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Prompt ficlet the fifth
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flawsrevenge asked for 3D Camelot (which I kind of want now). Set in the same AU as Errant.
"There it is," Gawain said, making an unnecessary gesture across the wide plain to what a few years ago had been nothing but the crumbling ruins of an ancient British hill fort. Despite the rain, there was enough visibility to see without approaching any closer.
Although the court had moved to the new capital two years ago, construction was still underway. The work was finally nearing completion, with the wooden palisades now being replaced by soaring pale stone. The outer walls were half built and massive blocks of stone were strewn about, as though discarded by some giant child's hand. Gawain had no interest in the logistics involved--Roman engineers from the continent had been commissioned to manage the building--but he did pause to marvel at the sight. It would truly be grand when it was completed.
Lancelot stirred from his crouched position beside Gawain like a shadow uncoiling. "I'll never understand this need to live behind stone walls."
Gawain shrugged. "It makes them feel safe. Secure." He wiped at the water dripping from his nose. He was uncomfortable in the cold and the wet. Maybe he was getting old, as Galahad kept saying. Or maybe it was all the soft living. He was starting to understand these people's need for walls and roofs a little too well.
Lancelot let out a sharp laugh. "Safe? It's no better than caging yourself like a tame beast when an enemy approaches." Gawain did not bother to point out that the walls of this city would never be tested until after the day of Lancelot's defeat. Lancelot's disdain had nothing to do with that, and, besides, it would be inviting trouble.
Lancelot could not appreciate the permanent comfort that walls could provide, and probably never would. It was unlikely that he had spent more than a few nights in a row in one place since returning to Britain. Gawain himself was currently thinking longingly of the snug house he shared with Galahad on the estate where they raised the king's horses. As though in mockery of his thoughts, they were blasted by a particularly bitter lash of wind, and Gawain hunched his shoulders as a bone-rattling shiver went through him. He noticed that Lancelot did not react at all, apparent utterly indifferent to the wild elements. Annoyed, he resolved to stop spending so many evenings cozy by a warm fire.
He brushed the water from his face again and sighed. Their land lay a good hour's ride away—more in this muck. Still, when Lancelot had unexpectedly announced his intention to go sight seeing on this miserable day, after a too long moment of silence, Gawain had awkwardly nominated himself to come along. Galahad had then jumped in and told them, too loudly, that if they wanted to go out and drown in mud, good for them, he would not be participating in their stupidity. Both he and Galahad had been taken by surprise. Neither of them had expected Lancelot to be willing to set even one foot closer to the capital, despite Gawain's coaxing stories about Bors' antics as the self-proclaimed mayor of the castle town. On his previous visits, Lancelot had barely even acknowledged the existence of the place.
Lancelot had shown up four days ago, on a day as foul as this one. As was usual with his rare visits, there had been no warning, except that winter was settling in and the campaigning season had closed. They never saw Lancelot when the weather was fair. Ostensibly, he came to take a look at the horses.
Lancelot had, also as usual, spent the first two days sleeping so deeply that not even Galahad's loud grumbling and stomping feet had stirred him. This habit of Lancelot's always annoyed Galahad, who had never learned any patience, but it made Gawain feel both guilty and sad. There was no one out there now who Lancelot would trust to watch his back when he slept, and deep sleep had to have become a barely known luxury.
He glanced sidelong at Lancelot, wondering how long he would want to stay out here. Lancelot seemed to be studying the defensibility of the city with a brooding intensity, and Gawain found himself wondering if he were imagining storming it. But if he were, and getting any satisfaction from the fancy, Gawain could not see it in his face. He could not read much of anything there anymore, but he no longer expected to. That face was even gaunter now, the shadows, the knife sharp bones, the arched brows, giving him, more than ever, a fierce, demonic appearance. It had been like this since Lancelot had returned to Britain. He never spoke of what he had found where Sarmatia had once been, not even to Gawain. All he had ever said was that the rest of them had been wise not to go back. To this day, Gawain was not sure what he would have done if Lancelot had told them he was leaving after Badon instead of just disappearing with his wound barely closed. Part of Gawain regretted that he had never made the attempt to find his own people again, but the other part was selfishly glad that he had been spared the sights that sometimes seemed to rise out of the shadows in Lancelot's eyes.
"We could go into the town, without going up to the keep," Gawain offered. "Bors, Vanora and the children would be glad--"
"No." Lancelot's eyes did not move from their study of the walls. Gawain had not expected him to be willing, although he felt a fleeting regret at the thought of Bors' warm, noisy house and bracing drink Vanora would have offered.
"Well, Bors did say he would bring the whole lot of them by tomorrow in the afternoon."
"I'm leaving in the morning."
"So soon?" It made a brief visit even for Lancelot, and this was the first Gawain was hearing of it. He wondered how much of the decision had to do with facing the solid reality of the city that was now looming over the plain. Why Lancelot had chosen this visit to suddenly acknowledge its existence, Gawain had no idea.
