King Arthur Snippet: Possession
Jan. 13th, 2006 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Possession
Warnings: Slash
Notes: Bouncing between the Iliad and KA, my poor brain, which usually wants to settle on just one track, apparently came up with this bit. Just a snippet. Not very edited.
Lancelot was stretched out on the rug before the fire, lazy and lithe, like a panther at rest. Arthur found himself wishing that he was more familiar with the story he was reading so he could watch the way the light and shadows played across the lean planes of Lancelot’s body and the sharp elegance of his face, rather than only stealing looks.
He had braced himself for mockery when he had first suggested it. He had observed in the shadows on so many winter nights when the Sarmatians had sat together and told long tales in their native tongue. It was selfish of him, perhaps, but after Lancelot had started to share his bed, he had wanted Lancelot to spend those long winter nights with him.
So after long consideration of which of the texts he had that Lancelot might like, he had suggested it. Rather than laughing at him, Lancelot had only raised an eyebrow and repeated "The Iliad? You wish to read it to me?"
"Yes, it is a Greek story, but I have a Latin translation. You might like it." He had let his mouth crook into a smile. "There are no Christians in it. Nor any Romans, either."
To his surprise and delight, Lancelot agreed. Not every night they were in the fort, but on a some of them, Lancelot would sprawl out on the rug and let Arthur read to him. And when he was done with listening, he would crawl over to Arthur and settle in his lap and there would be no more reading that night.
Arthur himself was surprised by how still Lancelot could be as Arthur read, and how well he listened. He asked questions occasionally, but rarely about the content. He would repeat some word Arthur had read, and frown, and ask Arthur to define it for him. Sometimes, Arthur was sure they were words Lancelot knew—words he was sure he had heard Lancelot himself use—but he was unwilling to question, afraid of insulting Lancelot's pride. He had wondered, too, at first, whether Lancelot was able to follow the story, but the occasional comments Lancelot made showed he understood quite well.
Tonight as he read of the council of the Trojans, Lancelot chuckled and said, "The Greeks always were stupid about their woman. Imagine, fighting wars over a woman choosing to bed another man."
Arthur blinked in surprise. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about the madness love might cause, but instead he gave a more conventional response. "It's not just about the woman, it's really about honor—"
Lancelot waved a lazy hand in the air. "Exactly. Letting your honor rest on whether you can hold on to a woman. You Romans are not much better."
Arthur let the scroll slide shut. "What do you mean? Helen was Menelaus' wife—"
"So? What difference should it make to a man's honor if a woman chooses to go off with another? So long as she leaves him, there is no fear that he will think another man's children his own."
Lancelot turned his head so he could look at Arthur's face, his curls catching on the fur of the rug. "You look so surprised, Arthur. "
Arthur shook his head. "I had not thought to hear such an opinion from you." He regretted his wording as soon as he finished, thinking Lancelot might take offense.
But Lancelot only looked amused. "Why? Sarmatian woman do as they choose. If a woman tires of her husband she need not stay with him. She is not," Lancelot's eyebrows rose, "after all, his slave, but free. You Christians, do you not see it so?"
Arthur was sure he was being baited, but answered anyway. "Marriage is a sacrament; it cannot be broken."
In one smooth movement Lancelot rolled over and sat up. As usual, by the fire's warmth, he had shed boots and belt and over tunic and was dressed only in his trousers and shirt. Arthur thought it was a sure sign he was hopelessly besotted that he was fascinated by the sight of Lancelot's bare feet. "So would you fight a war, destroy a city, merely because your wife had the audacity to leave you for another?"
"I?" Arthur was taken aback by the sudden personalizing of the discussion, but he shouldn't have been. This was Lancelot, after all.
For once, Lancelot seemed to take pity on him and did not press for an answer. "In Sarmatia," and Arthur listened carefully, for Lancelot rarely spoke of his home, "both women and men are free to dissolve a marriage if they tire of it. In principle, anyway. In truth, it is often more complicated than that—there are families and children and sometimes property has been exchanged—but under the law no woman can be forced to stay with a man when she does not wish it. A man who complained because his wife left him to take another lover would be laughed at."
"It is a strange custom," Arthur said cautiously.
Lancelot only laughed softly. "Have you not heard, Arthur? Our women claim descent from the very Amazons who came to the defense of Troy. They would tolerate nothing less."
