amari_z: (horses)
[personal profile] amari_z
Title: A Comic Tale
Warnings: None.
Summary: Arthur relveals more than he meant to and Lancelot has a laugh.
Notes: This story is part of a series that began with Rites of Passage. The order is: Rites of Passage, First Meeting, Field Trip, Supply and Demand, and this one. At some later time, The Calling







Gareth trotted through the darkness and rain, heading for the stables. On nights like this, the stables were the warmest place a Sarmatian could find welcome, and he expected the other knights would gather there. During the interminable winter nights, there was little else to do.

Sure enough, as he entered the warm glow of the stables’ interior he found a handful of knights had arrived before him. He grinned to himself as he recognized the voice speaking.

In Sarmatia, the long nights of winter (though the nights were never so long as those here in this cursed land) were passed through story telling. History, legends, comic stories, they were all passed down and refined through the generations. Many of Gareth’s best memories of home were of sitting in a pile of siblings and cousins listening, open mouthed, as one of the tribal elders told long tales filled with magic, heroism, and horses that could run forever. But, in Britain, the boys from Sarmatia had to learn to tell stories for themselves. Over the years, one of their happiest pastimes had become listening to one another tell old tales from home. It did not matter that they all knew each others' stories by now, the pleasure came from hearing the beloved tales told well.

Right now, the knights were sitting at ease in a circle passing jugs of ale around and listening to Lancelot. Lancelot was one of the better storytellers among them, and he was weaving a long, elaborate tale of a simple Sarmatian tribesman who was cheated out of his best horse by a Greek merchant, but who, though a convoluted, comic route got the better of the sly Greek at last. The knights were listening, grinning, laughing, chorusing the answers to some of the familiar punch lines: Urré leaning comfortably against Breunor; Gaheris and Gawain, sitting together and inseparable, and, of course, Galahad trying to sqirm in between them; Percival, already a bit drunk, chiming in with various improbable suggestions, while Dinaden tried to shush him; Dagonet listening quietly, but his eyes laughing; Bors sprawled beside him, roaring his amusement; Bedivere taking a pull from the jug and passing it to Kay who was laughing so hard he almost spilled the ale; Agravaine, the sour look on his face for once banished; and Tristan, though not sitting in the circle, listening from his perch on one of the stall doors, his hair hiding what could have been a smile. Many of the others would likely be showing up shortly as well.

Gareth’s grin widened as he listened to the rise and fall of Lancelot’s voice. This was a good story, and Lancelot told it with sly cleverness, his restless, quick mind ever adding new twists and details to the old tale. Right now, he was speaking in the voice of the treacherous Greek merchant, who was bearing an arch resemblance to the garrison’s thieving quartermaster—a much-despised nemesis of the knights.

Gareth wanted to check on his horse before joining the group, so he reluctantly headed away from the laughter for the moment. When he turned away, he was surprised to encounter Commander Castus standing in the shadows near the stall where the man’s white stallion was stabled. Castus had taken command of the Sarmatian cavalry some months before, and, while he had thus far proven to be far more of a competent and fair man than any of their previous commanders, the Sarmatians by in large remained distrustful—unsure of what to make of a Roman who claimed to want to treat them as something like equals.

Gareth nodded to him, but Castus, uncharacteristically, did not respond. It took Gareth a moment to realize that Castus had not noticed him. The man's attention was fixed on the circle of knights—no, not on the knights, but on Lancelot. But Castus would not be interested in Lancelot’s story; the man did not speak Sarmatian. Gareth followed Castus’s gaze, trying to figure out what had so thoroughly captured his attention. There was Lancelot, eyes sparkling, whole body animated, his face transformed by the brilliance of his smile. Oh.

Gareth looked sharply back at Castus. The man had probably never seen Lancelot when he was relaxed and happy, and, sure enough, the look on Castus’s face—he was transfixed.

Gareth, usually even tempered, cursed violently to himself. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He had seen Castus watching Lancelot with what appeared more than casual interest a few times, but although it had raised his hackles, he’d had no real reason to really think—

Castus seemed decent enough, but experience told Gareth that no Roman was to be trusted. If the man laid a hand on Lancelot, Lancelot was likely to respond violently, which would end with the boy whipped yet again or even worse.

Something had to be done. Gareth frowned, and went to see to his horse, unaware that he was not the only Sarmatian who had caught that look on the commander’s face.

~

Gareth’s opportunity came the next day when he found Lancelot grooming his horse in the deserted stables. Gareth approached him awkwardly. As much as he knew he needed to talk to Lancelot, Gareth was not good at dealing with delicate issues—usually it was Lancelot who handled such matters, but that was not an option here.

Gareth was not sure what to say or what Lancelot's reaction would be. Lancelot’s temper was unpredictable. Over the years, he had put a tight curb on his emotions, but Gareth still had vivid memories of the times when the child Lancelot had seemed to go mad with fury. The first time it had happened, an enraged twelve-year-old Lancelot had refused to back down from a Roman officer who had been insisting that Lancelot, who favored his left hand, fight only with his right. The confrontation had ended with the Roman summoning legionaries to hold the boy while he deliberately broke Lancelot’s left arm. It had taken four fully-grown men to hold Lancelot as the boy had shrieked curses at them. The last time had been over three years ago now. Lancelot had disobeyed battle orders that would have likely gotten most of them killed and then proceeded after they had finished off the Woads to go straight for their commanding officer's throat. That had ended with Lancelot locked up in a dark hole for nearly a triple handful of days. Their commander at the time had been cruelly clever in his punishment; even the most unsocial Sarmatian shared the herd mentality of his horse brethren. Prolonged isolation was the worst kind of torture—any of the knights would far rather be whipped. The boy who had emerged from that prison had not been the same boy who had gone in. The temper was still there, a constant smolder in the back of his eyes, but there was an almost cold control. Yet somehow it had become all the more frightening when Lancelot got truly angry, because now rather than simply lashing out in blind fury as he once would have, Lancelot would put that sharp mind to use, and the gods themselves could not help whomever had provoked him.

