King Arthur Fic: First Meeting
Dec. 17th, 2005 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: First Meeting
Warnings: None
Notes: Could be viewed as following Rites of Passage but taking place before The Calling.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b for keeping me from trying to eviscerate Arthur with my pencil.
Arthur left his meeting with Gaius Flavius Cerialis, the commander of the Badon Hill garrison, and hesitated rather than proceeding directly to his newly assigned quarters.
He had arrived at Badon Hill just as the sun was setting and had spent the last moments of daylight visiting his father’s grave. He had not been back here since his mother's death, and, although the village of his childhood was long gone, as he had stood by the mound that was Uther’s resting place, a mound surrounded by the sword-marked graves of Uther’s knights, he had felt at last as if he had come home.
Arthur had been posted to Badon Hill to take command of the Sarmatian cavalry. Gnaeus Aelius Brocchus, the Sarmatians’ latest commander, had died three months ago. When Arthur had heard of Brocchus’s death, he had, for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time, requested a transfer to the position he had viewed as rightfully his since the Sarmatian conscripts had arrived in Britain five years ago. He had lacked the seniority then, and his request for the command had been summarily refused, but he had persisted in seeking the transfer each time the position had opened up. Luckily for Arthur, the Sarmatians had gone through officers at an incredible clip. Some had died and others had sought transfers as quickly as possible—hardly surprising considering that Britain was considered the backwater of the empire and commanding a wing of conscripted Sarmatians in Britain was not likely to be a path to advancement. But, to Arthur, this command was the goal of his life. He had ignored the well-meaning advice of his fellow officers, disregarded their protests that he was tossing aside a promising career, and had used his reputation as an outstanding young officer to at last get his way. He now had what he had always wanted: He, like Uther before him, was the commander of the Sarmatian knights stationed in Britain. The very thought was enough to make Arthur’s heart speed its pace.
After leaving the cemetery at dusk, he had arrived at the garrison and had been taken directly to meet with Commander Cerialis. He had expected to be introduced to his junior officers, but Cerialis had met with him alone. The garrison commander had explained that the Sarmatians had no other officers; of the two junior officers who had served under Brocchus, one had transferred out shortly before Brocchus’s death, and the other had died of fever six months before. Replacements for neither were forthcoming, and the Sarmatians, unlike some of the long-standing auxiliary troops, were not permitted to raise officers from their own ranks. So, Cerialis explained, Arthur would just have to make do.
The commander’s briefing had been full of advice and cautions. The Sarmatians, Cerialis admitted, almost grudgingly, were among the toughest fighters he had ever seen, and their horsemanship was nearly inhuman, but they were insolent and had no respect whatsoever for rank or position. “They’re like a pack of wolves. They have no loyalty to Rome, or even to their own officers, but only to one another. They refuse even to take proper Roman names, insisting on keeping those barbaric, unpronounceable ones they call each other. One name—like a slave.”
Arthur was not too worried about Cerialis’s warnings. Although he knew that Cerialis’s reputation was that of a good commander, Cerialis clearly viewed the Sarmatians as beneath him, and what man would not respond in kind to contempt? Arthur had only the vaguest memories of the Sarmatians his father had commanded, but from those memories, mixed with stories he had heard, they had been proud, honorable men, completely loyal to Uther, whose own loyalty was such that he, a Roman equestrian, had insisted on being buried with them, rather than having his body returned to Rome to be buried with the Castus family.
Arthur bit his lip and decided against heading directly to his quarters. Exhausted as he was from the long day in the saddle, Arthur knew that anticipation would keep him from sleeping. And while he would not take formal command of the Sarmatians until tomorrow, there was still something he could do tonight. As he had listened to Cerialis speak, one thing became abundantly clear: one Sarmatian name came up again and again. Arthur did not make the mistake of believing that just because the Sarmatians had no Roman officers, that they were leaderless.
Arthur went out into the open yard and looked around. He studied the two young men walking toward him. He didn’t recognize the language they spoke, and they had a look about them—
Courteously, he asked, “Where can I find the Sarmatian Lancelot?”
The men exchanged a quick glance before the giant of a man with the shaved head said, “He’s in the stables.” The other man stayed silent, but seemed to be eyeing Arthur assessingly through the tangled, wild hair that fell into his face. Arthur only nodded his thanks, and walked on, resisting the urge to ask more questions. If these men were part of his new command, formal introductions would occur tomorrow. He had a different goal right now.