A hint of a shrug. "The bumbling fools are supposed to have settled into their winter quarters along the shore. It's going to be amusing to see what kind of mess they've made of it." Gawain winced a little. Those fools were the warriors he, Galahad and Bors had so carefully trained. They were competent enough to Gawain's mind, even if each new batch was a little green when they were first sent out into the field and into Lancelot's loving care. But "bumbling" was one of Lancelot's more kindly comments about the troops he commanded. From the reports--gossip, really--that got back to Gawain, they lived in mingled abject terror and worshipful awe of him.
To his own surprise, Gawain had found he liked the young men he trained. Those who volunteered tended to be neither the zealously pure-blooded Britons who had proved so troublesome to Rome, nor the proud sons of the Romanized British, more Roman even than the Romans themselves. Most were some mix of Briton and foreign blood--a legacy of centuries of occupation by Roman soldiers who had come to Britain from all over the known world. They showed an idealism, an earnest desire to protect their homes, to build better lives, that was utterly foreign to Gawain's own military service. And it was a sentiment that went beyond the soldiers. The people of the realm seemed to share some communal idealism that they were creating something new for themselves and their children. It was a feeling that Gawain could not help but respond to. This, after all, was now his home as well.
Lancelot felt none of this. Although he protected the borders of the kingdom with unwavering, even brilliant, ferocity, he did so with motives entirely his own. His soldiers might live and die for a hint of his approval, but he would never share in their cause.
Lancelot seemed to have seen enough. He walked over to where they had left the horses. As they rode back to the road, they skirted around a tarp-covered wagon slowly making its way toward the city. Gawain felt a twinge of pity for anyone else out in this weather, and he nodded to the driver, whom he vaguely recognized as one of the boys who worked in the castle under Jols' tart tongue. The boy nodded respectfully back, and then glanced curiously at Lancelot. His eyes found the twin sword hilts and then widened. His gaze darted back to Gawain for confirmation before fixing again on Lancelot. Gawain could not help grinning at the boy's open-mouthed wonder.
Lancelot, if he noticed, gave no sign. His gaze had raked over the wagon, assessing it as a threat before dismissing it. When his horse had cleared the wagon, he sent it into a gallop. Gawain gave the boy one last grin, although he found it suddenly hard to force out. Lancelot would never see the good that he wrought, would never care to understand the appreciation of those who flourished under his protection, would never know anything but the unending toil of blood and death.
Gawain cast a last, suddenly resentful, glance back at Camelot before following the dark figure down the road.
flawsrevenge asked for 3D Camelot (which I kind of want now). Set in the same AU as Errant. "There it is," Gawain said, making an unnecessary gesture across the wide plain to what a few years ago had been nothing but the crumbling ruins of an ancient British hill fort. Despite the rain, there was enough visibility to see without approaching any closer.
Although the court had moved to the new capital two years ago, construction was still underway. The work was finally nearing completion, with the wooden palisades now being replaced by soaring pale stone. The outer walls were half built and massive blocks of stone were strewn about, as though discarded by some giant child's hand. Gawain had no interest in the logistics involved--Roman engineers from the continent had been commissioned to manage the building--but he did pause to marvel at the sight. It would truly be grand when it was completed.
Lancelot stirred from his crouched position beside Gawain like a shadow uncoiling. "I'll never understand this need to live behind stone walls."
Gawain shrugged. "It makes them feel safe. Secure." He wiped at the water dripping from his nose. He was uncomfortable in the cold and the wet. Maybe he was getting old, as Galahad kept saying. Or maybe it was all the soft living. He was starting to understand these people's need for walls and roofs a little too well.
Lancelot let out a sharp laugh. "Safe? It's no better than caging yourself like a tame beast when an enemy approaches." Gawain did not bother to point out that the walls of this city would never be tested until after the day of Lancelot's defeat. Lancelot's disdain had nothing to do with that, and, besides, it would be inviting trouble.
Lancelot could not appreciate the permanent comfort that walls could provide, and probably never would. It was unlikely that he had spent more than a few nights in a row in one place since returning to Britain. Gawain himself was currently thinking longingly of the snug house he shared with Galahad on the estate where they raised the king's horses. As though in mockery of his thoughts, they were blasted by a particularly bitter lash of wind, and Gawain hunched his shoulders as a bone-rattling shiver went through him. He noticed that Lancelot did not react at all, apparent utterly indifferent to the wild elements. Annoyed, he resolved to stop spending so many evenings cozy by a warm fire.
He brushed the water from his face again and sighed. Their land lay a good hour's ride away—more in this muck. Still, when Lancelot had unexpectedly announced his intention to go sight seeing on this miserable day, after a too long moment of silence, Gawain had awkwardly nominated himself to come along. Galahad had then jumped in and told them, too loudly, that if they wanted to go out and drown in mud, good for them, he would not be participating in their stupidity. Both he and Galahad had been taken by surprise. Neither of them had expected Lancelot to be willing to set even one foot closer to the capital, despite Gawain's coaxing stories about Bors' antics as the self-proclaimed mayor of the castle town. On his previous visits, Lancelot had barely even acknowledged the existence of the place.
