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King Arthur Draft Fic: "Field Trip"
Title: Field Trip
Warnings: None
Notes: Takes place directly after "First Meeting."
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b for the read through.
Morning saw Arthur bleary-eyed but alert as he arrived at the training yard to meet his new command. Last night, he had declined Cerialis’s offer to accompany him and provide an introduction to the knights, but that had been before his deflating encounter with Lancelot in the stables. Now, Arthur almost wished he had not refused the offer, but he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and told himself not to be a coward.
To his surprise and pleasure the knights were already waiting, although they had not adopted anything like military posture. Rather than lining up in ranks, they were milling around casually, most talking in smaller groups.
But the moment he stepped onto the training ground awareness of his presence seemed to flash through the group. Bodies stilled and heads rose. Arthur was put in mind of the way a herd of horses became alert to the approach of a potential threat.
And like herd creatures—or rather, Arthur realized as he became the focus of many sets of alert, scrutinizing eyes, a pack of carnivores—these men were wary and suspicious of this new factor in their midst.
He had spent most of last night tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, thinking over his meeting with Lancelot: what he should have done, what he should have said and, then, what he should do next. He had reached no brilliant solution. Lancelot's disinterested hostility had been a surprise, or, if he was honest, really, a shock. He had been dreaming of this command so long—thinking of it as a homecoming—that it had never really occurred to him that he could be unwelcome. Well, that had at least been Lancelot’s reaction. He did not know what to expect from the rest of the men, but he was about to find out.
After that first moment of assessing stillness, the knights had enough respect or discipline—or something—to gather around, although still not in anything like a military formation. Almost unwillingly, Arthur's eyes sought out the lean, dark haired youth he had met last night. He had expected to see Lancelot front and center, the leader of this wolf pack, but, instead, he finally found the boy standing at the far edge of the group, just slightly off to one side with a massive, blond-haired knight at his shoulder. Arthur was surprised by this positioning, until he realized that it allowed Lancelot to see most of the knights—and for them to see him.
Arthur cleared his throat. Like all officers, he was a practiced speaker and able to make his voice project over the roar of a battlefield. So, being heard in this relatively quiet yard was no issue. To his relief, the words too came easily and, while they were unoriginal in their scope, he meant them sincerely.
The watching Sarmatians betrayed little reaction to his speech of greeting and introduction. Their glittering eyes merely watched him without showing much interest, although a few looked a little bored and others had a glimmer in their gaze that might have been anger. He concluded his brief remarks with some words about how he looked forward to leading them for the honor of Rome, and then there were definitely some contemptuous looks.
Arthur forced himself to ignore that for now. But rather than ending there, he surprised himself a little by adding the unplanned remark: "So long as you do your job and do it well, you will have no problems with me." He forced his eyes to sweep the group without pausing on the dark haired figure standing off to the side. He had not dared during the whole of his speech to check the look on Lancelot’s face.
~
The next morning, which Arthur had planned to spend on training exercises in order to get to know his men (the previous day, after introductions, had been consumed by administrative details, much to Arthur’s annoyance), he was summoned to Cerialis’s office. Cerialis informed him that he and his utterly new command were to be sent out into the field in response to a report that a Woad raiding party had been sighted nearby.
Arthur protested, but Cerialis, while sympathetic, was adamant. “This is why we have cavalry posted here, Castus. I had to send them out a time or two with infantry officers after Brocchus was killed and they did well enough—though my officer had a thing or two to complain about! You’ll do fine. Whatever else those men are, they know their business.”
In truth, as Arthur well knew, sending out a troop with a new, unfamiliar commander was an invitation for disaster. At this point, Arthur barely knew his men's names, much less their strengths and weaknesses and the best ways to deploy them.
To say the least, he was not happy, but, as always, he would do his duty.
~
Lancelot had finished checking over his equipment and was looking over the other knights with narrowed eyes. Castus was making a more formal inspection of the men, but Lancelot ignored him. The man would find nothing of substance to complain about, and he had no idea of the real problems to look for.
Gawain and Gaheris had Galahad in hand. Agravaine was behaving himself and not quarreling with anyone. Breunor 's new stallion seemed to be settling in. Ah—there.
Lancelot walked over to Percival's horse and, without a by-your-leave, flipped open one of the saddle packs and pulled out the flask that Percival had stuffed beneath his camp blanket.