Roman forts tended to be laid out on similar designs, so, while he hardly remembered the fort from his childhood, he still had little trouble finding his way. A question directed at a legionary put him before the stable where the Sarmatians kept their mounts.
At this time of night the building was quiet, but well lit. Arthur was pleased to note the clean order of the place. The horses were fine creatures and clearly well cared for; not a few watched his passage with bright, intelligent eyes. As he moved further into the building, he could hear a soft voice speaking, but he could not make out the words. Treading forward on silent feet, he found the source of the voice standing in a stall, grooming a magnificent stallion.
It was a youth, tall and slim, his dark curls nearly the same shade as the horse’s glossy coat. He was murmuring gentle words to the horse, which kept its ears cocked toward the boy, listening with interest. The boy’s face was of clean, elegant lines, and Arthur took a moment to enjoy the sight of the long-limbed youth and long-limbed stallion on a purely visceral level. He guessed the boy to be a groom or servant, but—
Both horse and boy seemed to sense Arthur’s presence at the same time, and Arthur suddenly found himself the recipient of the gazes of two sets of large, dark eyes. Unimpressed, the horse lost interest in him quickly and turned its attention back to the boy, but the boy’s expression immediately shifted. He no longer looked so young as the lines of his face hardened, and his eyes, as they met Arthur’s—they were wary and hooded like the eyes of a predator.
It was rare for Arthur to meet a full-grown man, much less a beardless youth, who could meet his gaze with such directness. Arthur realized then that he had been mistaken. This boy was no servant. Arthur reminded himself of one of Cerialis’s warnings: ”Most of them look little more than boys, but don’t be fooled, man. They’ve been riding since they were old enough to sit up and fighting for Rome nearly as long as you have.” These Sarmatian conscripts were none of them as young as their years.
Arthur spoke, his voice civil, but confident--the tone of a man accustomed to giving commands. “I’m looking for the Sarmatian Lancelot. I was told I could find him here.”
“For what purpose?” The voice was low and resonant—the exotic accent lending it a quality of smooth, biting precision. It was not the uncertain voice of an adolescent.
Taken aback by the boy’s forwardness, Arthur said, tone and gaze quelling, “I am Commander Lucius Artorius Castus.”
“How nice for you.” Arthur blinked; he could not even remember the last time someone had spoken to him with such a lack of respect. “What is it you want?”
Holding tight to his patience, Arthur repeated, “I am looking for the one called Lancelot.” The horse nudged at the boy, demanding attention, and Arthur’s eyes unconsciously followed the movement of long, elegant hands as they absently stroked the horse’s neck before he jerked his gaze back to the boy’s face. The sensitive touch of those hands was belied utterly by the cool gaze that was still fixed on Arthur.
The full lips twisted in the beginning of what could only be described as a smirk. “Yes. You’ve found him.”
Arthur opened his mouth then snapped it closed. This boy was the one Cerialis had spoke of, the swordsman he had described as one of the deadliest he had ever seen? “If you want to command those men, Castus, you either need to get the one called Lancelot to recognize you, or you need to break him. Brocchus failed to do either.” Arthur had been taken aback by the harsh attitude, but— Arthur’s eyes raked over the youth, reassessing. Pretty, fine-boned face, lean, seemingly slight body—but then the eyes: hard, direct, fearless, and utterly self-possessed. They did not seem to belong in that face.
Arthur cleared his throat. “I see. Well, I have been assigned to take command of you knights. I had hoped I might enlist your aid.”
The boy’s—Lancelot’s—expression did not change, but he raised one finely arched eyebrow. Arthur grit his teeth. He felt strangely flustered under the penetrating gaze. He kept his voice level as he continued, “I would be grateful if you would ask your fellows to gather tomorrow morning at the training yard so I can introduce myself.” In truth, it was an excuse. Commander Cerialis had said he would give orders for the men to gather in the morning, but it had given Arthur a pretext for seeking out Lancelot before he met the rest of the men.
Dark eyes bored into him and seemed to see right through him. “Is that all?” Without waiting for Arthur’s acknowledgment, Lancelot turned back to the stallion, which huffed at him as though to say, about time.
