot's hard shove separated them and Lancelot's hand against his chest kept them apart. Arthur’s snarl died, and he blinked, his mind clearing a bit, but he did not understand. Lancelot's cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen with Arthur's kisses, and there was no mistaking his arousal. Arthur grasped at Lancelot's arm, to thrust the barrier between them aside, but Lancelot was shaking his head. "No. You're upset, Arthur. Think."
Arthur tried. But all the reasons not to do this seemed little more than ash in the wind. Without warning, he surged forward, sending Lancelot sprawling, himself crouched above. "You'll regret this," Lancelot said, bitter anger flaring in his voice, but his resistance was crumbling as Arthur's weight pressed down on him. When Arthur's hand found its way into his trousers, he arched up into it, and he did not protest again.
Arthur woke with a warm weight sprawled over him, and for a moment a joy so piercing it was almost pain stabbed through him. Lancelot was asleep, his head on Arthur's shoulder. One of Arthur’s hands was buried deep in the wild curls, and Arthur breathed in deeply their mingled scents.
Arthur had been half-mad last night. He could not count how many times he had lost himself in Lancelot’s flesh; he had been frantic and had not allowed himself a moment to think. Luckily, they had been undisturbed. Jols’ doing, no doubt.
It was only as his mind turned sluggishly to the dinner he had missed, that realization sank in, waking him fully. He squeezed his eyes shut as grief and guilt took hold of him, both all the worse for the respite. All the worse for the form that respite had taken.
He had fallen into this sin again, made all the more grievous now by the vows he had broken to Guinevere, the vows he had taken before God.
He floundered, drowning, even as his traitorous arms tightened around Lancelot. He had kept faith since his marriage, and he dared to hope that his efforts could wash away some of his past sins. But he had fallen again. He, who had been arrogant enough to believe himself stronger than this when Lancelot had first returned and Arthur had sent him away. At the first true testing—
Perhaps this was why God had let Arthur's child die.
It was a sign of just how weary Lancelot was that he did not wake as the tension rose in Arthur. Lancelot, who slept nearly as easily on horseback as on a bed, must have driven himself hard to reach Arthur after hearing the news—had he not been far in the North, by the last report? And it was Lancelot, who had nothing but contempt for Arthur’s faith, who had been too furious and hurt to even to meet Arthur's eyes the day he had left Britain, who had nevertheless tried to protect Arthur from himself when Arthur's own will had failed.
Arthur lay still, unable to let go of the warm body in his arms, even as he tore at himself for his weakness. He did not have any measure of the amount of time that passed, but a dull, grey twilight had filled the room when Lancelot stirred, his lashes brushing against the skin of Arthur's shoulder as his eyes fluttered opened. When he shifted to look up at Arthur's face, his eyes were warm and open for an instance before they met Arthur's gaze and shuttered. Arthur's self hatred grew.
Lancelot sat up, and even now Arthur's arms were reluctant to let him go. Lancelot said nothing, but the muscles of his back were rigid. They were too defined, his bones too close to the surface, and Arthur was reminded of all the new scars his hands had found last night. In the stories that the people of Arthur's kingdom told, Lancelot was invincible. But those stories were full of lies.
"I'm sorry," Arthur said at last. It was pitiful, but what else was there? There was no need for explanations. Lancelot had always understood him better than anyone, and that had not changed.
Lancelot kept his back to Arthur. When he spoke, his voice was low, weary with defeat. "Shall I go?"
Arthur stilled his heart against the pain of it. Arthur had never been strong enough for Lancelot. He would have preferred it if Lancelot were angry, but that was not the way this went. These words, although spoken between them only once before, on the day Lancelot had returned from Sarmatia, had the weight of a ritual to be enacted each time Lancelot had the courage to come back to him. "Yes."
"Where shall I go?"
He forced himself to think. After a moment, he said, "There are reports of some Saxon probing in the vicinity of—"
Arthur sat at the head of the long table, trying to listen as his council argued. He could not concentrate on their words. His knees were aching from a morning spent in prayer. He had pled with God, not for forgiveness, but that the punishment for his sins be visited only upon himself and no one else, although he knew such a prayer was futile.
The small discomfort was of no matter, but his eyes kept straying to the large windows where, despite the dimness of the dawn, a rare, bright sunlight streamed through, hurtful in its brilliance. He told himself to be glad; Lancelot would have a fine day of riding. Perhaps he had stopped at Gawain and Galahad's to see the new foals, and perhaps they had understood enough to offer to accompany him on his journey. And perhaps Lancelot had even accepted their company. Yes, Arthur decided, that would be the way it would have happened.
He glanced back down the table. The council was debating the different proposals to standardize weight measurements. It was banal and not at all interesting—and either proposal would work well enough—but fists pounded on the table, and voices rose in vehemence. Such were the preoccupations of a kingdom secure in its peace.
He spoke then, and they listened. He did not look again at the sun-filled windows, but after they agreed with him, and all were relatively content, he turned to the next matter on the day's agenda.
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Thanks for reading!
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Excellent fic, hon. And full of rich details...painfully brutal even. Well done!
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*sticks knives into Guinny's eyeballs just on principle*
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The fact is...I know is suffering but...ehi!! he deserve it the same!
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And I think you're right--I'm not sure Lancelot would be particularly receptive to hugs, or the sentiment behind them--so you're restraint is probably wise. ;)
Thanks for reading!
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Lovely snippet. You know how much I adore "slice of life" stuff, so this really hit the spot.
Thanks for sharing.
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Did you spot the stolen lines?
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A brilliant tale, well told. Thanks for sharing and making me a very happy camper :)))
Shelley
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But, as always in your stories, I find it is your Lancelot who fascinates me most. He remains the figure of tragic love and loyalty in myth, and yet the story is turned on its head in the same way as a rare, bright sunlight streamed through, hurtful in its brilliance (beautiful phrase, that): the glory of Camelot and its famous peace are maintained and enforced by the will of a man who does it not for love or respect of the kingdom and its legendary ideals, but in spite of his hatred for same and his love of a man he can no longer have.
The Arthurian myths play out in your Arthur in such a way that he remains the one torn apart by love and loyalty, and yet the circumstances are new and even more devastatingly painful.
I love it.
Arthur slipped away, turning back, once more, the way he had come. It was too late to go out. The sun must have set by now.
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Malory's Morte, to my mind, is really more Lancelot's story than Arthur's, at least by the end. It's not really surprising that the thing concludes, not with Arthur's death, but with Lancelot's, despite the title. In that version of the story, Arthur becomes little more than a man sitting on the throne. He's mostly a bland nonentity--he's too just too much the king, too static, to have adventures or to do much of anything exciting. He's already played his part by becoming king, and is trapped in that role. I think that idea somewhat informed this AU—along with my having issues with the movie's version of Arthur, and no doubt some other stuff.
I'm glad you liked the light/shadow imagery. It's been interesting in this fic and in the other to have a bit of fun with it.
More in response to your comment on the other fic, but I’ll say here, thanks so much for your comments! I really enjoyed reading them. :D