Percival had the grace to look shamefaced; he was not the type to bluster when caught out. "I wasn't going to drink it now—"
"Of course not," Lancelot reassured, all trace of his usual sarcasm gone. Percival, whose mother had been a shamaness, was the closest they had to a healer in the field, but he was not handling the responsibility well. He had begun to drink to cope, and it had gotten worse and worse with each wounded knight he could not save. It had reached a critical point since Lamorak had died; they could no longer be sure that Percival would keep his drinking to off duty hours. Dinaden, his closest living friend, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, gave Lancelot a chagrined and apologetic look. Lancelot tossed the flask to him.
"But why not let Dinaden carry it for you? You were going to share it with him anyway, right?"
"Good for a bit of warmth in the night." Dinaden said casually.
Percival gave a tentative smile and Lancelot grinned back. "You'll share some with the rest of us, too, no doubt," he teased.
Before Percival could answer—something joking and insulting Lancelot hoped so that shamed, dark look could be banished from his eyes—an authoritative voice cut in.
"What's going on here?"
Lancelot cursed silently to himself as Percival looked down at his feet. They had been speaking in Sarmatian, but Castus must have been watching. Lancelot stepped squarely between Castus and Percival. "Nothing to concern yourself with, Commander," Lancelot answered. He met Castus's eyes levelly, daring the man to ask anything else.
After a tense moment during which Lancelot continued to meet his eyes with a flat look, Castus nodded curtly, and said, raising his voice to be heard by all, "Then mount up, knights. We're ready to leave."
"Fucking bossy Roman," Galahad said loudly in Sarmatian. Lancelot did not turn around, trusting Gaheris to shut him up. The muffled "Ow! Why'd you do that?" confirmed it.
Lancelot clapped Percival's shoulder and exchanged a last look with Dinaden before heading back to where his own horse was waiting—wearing a look of long suffering patience, the over dramatic creature.
Gareth grinned at him as Lancelot swung up into the saddle. “Well, Castus was a cavalry officer at Cilurnum—he must know something of what he’s doing.”
Lancelot shrugged. “We’re about to find out—one way or another.”
~
When Arthur had entered the fort at Badon Hill to start his new command, he had not quite imagined that within two days after time he would be leading his first mission as commander of the Sarmatian knights. But no part of this command was proceeding as he expected.
As nervous as the situation made Arthur, he was even more annoyed that the Sarmatians had made no effort to be helpful. While not actually insubordinate, they walked near that line. They spoke exclusively to each other in Sarmatian, although they all seemed to speak Latin well enough when they chose. They would answer direct questions—but offered no information voluntarily. What should have been simple matters—like finding out how field rations were issued at the garrison—had turned into complicated delays, since getting information out of the knights had been like pulling teeth. Worse, he was sure they were all laughing at him.
He had never been in a situation like this before. At the very least, he had never had to contend with troops who conversed with one another in a foreign tongue. At his former posting at Cilurnum, his troop, while originally raised in northwest Spain, had come to be filled with men from all over the empire. Latin had become their common tongue long ago.
Arthur's ignorance of what was going on had been brought home to him over and over. There were the continual conversations he could not understand that were accompanied by narrowed eyed looks in his direction—which turned into flat stares when Arthur looked back. And then there had been Lancelot clearly discussing something intently with the one called Percival. Arthur could have pushed for an answer then--perhaps he should have--but he had chosen not to. He did not want to rouse these men’s hostility, especially not when he was setting out with them for the first time. It was a good thing he was not particularly paranoid, or he might begin to think they were scheming behind his back.
But now, riding out into enemy territory, apparently things were different. If the knights were not plotting his outright murder, then they at least recognized the need for a some amount of cooperation with the man who had been placed in command over them. He was not a little relieved when shortly after they left the safety of the wall, Lancelot rode up beside him, and, tone almost indifferent, said, "Tristan and Palomides are good scouts. Servause and Cardok are the best archers."
Arthur stared at him a moment, and Lancelot simply looked back at him, acknowledging nothing. Arthur had experienced a brief moment of hope that this meant that the knight had warmed to him, but no, evidently not.
He was grateful anyway, and gave the appropriate orders about deployment. Lancelot gave him a brief nod before dropping back again.
~
Tristan rode back to the main body of troops some hours later. He caught Lancelot’s eye as he made his way to Castus, and Lancelot, not waiting for an invitation, rode forward, reaching Castus at the same time as Tristan.
Tristan reported, ostensibly to Castus, in his typical laconic fashion: “Woads. A mile and a half ahead.”