Arthur could feel his jaw clenching. This was not going as he had anticipated. All his planned words to win over the Sarmatian had dissolved in his mouth. He had expected—what, respect? At least some curiosity? He had thought to talk to this Lancelot, to tell him about how Uther, his father, had once commanded another band of Sarmatian knights, and the loyalty they had shared. He had thought it would be easy enough to show his sincerity, his earnest desire to share the brotherhood of these men.
Not knowing what else to do, he said nothing. Although as a Roman officer of high rank, he was entitled to command deference, he did not want to reprimand this man—he wanted to win him over. He reminded himself that the Sarmatians were proud people. He would have to prove himself to them, no doubt as Uther once had proven himself to the Sarmatians under his command. It was not going to be enough to claim to be Uther Castus’s son; in fact, Lancelot had betrayed not the slightly hint of recognizing the Castus name.
So all Arthur did was nod curtly and spin on his heel to depart. But he could not help but take a lingering backward look at Lancelot before he left.
Lancelot waited until the Roman had exited the stables before turning his eyes toward a particular shadow. After a moment, Dagonet and Tristan detached themselves from the darkness where they had settled after following Castus into the stables.
“That was unexpected,” Dagonet commented.
Tristan was toying with his dagger and only gave Lancelot a speaking look. The Sarmatians had had a relatively peaceful few months since the despised Brocchus’s death. Cerialis had largely left them alone so long as they fulfilled their responsibilities and did not cause trouble. Now, their reprieve had ended, and what exactly would be forthcoming would depend a great deal on the man who had just left the stables. Oddly, this Roman had not risen to Lancelot’s provocations, but that probably meant little. Lancelot was not hopeful. Not a single officer who had been assigned to them had earned anything but his contempt, and, in some cases, his hatred. A few of those latter had met with unfortunate accidents in the field.
“Uther Castus’s son.” Dagonet raised his brows in inquiry. “He seems an odd one.”
Lancelot stroked his horse’s nose as he murmured a few more words into its ear and was nuzzled in return, before he retrieved his waiting swords from where they were propped, easy to hand, but hidden against the inside of the stall door. He exited the stall and the two fell into step on either side of him. “Who can say?” He grinned, a feral baring of teeth. “We shall just have to see.”
Warnings: None
Notes: Could be viewed as following Rites of Passage but taking place before The Calling.
Thanks to
sasha_b for keeping me from trying to eviscerate Arthur with my pencil.Arthur left his meeting with Gaius Flavius Cerialis, the commander of the Badon Hill garrison, and hesitated rather than proceeding directly to his newly assigned quarters.
He had arrived at Badon Hill just as the sun was setting and had spent the last moments of daylight visiting his father’s grave. He had not been back here since his mother's death, and, although the village of his childhood was long gone, as he had stood by the mound that was Uther’s resting place, a mound surrounded by the sword-marked graves of Uther’s knights, he had felt at last as if he had come home.
Arthur had been posted to Badon Hill to take command of the Sarmatian cavalry. Gnaeus Aelius Brocchus, the Sarmatians’ latest commander, had died three months ago. When Arthur had heard of Brocchus’s death, he had, for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time, requested a transfer to the position he had viewed as rightfully his since the Sarmatian conscripts had arrived in Britain five years ago. He had lacked the seniority then, and his request for the command had been summarily refused, but he had persisted in seeking the transfer each time the position had opened up. Luckily for Arthur, the Sarmatians had gone through officers at an incredible clip. Some had died and others had sought transfers as quickly as possible—hardly surprising considering that Britain was considered the backwater of the empire and commanding a wing of conscripted Sarmatians in Britain was not likely to be a path to advancement. But, to Arthur, this command was the goal of his life. He had ignored the well-meaning advice of his fellow officers, disregarded their protests that he was tossing aside a promising career, and had used his reputation as an outstanding young officer to at last get his way. He now had what he had always wanted: He, like Uther before him, was the commander of the Sarmatian knights stationed in Britain. The very thought was enough to make Arthur’s heart speed its pace.
After leaving the cemetery at dusk, he had arrived at the garrison and had been taken directly to meet with Commander Cerialis. He had expected to be introduced to his junior officers, but Cerialis had met with him alone. The garrison commander had explained that the Sarmatians had no other officers; of the two junior officers who had served under Brocchus, one had transferred out shortly before Brocchus’s death, and the other had died of fever six months before. Replacements for neither were forthcoming, and the Sarmatians, unlike some of the long-standing auxiliary troops, were not permitted to raise officers from their own ranks. So, Cerialis explained, Arthur would just have to make do.