Lancelot had shown up four days ago, on a day as foul as this one. As was usual with his rare visits, there had been no warning, except that winter was settling in and the campaigning season had closed. They never saw Lancelot when the weather was fair. Ostensibly, he came to take a look at the horses.
Lancelot had, also as usual, spent the first two days sleeping so deeply that not even Galahad's loud grumbling and stomping feet had stirred him. This habit of Lancelot's always annoyed Galahad, who had never learned any patience, but it made Gawain feel both guilty and sad. There was no one out there now who Lancelot would trust to watch his back when he slept, and deep sleep had to have become a barely known luxury.
He glanced sidelong at Lancelot, wondering how long he would want to stay out here. Lancelot seemed to be studying the defensibility of the city with a brooding intensity, and Gawain found himself wondering if he were imagining storming it. But if he were, and getting any satisfaction from the fancy, Gawain could not see it in his face. He could not read much of anything there anymore, but he no longer expected to. That face was even gaunter now, the shadows, the knife sharp bones, the arched brows, giving him, more than ever, a fierce, demonic appearance. It had been like this since Lancelot had returned to Britain. He never spoke of what he had found where Sarmatia had once been, not even to Gawain. All he had ever said was that the rest of them had been wise not to go back. To this day, Gawain was not sure what he would have done if Lancelot had told them he was leaving after Badon instead of just disappearing with his wound barely closed. Part of Gawain regretted that he had never made the attempt to find his own people again, but the other part was selfishly glad that he had been spared the sights that sometimes seemed to rise out of the shadows in Lancelot's eyes.
"We could go into the town, without going up to the keep," Gawain offered. "Bors, Vanora and the children would be glad--"
"No." Lancelot's eyes did not move from their study of the walls. Gawain had not expected him to be willing, although he felt a fleeting regret at the thought of Bors' warm, noisy house and bracing drink Vanora would have offered.
"Well, Bors did say he would bring the whole lot of them by tomorrow in the afternoon."
"I'm leaving in the morning."
"So soon?" It made a brief visit even for Lancelot, and this was the first Gawain was hearing of it. He wondered how much of the decision had to do with facing the solid reality of the city that was now looming over the plain. Why Lancelot had chosen this visit to suddenly acknowledge its existence, Gawain had no idea.
A hint of a shrug. "The bumbling fools are supposed to have settled into their winter quarters along the shore. It's going to be amusing to see what kind of mess they've made of it." Gawain winced a little. Those fools were the warriors he, Galahad and Bors had so carefully trained. They were competent enough to Gawain's mind, even if each new batch was a little green when they were first sent out into the field and into Lancelot's loving care. But "bumbling" was one of Lancelot's more kindly comments about the troops he commanded. From the reports--gossip, really--that got back to Gawain, they lived in mingled abject terror and worshipful awe of him.
To his own surprise, Gawain had found he liked the young men he trained. Those who volunteered tended to be neither the zealously pure-blooded Britons who had proved so troublesome to Rome, nor the proud sons of the Romanized British, more Roman even than the Romans themselves. Most were some mix of Briton and foreign blood--a legacy of centuries of occupation by Roman soldiers who had come to Britain from all over the known world. They showed an idealism, an earnest desire to protect their homes, to build better lives, that was utterly foreign to Gawain's own military service. And it was a sentiment that went beyond the soldiers. The people of the realm seemed to share some communal idealism that they were creating something new for themselves and their children. It was a feeling that Gawain could not help but respond to. This, after all, was now his home as well.
Lancelot felt none of this. Although he protected the borders of the kingdom with unwavering, even brilliant, ferocity, he did so with motives entirely his own. His soldiers might live and die for a hint of his approval, but he would never share in their cause.
Lancelot seemed to have seen enough. He walked over to where they had left the horses. As they rode back to the road, they skirted around a tarp-covered wagon slowly making its way toward the city. Gawain felt a twinge of pity for anyone else out in this weather, and he nodded to the driver, whom he vaguely recognized as one of the boys who worked in the castle under Jols' tart tongue. The boy nodded respectfully back, and then glanced curiously at Lancelot. His eyes found the twin sword hilts and then widened. His gaze darted back to Gawain for confirmation before fixing again on Lancelot. Gawain could not help grinning at the boy's open-mouthed wonder.
Lancelot, if he noticed, gave no sign. His gaze had raked over the wagon, assessing it as a threat before dismissing it. When his horse had cleared the wagon, he sent it into a gallop. Gawain gave the boy one last grin, although he found it suddenly hard to force out. Lancelot would never see the good that he wrought, would never care to understand the appreciation of those who flourished under his protection, would never know anything but the unending toil of blood and death.
Gawain cast a last, suddenly resentful, glance back at Camelot before following the dark figure down the road.