Castus nodded and, at his command, the troop halted. Castus dismounted, and rather pointedly said, “Lancelot, why don’t you join us?”
Lancelot, who was already halfway to the ground, was utterly unabashed. He crouched down beside Tristan, who was using a twig to draw a crude map.
“They’re here.” Tristan pointed out the features of the land. He and Lancelot shared a brief look as they waited for Castus to speak. Lancelot rolled his eyes and Tristan’s lips almost twitched.
Castus did not notice, busy as he was staring at the dirt map. “Alright, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll attack from three sides. From here, here, and here.”
Lancelot watched as Castus’s finger stabbed each location. It was an intelligent plan. At least this man had a brain in his head unlike a few other officers Lancelot could name.
Without waiting for an invitation, Lancelot said, “I’d suggest you give Agravaine command of one group. Gareth can second you.”
Castus’s face betrayed a hint of annoyance, but it disappeared quickly. Apparently he recognized that he needed Lancelot’s help. Lancelot was pleased to see that. It also put Castus a cut above most of the other Romans Lancelot had been forced to deal with.
“And who to command the third?” Castus asked.
Lancelot lifted an eyebrow and smirked, not deigning to dignify that with an answer. After a moment, he added, “If you’ll allow it”—despite the deference of the words, there was none in his tone—“I’ll divide up the men.”
~
The ambush went off with an ease Arthur had rarely seen. Even in the quick and bloody chaos of battle, Arthur could admire the almost frightening skill and efficiency of the men under his command. His highly trained troops at Cilurnum, whom Arthur would have sworn were second to none, were put to shame by these men. Arthur had known that the Sarmatians were the greatest horsemen alive, but until now he had little idea of what that actually might mean.
It was over in minutes, an utter rout for the Woads. Arthur looked around the field. Only one pocket of resistance remained, and there, wielding two swords with impossible speed, was Lancelot. Arthur had seen that the knight carried twin blades but he had not imagined— Shaking his head to get himself back to what he should be focused on, Arthur turned his horse to go provide aid.
A call from Gareth stopped him. The big blond—the man who had been standing next to Lancelot during Arthur’s speech—shook his head and grinned. “He won’t thank you if you ruin his fun.”
So Arthur merely watched, and he could not help but admire both the sword work and the swordsman.
Warnings: None
Notes: Takes place directly after "First Meeting."
Thanks to
sasha_b for the read through.Morning saw Arthur bleary-eyed but alert as he arrived at the training yard to meet his new command. Last night, he had declined Cerialis’s offer to accompany him and provide an introduction to the knights, but that had been before his deflating encounter with Lancelot in the stables. Now, Arthur almost wished he had not refused the offer, but he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and told himself not to be a coward.
To his surprise and pleasure the knights were already waiting, although they had not adopted anything like military posture. Rather than lining up in ranks, they were milling around casually, most talking in smaller groups.
But the moment he stepped onto the training ground awareness of his presence seemed to flash through the group. Bodies stilled and heads rose. Arthur was put in mind of the way a herd of horses became alert to the approach of a potential threat.
And like herd creatures—or rather, Arthur realized as he became the focus of many sets of alert, scrutinizing eyes, a pack of carnivores—these men were wary and suspicious of this new factor in their midst.
He had spent most of last night tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, thinking over his meeting with Lancelot: what he should have done, what he should have said and, then, what he should do next. He had reached no brilliant solution. Lancelot's disinterested hostility had been a surprise, or, if he was honest, really, a shock. He had been dreaming of this command so long—thinking of it as a homecoming—that it had never really occurred to him that he could be unwelcome. Well, that had at least been Lancelot’s reaction. He did not know what to expect from the rest of the men, but he was about to find out.
After that first moment of assessing stillness, the knights had enough respect or discipline—or something—to gather around, although still not in anything like a military formation. Almost unwillingly, Arthur's eyes sought out the lean, dark haired youth he had met last night. He had expected to see Lancelot front and center, the leader of this wolf pack, but, instead, he finally found the boy standing at the far edge of the group, just slightly off to one side with a massive, blond-haired knight at his shoulder. Arthur was surprised by this positioning, until he realized that it allowed Lancelot to see most of the knights—and for them to see him.
Arthur cleared his throat. Like all officers, he was a practiced speaker and able to make his voice project over the roar of a battlefield. So, being heard in this relatively quiet yard was no issue. To his relief, the words too came easily and, while they were unoriginal in their scope, he meant them sincerely.
The watching Sarmatians betrayed little reaction to his speech of greeting and introduction. Their glittering eyes merely watched him without showing much interest, although a few looked a little bored and others had a glimmer in their gaze that might have been anger. He concluded his brief remarks with some words about how he looked forward to leading them for the honor of Rome, and then there were definitely some contemptuous looks.
Arthur forced himself to ignore that for now. But rather than ending there, he surprised himself a little by adding the unplanned remark: "So long as you do your job and do it well, you will have no problems with me." He forced his eyes to sweep the group without pausing on the dark haired figure standing off to the side. He had not dared during the whole of his speech to check the look on Lancelot’s face.
~
The next morning, which Arthur had planned to spend on training exercises in order to get to know his men (the previous day, after introductions, had been consumed by administrative details, much to Arthur’s annoyance), he was summoned to Cerialis’s office. Cerialis informed him that he and his utterly new command were to be sent out into the field in response to a report that a Woad raiding party had been sighted nearby.
Arthur protested, but Cerialis, while sympathetic, was adamant. “This is why we have cavalry posted here, Castus. I had to send them out a time or two with infantry officers after Brocchus was killed and they did well enough—though my officer had a thing or two to complain about! You’ll do fine. Whatever else those men are, they know their business.”
In truth, as Arthur well knew, sending out a troop with a new, unfamiliar commander was an invitation for disaster. At this point, Arthur barely knew his men's names, much less their strengths and weaknesses and the best ways to deploy them.
To say the least, he was not happy, but, as always, he would do his duty.
~
Lancelot had finished checking over his equipment and was looking over the other knights with narrowed eyes. Castus was making a more formal inspection of the men, but Lancelot ignored him. The man would find nothing of substance to complain about, and he had no idea of the real problems to look for.
Gawain and Gaheris had Galahad in hand. Agravaine was behaving himself and not quarreling with anyone. Breunor 's new stallion seemed to be settling in. Ah—there.
Lancelot walked over to Percival's horse and, without a by-your-leave, flipped open one of the saddle packs and pulled out the flask that Percival had stuffed beneath his camp blanket.
Percival had the grace to look shamefaced; he was not the type to bluster when caught out. "I wasn't going to drink it now—"
"Of course not," Lancelot reassured, all trace of his usual sarcasm gone. Percival, whose mother had been a shamaness, was the closest they had to a healer in the field, but he was not handling the responsibility well. He had begun to drink to cope, and it had gotten worse and worse with each wounded knight he could not save. It had reached a critical point since Lamorak had died; they could no longer be sure that Percival would keep his drinking to off duty hours. Dinaden, his closest living friend, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, gave Lancelot a chagrined and apologetic look. Lancelot tossed the flask to him.
"But why not let Dinaden carry it for you? You were going to share it with him anyway, right?"
"Good for a bit of warmth in the night." Dinaden said casually.
Percival gave a tentative smile and Lancelot grinned back. "You'll share some with the rest of us, too, no doubt," he teased.
Before Percival could answer—something joking and insulting Lancelot hoped so that shamed, dark look could be banished from his eyes—an authoritative voice cut in.
"What's going on here?"
Lancelot cursed silently to himself as Percival looked down at his feet. They had been speaking in Sarmatian, but Castus must have been watching. Lancelot stepped squarely between Castus and Percival. "Nothing to concern yourself with, Commander," Lancelot answered. He met Castus's eyes levelly, daring the man to ask anything else.
After a tense moment during which Lancelot continued to meet his eyes with a flat look, Castus nodded curtly, and said, raising his voice to be heard by all, "Then mount up, knights. We're ready to leave."
"Fucking bossy Roman," Galahad said loudly in Sarmatian. Lancelot did not turn around, trusting Gaheris to shut him up. The muffled "Ow! Why'd you do that?" confirmed it.
Lancelot clapped Percival's shoulder and exchanged a last look with Dinaden before heading back to where his own horse was waiting—wearing a look of long suffering patience, the over dramatic creature.
Gareth grinned at him as Lancelot swung up into the saddle. “Well, Castus was a cavalry officer at Cilurnum—he must know something of what he’s doing.”
Lancelot shrugged. “We’re about to find out—one way or another.”
~
When Arthur had entered the fort at Badon Hill to start his new command, he had not quite imagined that within two days after time he would be leading his first mission as commander of the Sarmatian knights. But no part of this command was proceeding as he expected.
As nervous as the situation made Arthur, he was even more annoyed that the Sarmatians had made no effort to be helpful. While not actually insubordinate, they walked near that line. They spoke exclusively to each other in Sarmatian, although they all seemed to speak Latin well enough when they chose. They would answer direct questions—but offered no information voluntarily. What should have been simple matters—like finding out how field rations were issued at the garrison—had turned into complicated delays, since getting information out of the knights had been like pulling teeth. Worse, he was sure they were all laughing at him.
He had never been in a situation like this before. At the very least, he had never had to contend with troops who conversed with one another in a foreign tongue. At his former posting at Cilurnum, his troop, while originally raised in northwest Spain, had come to be filled with men from all over the empire. Latin had become their common tongue long ago.
Arthur's ignorance of what was going on had been brought home to him over and over. There were the continual conversations he could not understand that were accompanied by narrowed eyed looks in his direction—which turned into flat stares when Arthur looked back. And then there had been Lancelot clearly discussing something intently with the one called Percival. Arthur could have pushed for an answer then--perhaps he should have--but he had chosen not to. He did not want to rouse these men’s hostility, especially not when he was setting out with them for the first time. It was a good thing he was not particularly paranoid, or he might begin to think they were scheming behind his back.
But now, riding out into enemy territory, apparently things were different. If the knights were not plotting his outright murder, then they at least recognized the need for a some amount of cooperation with the man who had been placed in command over them. He was not a little relieved when shortly after they left the safety of the wall, Lancelot rode up beside him, and, tone almost indifferent, said, "Tristan and Palomides are good scouts. Servause and Cardok are the best archers."
Arthur stared at him a moment, and Lancelot simply looked back at him, acknowledging nothing. Arthur had experienced a brief moment of hope that this meant that the knight had warmed to him, but no, evidently not.
He was grateful anyway, and gave the appropriate orders about deployment. Lancelot gave him a brief nod before dropping back again.
~
Tristan rode back to the main body of troops some hours later. He caught Lancelot’s eye as he made his way to Castus, and Lancelot, not waiting for an invitation, rode forward, reaching Castus at the same time as Tristan.
Tristan reported, ostensibly to Castus, in his typical laconic fashion: “Woads. A mile and a half ahead.”
Castus nodded and, at his command, the troop halted. Castus dismounted, and rather pointedly said, “Lancelot, why don’t you join us?”
Lancelot, who was already halfway to the ground, was utterly unabashed. He crouched down beside Tristan, who was using a twig to draw a crude map.
“They’re here.” Tristan pointed out the features of the land. He and Lancelot shared a brief look as they waited for Castus to speak. Lancelot rolled his eyes and Tristan’s lips almost twitched.
Castus did not notice, busy as he was staring at the dirt map. “Alright, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll attack from three sides. From here, here, and here.”
Lancelot watched as Castus’s finger stabbed each location. It was an intelligent plan. At least this man had a brain in his head unlike a few other officers Lancelot could name.
Without waiting for an invitation, Lancelot said, “I’d suggest you give Agravaine command of one group. Gareth can second you.”
Castus’s face betrayed a hint of annoyance, but it disappeared quickly. Apparently he recognized that he needed Lancelot’s help. Lancelot was pleased to see that. It also put Castus a cut above most of the other Romans Lancelot had been forced to deal with.
“And who to command the third?” Castus asked.
Lancelot lifted an eyebrow and smirked, not deigning to dignify that with an answer. After a moment, he added, “If you’ll allow it”—despite the deference of the words, there was none in his tone—“I’ll divide up the men.”
~
The ambush went off with an ease Arthur had rarely seen. Even in the quick and bloody chaos of battle, Arthur could admire the almost frightening skill and efficiency of the men under his command. His highly trained troops at Cilurnum, whom Arthur would have sworn were second to none, were put to shame by these men. Arthur had known that the Sarmatians were the greatest horsemen alive, but until now he had little idea of what that actually might mean.
It was over in minutes, an utter rout for the Woads. Arthur looked around the field. Only one pocket of resistance remained, and there, wielding two swords with impossible speed, was Lancelot. Arthur had seen that the knight carried twin blades but he had not imagined— Shaking his head to get himself back to what he should be focused on, Arthur turned his horse to go provide aid.
A call from Gareth stopped him. The big blond—the man who had been standing next to Lancelot during Arthur’s speech—shook his head and grinned. “He won’t thank you if you ruin his fun.”
So Arthur merely watched, and he could not help but admire both the sword work and the swordsman.