As reluctant as Gareth felt to bring up the subject (what was he going to say: “Lancelot, little brother, I thought you should know that Commander Castus was practically drooling when he was watching you last night”? that would go over real well—Gareth could feel a nervous giggle coming on, and damn, he should have thought harder about what to say before he came in here), he knew that he had to do something if there was to be a hope of averting disaster. Lancelot might have better control of his temper, but that did not mean that he would not lash out if surprised. Lancelot had, unfortunately, been a pretty child (still was too pretty), and had every reason to react with reflexive violence to a Roman’s advances. Only a month before Castus had arrived at the garrison, Lancelot had nearly crushed the throat of a legionary who had been drunk enough to think he could corner Lancelot one night in an empty corridor. Gareth was not much worried that Castus would manage to hurt Lancelot—in any earnest fight, Gareth’s money would always be on Lancelot, against anyone—but if Lancelot hurt the man, or gods save them, killed him—the punishment would be dire.

And Lancelot spent a rather lot of time in Castus’s company. The Roman had recognized from the start what Lancelot was, and treated Lancelot rather like an unofficial second in command. Lancelot, in turn, seemed to be alternately amused by and wary of Castus. The man had thus far not done anything to merit the Sarmatians’ active dislike, and had even done a few things they could respect, but they had learned their lessons about Romans well and thoroughly. Lancelot’s approach had been one of wait and see. So long as Castus seemed to be acting fairly, Lancelot would cooperate.

But now the precarious equilibrium was in danger of shifting, and that could only mean bad things. As suspicious as the Sarmatians were, the fact remained that the last few months had been among the best since they had arrived in Britain—at least so far their commander had not treated them as expendable (and rather distasteful) animals to be sacrificed to the greater glory of his own career.

Gareth had never had much faith that Castus would be as fair-minded as he appeared. Like all Romans, he would probably show his true colors eventually. But if it turned out that they had to get rid of Castus, it needed to be done with cool heads and a plan--not in the heat of the moment, and certainly not in the garrison.

So here Gareth was, with Lancelot watching him, one inquiring eyebrow raised. “So— how are you?” Gareth tried to sound casual.

“Same as earlier today,” Lancelot replied, mouth quirking. “What’s going on?”

Lancelot’s horse, as though taking pity on Gareth’s desire to delay this conversation, thrust its head at Gareth, shamelessly insisting on some attention. Gareth stroked the silky nose and then glanced over at the horse’s rider again. Lancelot leaned back against the stall wall and continued to watch him.

“So, how are things going with Castus?” Gareth asked at last.

Lancelot’s brows drew down. Their commander was a constant topic of conversation among the Sarmatians, so Lancelot well knew that if Gareth were here for gossip, he would hardly have been so awkward. But Lancelot’s response was casually flip, “Nothing has changed. He still prays to his hypocrite God, and harps on about his strange philosophies.”

“Umhm. Well, he seems to like you.” Gareth ventured, and then berated himself, why not just say it straight out?

Lancelot smirked. “What’s not to like?”

Gareth was saved from answering that by a loud adolescent voice bellowing from the entrance, “Hey, Lancelot! Gawain says you have to come.” Several of the horses used the yelling as an excuse to pretend they were startled, stamping hooves and tossing heads—a few with more dramatic temperaments even rearing up--and Lancelot stalked out of the stall, intent on dragging Galahad out of the stables by the ear, or more likely, kicking him out on his ass.

Gareth sighed, relieved, until he realized that he would just have to try again. Then he swore, and Lancelot’s horse snorted, as though unimpressed.

~

Evening saw Lancelot sitting on the stable floor, checking his tack. His horse watched with vague interest and entertained itself by occasionally leaning its head over the stall door so it could nip at Lancelot’s curly hair, which Lancelot punished with a mock cuff to the animal’s nose.

Tristan appeared before Lancelot and squatted down. They were silent for a while, before Tristan said in his abrupt way, “That Roman, he wants to get in your pants.”

Anyone who knew Lancelot and Tristan only superficially might have thought that that Tristan’s goal was to mock and provoke and that Lancelot’s response would be acute—whether words, or more likely, a fist to the gut. But they would have been wrong. Lancelot only looked up and, after a brief moment of surprise, narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at Tristan.

Tristan waited until Lancelot had thought it through. Lancelot shook his head slightly, and asked, “Is that what Gareth was dithering about earlier?”

Tristan shrugged. “Gareth worries too much.” He paused, and then added, “You can make use of it.” There was a definite, though faint, smile on Tristan’s face. It was not really that pleasant a sight. “The Roman, he thinks that under the sharp edges, you’re sweet.”

If Lancelot had not already been sitting down he would have fallen down, he laughed so hard.



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