King Arthur Fic: "Rites of Passage"
Nov. 16th, 2005 11:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Rites of Passage
Author: amari
Warnings: For violence and its aftermath.
Summary: The first battle.
Notes: Slightly revised 1/6
With something that was more a sob than a scream, Lancelot thrust his sword through the last charging Woad and then jerked it clumsily free. He collapsed to his knees, body shaking and breath heaving. He could see no more enemies nearby, so, swallowing a whimper, he crawled though the red stained mud to where Lionel and Meliot lay, eyes staring sightlessly at the meager British sky, bellies ripped open. Beyond them were the bodies of Owein and Ector. Ector’s still helmeted head lay some distance from his body.
At just thirteen, Lancelot would not have been considered a man by his own tribe. He would have still been learning to hunt and fight at the side of his elders. But here there were no fathers or uncles to guide them; there was no one but their Roman commander. When their orders had been given, Lancelot who had, if no experience, then at least the knowledge of tactics from the tales told around the fireside and the games of battle Sarmatian children played, had started to question, but Lionel, his clansman and elder by a few years, had elbowed him and told him to be quiet. The Romans must know their trade, he had hissed at Lancelot. The Romans, after all, had defeated their grandfathers' fathers and do you want another whipping? Lancelot, who still bore the marks of his last attempt to ask a question, had shut his mouth.
He had been both reassured and disconcerted that no one else had spoken up, although most were older than he (even the Romans had not expected the youngest ones to fight yet). In the face of the other boys’ silence, Lancelot had listened to Lionel and kept his protests behind his teeth. But now Lionel, the only person in Britain who spoke with the pure accent of home, was dead.
Lancelot sat in the mud by Lionel’s body and titled his head back to follow Lionel’s unseeing gaze. He had prayed last night, to the sky and earth, to the god of war and the goddess of fortune, trying to remember the words father had used, and had spilled his own blood in offering. But still the Romans had sent them on this death charge, still so many had died. He had killed his first man today (and his second, and his third, and the last one made four—he could see each of their screaming, blue-painted faces), and while at home the occasion would have been marked by ritual, here, in this place, the thought brought him no pride. Was fighting always this desperate, ugly slaughter or did Rome make it so?
He could hear the cries of the wounded. Mostly alien voices, but that was Uwain, screaming for his mother, for the gods, for someone, anyone, to make it stop. Over Uwain he could hear Percival and Kay yelling at each other as they tried frantically to get Uwain’s armor off. But even worse than that were the piteous cries of the wounded horses. Most of the Sarmatians had been unseated early in the battle. The stupidity of the uphill charge on wet ground had seen to that. On foot, the half-grown boys had lost any advantage they had had.
Lowering his numb gaze from the unfamiliar sky, he looked back over the field. He brushed mud and blood from his eyes with an unsteady hand and slowly picked out figures among those still standing—Bors, Agravaine, Dagonet, Lamorak, Gawain, Breunor, Tristan, Bedivere—but his eyes kept returning to the bodies on the ground. For all the Sarmatian boys dead, there were no red-cloaked Roman bodies. In the distance he could see their Roman commander, the unbloodied legionaries still in formation behind him. He was an older man, and Lancelot remembered being relieved when they had arrived in Britain and were assigned to him. He had thought that, unlike the soldiers who had escorted them from Sarmatia, this older man would be wise as the elders at home were wise. Yet this man had killed them through his careless incompetence, while spilling no Roman blood. To Lancelot, he looked pleased as he surveyed the fruit of his handiwork.
Until the Romans had come for him, Lancelot had been as obedient a son as any Sarmatian family could wish. He had roved the horizons unchecked, but he had listened to his elders and followed the edicts of the gods. Mother’s last words to him had been to learn from the Romans and pray to the gods and that he would then come home to them again. Looking around the bloody field, choking on the stench of defiled bodies, Lancelot knew it all for a lie. The Romans would squander their lives away. The gods, if ever they existed, did not hear him in this wet, ugly land. The only thing the boys from Sarmatia might count on was one another, and today, in his timid silence, he had failed them all. Slow building hatred, the darker for guilt, rose to push back shock and grief. Lancelot vowed that, whatever the consequence, he would never silently follow another misguided Roman order, never silently permit his fellows, now his only brothers, to be led into folly again. He would rely on himself to try to bring them home. There was nothing else he could trust.
With a last look at Lionel's body, Lancelot staggered to his feet and went to see what could be done for those still living.
Author: amari
Warnings: For violence and its aftermath.
Summary: The first battle.