The commander’s briefing had been full of advice and cautions. The Sarmatians, Cerialis admitted, almost grudgingly, were among the toughest fighters he had ever seen, and their horsemanship was nearly inhuman, but they were insolent and had no respect whatsoever for rank or position. “They’re like a pack of wolves. They have no loyalty to Rome, or even to their own officers, but only to one another. They refuse even to take proper Roman names, insisting on keeping those barbaric, unpronounceable ones they call each other. One name—like a slave.”
Arthur was not too worried about Cerialis’s warnings. Although he knew that Cerialis’s reputation was that of a good commander, Cerialis clearly viewed the Sarmatians as beneath him, and what man would not respond in kind to contempt? Arthur had only the vaguest memories of the Sarmatians his father had commanded, but from those memories, mixed with stories he had heard, they had been proud, honorable men, completely loyal to Uther, whose own loyalty was such that he, a Roman equestrian, had insisted on being buried with them, rather than having his body returned to Rome to be buried with the Castus family.
Arthur bit his lip and decided against heading directly to his quarters. Exhausted as he was from the long day in the saddle, Arthur knew that anticipation would keep him from sleeping. And while he would not take formal command of the Sarmatians until tomorrow, there was still something he could do tonight. As he had listened to Cerialis speak, one thing became abundantly clear: one Sarmatian name came up again and again. Arthur did not make the mistake of believing that just because the Sarmatians had no Roman officers, that they were leaderless.
Arthur went out into the open yard and looked around. He studied the two young men walking toward him. He didn’t recognize the language they spoke, and they had a look about them—
Courteously, he asked, “Where can I find the Sarmatian Lancelot?”
The men exchanged a quick glance before the giant of a man with the shaved head said, “He’s in the stables.” The other man stayed silent, but seemed to be eyeing Arthur assessingly through the tangled, wild hair that fell into his face. Arthur only nodded his thanks, and walked on, resisting the urge to ask more questions. If these men were part of his new command, formal introductions would occur tomorrow. He had a different goal right now.
Roman forts tended to be laid out on similar designs, so, while he hardly remembered the fort from his childhood, he still had little trouble finding his way. A question directed at a legionary put him before the stable where the Sarmatians kept their mounts.
At this time of night the building was quiet, but well lit. Arthur was pleased to note the clean order of the place. The horses were fine creatures and clearly well cared for; not a few watched his passage with bright, intelligent eyes. As he moved further into the building, he could hear a soft voice speaking, but he could not make out the words. Treading forward on silent feet, he found the source of the voice standing in a stall, grooming a magnificent stallion.
It was a youth, tall and slim, his dark curls nearly the same shade as the horse’s glossy coat. He was murmuring gentle words to the horse, which kept its ears cocked toward the boy, listening with interest. The boy’s face was of clean, elegant lines, and Arthur took a moment to enjoy the sight of the long-limbed youth and long-limbed stallion on a purely visceral level. He guessed the boy to be a groom or servant, but—
Both horse and boy seemed to sense Arthur’s presence at the same time, and Arthur suddenly found himself the recipient of the gazes of two sets of large, dark eyes. Unimpressed, the horse lost interest in him quickly and turned its attention back to the boy, but the boy’s expression immediately shifted. He no longer looked so young as the lines of his face hardened, and his eyes, as they met Arthur’s—they were wary and hooded like the eyes of a predator.
It was rare for Arthur to meet a full-grown man, much less a beardless youth, who could meet his gaze with such directness. Arthur realized then that he had been mistaken. This boy was no servant. Arthur reminded himself of one of Cerialis’s warnings: ”Most of them look little more than boys, but don’t be fooled, man. They’ve been riding since they were old enough to sit up and fighting for Rome nearly as long as you have.” These Sarmatian conscripts were none of them as young as their years.
Arthur spoke, his voice civil, but confident--the tone of a man accustomed to giving commands. “I’m looking for the Sarmatian Lancelot. I was told I could find him here.”
“For what purpose?” The voice was low and resonant—the exotic accent lending it a quality of smooth, biting precision. It was not the uncertain voice of an adolescent.
Taken aback by the boy’s forwardness, Arthur said, tone and gaze quelling, “I am Commander Lucius Artorius Castus.”
“How nice for you.” Arthur blinked; he could not even remember the last time someone had spoken to him with such a lack of respect. “What is it you want?”
Holding tight to his patience, Arthur repeated, “I am looking for the one called Lancelot.” The horse nudged at the boy, demanding attention, and Arthur’s eyes unconsciously followed the movement of long, elegant hands as they absently stroked the horse’s neck before he jerked his gaze back to the boy’s face. The sensitive touch of those hands was belied utterly by the cool gaze that was still fixed on Arthur.
The full lips twisted in the beginning of what could only be described as a smirk. “Yes. You’ve found him.”
Arthur opened his mouth then snapped it closed. This boy was the one Cerialis had spoke of, the swordsman he had described as one of the deadliest he had ever seen? “If you want to command those men, Castus, you either need to get the one called Lancelot to recognize you, or you need to break him. Brocchus failed to do either.” Arthur had been taken aback by the harsh attitude, but— Arthur’s eyes raked over the youth, reassessing. Pretty, fine-boned face, lean, seemingly slight body—but then the eyes: hard, direct, fearless, and utterly self-possessed. They did not seem to belong in that face.
Arthur cleared his throat. “I see. Well, I have been assigned to take command of you knights. I had hoped I might enlist your aid.”
The boy’s—Lancelot’s—expression did not change, but he raised one finely arched eyebrow. Arthur grit his teeth. He felt strangely flustered under the penetrating gaze. He kept his voice level as he continued, “I would be grateful if you would ask your fellows to gather tomorrow morning at the training yard so I can introduce myself.” In truth, it was an excuse. Commander Cerialis had said he would give orders for the men to gather in the morning, but it had given Arthur a pretext for seeking out Lancelot before he met the rest of the men.
Dark eyes bored into him and seemed to see right through him. “Is that all?” Without waiting for Arthur’s acknowledgment, Lancelot turned back to the stallion, which huffed at him as though to say, about time.
Arthur could feel his jaw clenching. This was not going as he had anticipated. All his planned words to win over the Sarmatian had dissolved in his mouth. He had expected—what, respect? At least some curiosity? He had thought to talk to this Lancelot, to tell him about how Uther, his father, had once commanded another band of Sarmatian knights, and the loyalty they had shared. He had thought it would be easy enough to show his sincerity, his earnest desire to share the brotherhood of these men.
Not knowing what else to do, he said nothing. Although as a Roman officer of high rank, he was entitled to command deference, he did not want to reprimand this man—he wanted to win him over. He reminded himself that the Sarmatians were proud people. He would have to prove himself to them, no doubt as Uther once had proven himself to the Sarmatians under his command. It was not going to be enough to claim to be Uther Castus’s son; in fact, Lancelot had betrayed not the slightly hint of recognizing the Castus name.
So all Arthur did was nod curtly and spin on his heel to depart. But he could not help but take a lingering backward look at Lancelot before he left.
Lancelot waited until the Roman had exited the stables before turning his eyes toward a particular shadow. After a moment, Dagonet and Tristan detached themselves from the darkness where they had settled after following Castus into the stables.
“That was unexpected,” Dagonet commented.
Tristan was toying with his dagger and only gave Lancelot a speaking look. The Sarmatians had had a relatively peaceful few months since the despised Brocchus’s death. Cerialis had largely left them alone so long as they fulfilled their responsibilities and did not cause trouble. Now, their reprieve had ended, and what exactly would be forthcoming would depend a great deal on the man who had just left the stables. Oddly, this Roman had not risen to Lancelot’s provocations, but that probably meant little. Lancelot was not hopeful. Not a single officer who had been assigned to them had earned anything but his contempt, and, in some cases, his hatred. A few of those latter had met with unfortunate accidents in the field.
“Uther Castus’s son.” Dagonet raised his brows in inquiry. “He seems an odd one.”
Lancelot stroked his horse’s nose as he murmured a few more words into its ear and was nuzzled in return, before he retrieved his waiting swords from where they were propped, easy to hand, but hidden against the inside of the stall door. He exited the stall and the two fell into step on either side of him. “Who can say?” He grinned, a feral baring of teeth. “We shall just have to see.”