Arthur had heard that tale but—his eyes narrowed. He raised the scroll he was holding. "You know this story then?"
Lancelot looked over at him, surprised. "Yes. We have traded with, raided, the Greeks for centuries, Arthur. I have heard this tale told many times in its native tongue." His brows drew down. "I thought you picked it for that very reason."
No, Arthur thought, feeling suddenly ashamed. It had not occurred to him. He had, in fact, been taking some pleasure in the idea that he was opening such a world to his illiterate lover. He had not even known that Lancelot understood Greek.
Lancelot, however, seemed unaware, or at least uncaring, of Arthur's unconscious condescension. "We have our own tales of it, of course. Someday I'll tell them to you." He reclined again, but this time did not lay all the way down, but rested his weight on his bent elbow, his head against hand. The firelight seemed to love the planes of his face, although the shadows hid the expression in his eyes. "Never mind, I still like to hear you read it, even if the translation seems poor. Read a little more."
Arthur blinked at the criticism, but did not comment. He found his place and read to the end of the scroll, which was not that much. He put the scroll aside then, and felt his belly tighten in anticipation. Rather than waiting for Lancelot to come to him, this time he left his chair to join Lancelot on the rug. He let his hand caress the jut of Lancelot's hip bone, which he had been longing to touch as he read.
"Do you wish to hear something else then?" he asked. He had other things he could read to Lancelot, although this time he would be sure to ask if Lancelot knew the tale.
"No, as I said, I like to hear you read it--though I'm surprised your Church doesn't frown upon it." Lancelot grinned, "All those gods and goddesses, and behaving no better than men."
Arthur shook his head, more interested in letting his thumb trace over the sharp bones than in arguing. "It is great tale, nevertheless. There are still many truths in it."
With gentle, coaxing hands Arthur pushed Lancelot flat on his back and settled atop him. Lancelot yielded easily, his long legs parting so Arthur could lie between them. Arthur could not help the small sound that escaped him as he was at last where he had longed to be, in truth, since Lancelot had left his bed this morning. He pressed his face into Lancelot's neck breathing in his heady scent. Although his arousal was sharp, almost painful, he wanted to savor these sensations for a moment. Sex between them was rougher and hastier than Arthur wanted—his own doing he knew, but he could not help it. The scent, the heat, the feel, the very thought of Lancelot drove him wild, and he acted in ways that he had not known himself capable.
Part of it, he thought, was while Lancelot's body yielded to his touch with sensual abandon, Arthur was unsure of his heart. Insecurity drove him to roughness, to want to grasp harder at what he was afraid was not his. There were times when they lay together, still sweaty and entangled, when it was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to ask, but fear held him back. Lancelot came to his bed, yes, but Lancelot simply enjoyed sex. Arthur had watched him with women—had heard the woman talk of him—often enough to know that. The first time they had lain together, he had rather hoped that he would be Lancelot's first man, but Lancelot had proved to be well experienced even in that. He had never seen Lancelot with a man and had desperately wanted to ask who it was that had shared Lancelot's body before him, but he did not quite dare.
So he limited his declarations of love and want to those times when he was buried in Lancelot's body and words could be discounted as uttered in the moment's heat. He wanted Lancelot's heart, but the Sarmatian had given him no sign of anything beyond friendship, which itself had been hard won. Indeed—although Arthur was sure Lancelot had not bedded another since he had been with Arthur—his eyes still followed women with appreciation; he still flirted as easily as he breathed. Knowing it was his bed that Lancelot would share, he could tolerate it, just. But he did not think he could bear it if Lancelot eyed another man, or if--his hands on Lancelot's flesh tightened at the very thought—he lay with any other.
So when he kissed Lancelot he could not help that he bruised those lips, nor could he help that his fingers sometimes dug too deep into Lancelot's flesh, nor that when he entered Lancelot's body he was often too quick and forceful. Lancelot never seemed to mind, only giving Arthur an amused look when the new bruises were revealed by the morning's light.
He had no reassurance that Lancelot would not, as he had put it, tire of him, and find another bed to warm. Lifting his head to kiss Lancelot now, he thought he could understand something of Menelaus' course. If Lancelot left him for another, he was not sure of what he might be capable to try to seize him back.
Warnings: Slash
Notes: Bouncing between the Iliad and KA, my poor brain, which usually wants to settle on just one track, apparently came up with this bit. Just a snippet. Not very edited.
Lancelot was stretched out on the rug before the fire, lazy and lithe, like a panther at rest. Arthur found himself wishing that he was more familiar with the story he was reading so he could watch the way the light and shadows played across the lean planes of Lancelot’s body and the sharp elegance of his face, rather than only stealing looks.
He had braced himself for mockery when he had first suggested it. He had observed in the shadows on so many winter nights when the Sarmatians had sat together and told long tales in their native tongue. It was selfish of him, perhaps, but after Lancelot had started to share his bed, he had wanted Lancelot to spend those long winter nights with him.
So after long consideration of which of the texts he had that Lancelot might like, he had suggested it. Rather than laughing at him, Lancelot had only raised an eyebrow and repeated "The Iliad? You wish to read it to me?"
"Yes, it is a Greek story, but I have a Latin translation. You might like it." He had let his mouth crook into a smile. "There are no Christians in it. Nor any Romans, either."
To his surprise and delight, Lancelot agreed. Not every night they were in the fort, but on a some of them, Lancelot would sprawl out on the rug and let Arthur read to him. And when he was done with listening, he would crawl over to Arthur and settle in his lap and there would be no more reading that night.
Arthur himself was surprised by how still Lancelot could be as Arthur read, and how well he listened. He asked questions occasionally, but rarely about the content. He would repeat some word Arthur had read, and frown, and ask Arthur to define it for him. Sometimes, Arthur was sure they were words Lancelot knew—words he was sure he had heard Lancelot himself use—but he was unwilling to question, afraid of insulting Lancelot's pride. He had wondered, too, at first, whether Lancelot was able to follow the story, but the occasional comments Lancelot made showed he understood quite well.
Tonight as he read of the council of the Trojans, Lancelot chuckled and said, "The Greeks always were stupid about their woman. Imagine, fighting wars over a woman choosing to bed another man."
Arthur blinked in surprise. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about the madness love might cause, but instead he gave a more conventional response. "It's not just about the woman, it's really about honor—"
Lancelot waved a lazy hand in the air. "Exactly. Letting your honor rest on whether you can hold on to a woman. You Romans are not much better."
Arthur let the scroll slide shut. "What do you mean? Helen was Menelaus' wife—"
"So? What difference should it make to a man's honor if a woman chooses to go off with another? So long as she leaves him, there is no fear that he will think another man's children his own."
Lancelot turned his head so he could look at Arthur's face, his curls catching on the fur of the rug. "You look so surprised, Arthur. "
Arthur shook his head. "I had not thought to hear such an opinion from you." He regretted his wording as soon as he finished, thinking Lancelot might take offense.
But Lancelot only looked amused. "Why? Sarmatian woman do as they choose. If a woman tires of her husband she need not stay with him. She is not," Lancelot's eyebrows rose, "after all, his slave, but free. You Christians, do you not see it so?"
Arthur was sure he was being baited, but answered anyway. "Marriage is a sacrament; it cannot be broken."
In one smooth movement Lancelot rolled over and sat up. As usual, by the fire's warmth, he had shed boots and belt and over tunic and was dressed only in his trousers and shirt. Arthur thought it was a sure sign he was hopelessly besotted that he was fascinated by the sight of Lancelot's bare feet. "So would you fight a war, destroy a city, merely because your wife had the audacity to leave you for another?"
"I?" Arthur was taken aback by the sudden personalizing of the discussion, but he shouldn't have been. This was Lancelot, after all.
For once, Lancelot seemed to take pity on him and did not press for an answer. "In Sarmatia," and Arthur listened carefully, for Lancelot rarely spoke of his home, "both women and men are free to dissolve a marriage if they tire of it. In principle, anyway. In truth, it is often more complicated than that—there are families and children and sometimes property has been exchanged—but under the law no woman can be forced to stay with a man when she does not wish it. A man who complained because his wife left him to take another lover would be laughed at."
"It is a strange custom," Arthur said cautiously.
Lancelot only laughed softly. "Have you not heard, Arthur? Our women claim descent from the very Amazons who came to the defense of Troy. They would tolerate nothing less."
Arthur had heard that tale but—his eyes narrowed. He raised the scroll he was holding. "You know this story then?"
Lancelot looked over at him, surprised. "Yes. We have traded with, raided, the Greeks for centuries, Arthur. I have heard this tale told many times in its native tongue." His brows drew down. "I thought you picked it for that very reason."
No, Arthur thought, feeling suddenly ashamed. It had not occurred to him. He had, in fact, been taking some pleasure in the idea that he was opening such a world to his illiterate lover. He had not even known that Lancelot understood Greek.
Lancelot, however, seemed unaware, or at least uncaring, of Arthur's unconscious condescension. "We have our own tales of it, of course. Someday I'll tell them to you." He reclined again, but this time did not lay all the way down, but rested his weight on his bent elbow, his head against hand. The firelight seemed to love the planes of his face, although the shadows hid the expression in his eyes. "Never mind, I still like to hear you read it, even if the translation seems poor. Read a little more."
Arthur blinked at the criticism, but did not comment. He found his place and read to the end of the scroll, which was not that much. He put the scroll aside then, and felt his belly tighten in anticipation. Rather than waiting for Lancelot to come to him, this time he left his chair to join Lancelot on the rug. He let his hand caress the jut of Lancelot's hip bone, which he had been longing to touch as he read.
"Do you wish to hear something else then?" he asked. He had other things he could read to Lancelot, although this time he would be sure to ask if Lancelot knew the tale.
"No, as I said, I like to hear you read it--though I'm surprised your Church doesn't frown upon it." Lancelot grinned, "All those gods and goddesses, and behaving no better than men."
Arthur shook his head, more interested in letting his thumb trace over the sharp bones than in arguing. "It is great tale, nevertheless. There are still many truths in it."
With gentle, coaxing hands Arthur pushed Lancelot flat on his back and settled atop him. Lancelot yielded easily, his long legs parting so Arthur could lie between them. Arthur could not help the small sound that escaped him as he was at last where he had longed to be, in truth, since Lancelot had left his bed this morning. He pressed his face into Lancelot's neck breathing in his heady scent. Although his arousal was sharp, almost painful, he wanted to savor these sensations for a moment. Sex between them was rougher and hastier than Arthur wanted—his own doing he knew, but he could not help it. The scent, the heat, the feel, the very thought of Lancelot drove him wild, and he acted in ways that he had not known himself capable.
Part of it, he thought, was while Lancelot's body yielded to his touch with sensual abandon, Arthur was unsure of his heart. Insecurity drove him to roughness, to want to grasp harder at what he was afraid was not his. There were times when they lay together, still sweaty and entangled, when it was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to ask, but fear held him back. Lancelot came to his bed, yes, but Lancelot simply enjoyed sex. Arthur had watched him with women—had heard the woman talk of him—often enough to know that. The first time they had lain together, he had rather hoped that he would be Lancelot's first man, but Lancelot had proved to be well experienced even in that. He had never seen Lancelot with a man and had desperately wanted to ask who it was that had shared Lancelot's body before him, but he did not quite dare.
So he limited his declarations of love and want to those times when he was buried in Lancelot's body and words could be discounted as uttered in the moment's heat. He wanted Lancelot's heart, but the Sarmatian had given him no sign of anything beyond friendship, which itself had been hard won. Indeed—although Arthur was sure Lancelot had not bedded another since he had been with Arthur—his eyes still followed women with appreciation; he still flirted as easily as he breathed. Knowing it was his bed that Lancelot would share, he could tolerate it, just. But he did not think he could bear it if Lancelot eyed another man, or if--his hands on Lancelot's flesh tightened at the very thought—he lay with any other.
So when he kissed Lancelot he could not help that he bruised those lips, nor could he help that his fingers sometimes dug too deep into Lancelot's flesh, nor that when he entered Lancelot's body he was often too quick and forceful. Lancelot never seemed to mind, only giving Arthur an amused look when the new bruises were revealed by the morning's light.
He had no reassurance that Lancelot would not, as he had put it, tire of him, and find another bed to warm. Lifting his head to kiss Lancelot now, he thought he could understand something of Menelaus' course. If Lancelot left him for another, he was not sure of what he might be capable to try to seize him back.
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Re: Possession
Date: 2006-01-14 02:32 am (UTC)I'm very glad to hear you liked the story! I'm not currently planning to write a sequel, although anything is possible. If you like the idea of it being Arthur who pursues Lancelot, I've started a series of fic that have that theme--I briefly contemplating incorporating this fic into the series, but I don't think it's going to quite fit. Let me know if you're interested, and I can point them out to you--although I warn you I'm still in the relatively early stages as yet. : )
Thanks for your comment!