Notes: Slightly revised 1/6
With something that was more a sob than a scream, Lancelot thrust his sword through the last charging Woad and then jerked it clumsily free. He collapsed to his knees, body shaking and breath heaving. He could see no more enemies nearby, so, swallowing a whimper, he crawled though the red stained mud to where Lionel and Meliot lay, eyes staring sightlessly at the meager British sky, bellies ripped open. Beyond them were the bodies of Owein and Ector. Ector’s still helmeted head lay some distance from his body.
At just thirteen, Lancelot would not have been considered a man by his own tribe. He would have still been learning to hunt and fight at the side of his elders. But here there were no fathers or uncles to guide them; there was no one but their Roman commander. When their orders had been given, Lancelot who had, if no experience, then at least the knowledge of tactics from the tales told around the fireside and the games of battle Sarmatian children played, had started to question, but Lionel, his clansman and elder by a few years, had elbowed him and told him to be quiet. The Romans must know their trade, he had hissed at Lancelot. The Romans, after all, had defeated their grandfathers' fathers and do you want another whipping? Lancelot, who still bore the marks of his last attempt to ask a question, had shut his mouth.
He had been both reassured and disconcerted that no one else had spoken up, although most were older than he (even the Romans had not expected the youngest ones to fight yet). In the face of the other boys’ silence, Lancelot had listened to Lionel and kept his protests behind his teeth. But now Lionel, the only person in Britain who spoke with the pure accent of home, was dead.
Lancelot sat in the mud by Lionel’s body and titled his head back to follow Lionel’s unseeing gaze. He had prayed last night, to the sky and earth, to the god of war and the goddess of fortune, trying to remember the words father had used, and had spilled his own blood in offering. But still the Romans had sent them on this death charge, still so many had died. He had killed his first man today (and his second, and his third, and the last one made four—he could see each of their screaming, blue-painted faces), and while at home the occasion would have been marked by ritual, here, in this place, the thought brought him no pride. Was fighting always this desperate, ugly slaughter or did Rome make it so?
He could hear the cries of the wounded. Mostly alien voices, but that was Uwain, screaming for his mother, for the gods, for someone, anyone, to make it stop. Over Uwain he could hear Percival and Kay yelling at each other as they tried frantically to get Uwain’s armor off. But even worse than that were the piteous cries of the wounded horses. Most of the Sarmatians had been unseated early in the battle. The stupidity of the uphill charge on wet ground had seen to that. On foot, the half-grown boys had lost any advantage they had had.
Lowering his numb gaze from the unfamiliar sky, he looked back over the field. He brushed mud and blood from his eyes with an unsteady hand and slowly picked out figures among those still standing—Bors, Agravaine, Dagonet, Lamorak, Gawain, Breunor, Tristan, Bedivere—but his eyes kept returning to the bodies on the ground. For all the Sarmatian boys dead, there were no red-cloaked Roman bodies. In the distance he could see their Roman commander, the unbloodied legionaries still in formation behind him. He was an older man, and Lancelot remembered being relieved when they had arrived in Britain and were assigned to him. He had thought that, unlike the soldiers who had escorted them from Sarmatia, this older man would be wise as the elders at home were wise. Yet this man had killed them through his careless incompetence, while spilling no Roman blood. To Lancelot, he looked pleased as he surveyed the fruit of his handiwork.
Until the Romans had come for him, Lancelot had been as obedient a son as any Sarmatian family could wish. He had roved the horizons unchecked, but he had listened to his elders and followed the edicts of the gods. Mother’s last words to him had been to learn from the Romans and pray to the gods and that he would then come home to them again. Looking around the bloody field, choking on the stench of defiled bodies, Lancelot knew it all for a lie. The Romans would squander their lives away. The gods, if ever they existed, did not hear him in this wet, ugly land. The only thing the boys from Sarmatia might count on was one another, and today, in his timid silence, he had failed them all. Slow building hatred, the darker for guilt, rose to push back shock and grief. Lancelot vowed that, whatever the consequence, he would never silently follow another misguided Roman order, never silently permit his fellows, now his only brothers, to be led into folly again. He would rely on himself to try to bring them home. There was nothing else he could trust.
With a last look at Lionel's body, Lancelot staggered to his feet and went to see what could be done for those still living.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-11-17 03:14 pm (UTC)Wow. Lovely. I'm interested in stuff people write before the film - you don't find much written about Lancelot that doesn't involve Arthur and vice versa. Well done, dear.
Look forward to more.
A
no subject
Date: 2005-11-17 05:12 pm (UTC)amari
no subject
Date: 2006-01-08 12:31 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting!