King Arthur Fic: Fairy Tales
Jan. 22nd, 2006 01:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Fairy Tales
Summary: The tale doesn't go quite as Guinevere plans.
Warnings: m/m sex (A/L).
Notes: Standalone story. Draft--I may come back to it to try to smooth it out later, but I‘ve no perspective right now. Any comments, suggestions, complaints, welcome.
Thanks to sasha_b for the read through.
Guinevere entered the stables and looked around for Arthur. The battle against the Saxons had ended hours ago. The wounded and the dead were being seen to, and the celebrations had already begun. She had last seen Arthur as he organized things in the aftermath of their victory. He had greeted her rather distantly, and asked after her health, but then she had lost track of him.
With the battle over, it was time now for the fruition of their plans. Merlin and the other Briton leaders were gathering to speak to Arthur. She had volunteered to bring him to the meeting. But, first, she had taken the time to have her own cuts and abrasions cleaned and she had changed out of her battle gear. She now wore a gown that showed off her figure and had made sure her hair was dressed so as to highlight the beauty of her face.
By the end of the day there would be a new king to unite Britain and a marriage to plan.
The victory had left her euphoric and full of confidence. She felt as though there was nothing she wanted that she could not have. After centuries of resistance, the Romans were at last gone. The Britons had won a major victory against the Saxons. And her people had him now, the legendary Arthur, to fight for them. And she had him, now, as theirs. She had laid claim to him for Britain last night and he had proven that claim when he had chosen to stay, even against the pleas of his closest friend.
A smile touched her lips, as she thought of Lancelot. She had heard tales of him, as she had heard tales of Arthur. Arthur's second in command, the dark knight, the killer and the lover, said to be peerless at both arts. Watching him, she had been fascinated—so beautiful and intense and angry. He too would be hers now.
She had given him up as lost when her attempts to win him over had been rebuffed. Oh, she was sure she could have seduced him that night among the trees—but she had not thought that sex alone would tie him to her, and so she had focused on Arthur. But even then, she had sensed a vulnerability in Lancelot, although she had had no means to exploit it. But now everything was different—Lancelot had returned of his own will and then he had rushed to save her life during the battle. No longer could he claim indifference.
She would marry Arthur and rule, but she had already decided that she would take the knight as her lover. She would have them both. Arthur, with his strength and nobility, who had already proven himself a great leader, and Lancelot.
Arthur would belong to the land. It would be—had been—no hardship at all to share his bed, but she had chosen him for that purpose. Lancelot, though, would belong only to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining him—all long, lean limbs, beneath her as she rode him to her completion. She wondered what that voice, enough to make her shiver when he simply spoke, would sound like in arousal.
It would be easy enough for her to manage. While those two might once have been close, clearly their relationship had become strained. Once she was married to Arthur, it would be a simple thing to seduce Lancelot. Arthur, she already knew, would always think the best of people and would never suspect. Lancelot's guilt over the betrayal of his friend would be another way to bind him closer to her. She would bind both of them to her and thus to her land. A king, a queen, and their—her—knight. Just like in a legendary tale.
Arthur was not in the stables as she had hoped. Instead, she found two of the knights, Gawain and the younger one, tending to the horses. They were speaking to each other in a language she guessed to be their native tongue, but as she approached, the scout's hawk, sitting on a perch off to one side, cried out and they fell silent. They turned and eyed her without enthusiasm.
"I'm glad to see you both well," she said. "How is your fellow—Tristan?—faring?"
It was Gawain who answered. "He should recover. The wound is deep, but he has always healed well."
"I am glad to hear it," she said graciously, smiling. She would be their queen, after all. They did not smile back, but she did not let that bother her now. "I am looking for Arthur."
"You can't—" the younger one started, he looked over at Gawain, his eyes questioning.
"He's in the barracks." Gawain jerked his head toward the other side of the stables. The other gave him a sharp, surprised look, but Gawain ignored it, an odd, speculative light in his eyes. "Back that way."
She nodded her thanks and walked the way he directed, her mind still busy with thinking of the coming days.
There was a corridor of rather dingy rooms at the back of the stables, and she realized that this was where the Sarmatians must have lived for the fifteen years of their service. No wonder they had been less than fond of Rome.
The first rooms were empty; none of them had doors, so she was able to look into each as she passed. She heard a muffled sound from the end of the corridor, and quickened her pace—it sounded like it had come from the last room. She reached the doorway and froze.
The tableau that met her eyes took her a moment to understand. A room, just like the others she had passed, but not empty. Blood streaked armor and clothing lay scattered around, along with white bandages. And there, on the floor, were Arthur and Lancelot. Lancelot was naked, but for bandages wrapped around his shoulder where the arrow had pierced—the arrow that would have killed him had he not twisted away. She could not see any other wounds, for Arthur's bare back blocked her view. Arthur too was bandaged, at least one that she could see, on his forearm. He still wore his breeches—although they were sagging and unfastened.
They were both of them bruised and still streaked with blood and soot, rutting on the floor as though after dressing each other's wounds they had not even been able to wait long enough to make it to the bunk, only a few steps away.
Arthur was thrusting hard, violently into Lancelot who lay beneath him, head thrown back, and as she watched, Arthur dipped down to bite savagely at Lancelot’s exposed throat. Arthur's hands were digging brutally, possessively into Lancelot's hips holding him still as he slammed forward. Lancelot, the hand of his good arm tangled in Arthur's hair was speaking, his voice breathless and hoarse, crying out foreign words, but amidst them, again and again—
Arthur . . . Arthur . . . Arthur . . . .
Even through her shock and growing fury it made her shudder.
As her mind began to work again, she tried to understand what this would mean to her plans.
She took in Arthur's brutal possessiveness. He had been nothing like that with her—he had been forceful at the end yes, but still careful and considerate. He had not thrust into her as he did into Lancelot— as though he could not seem to get deep enough into the body beneath him no mater how he tried.
They came nearly at the same moment. Arthur, every exposed muscle of his body clenching, cried out for the first time, breathlessly triumphant; Lancelot now silent, his body arching hard beneath Arthur's.
Dismissing the wet ache between her own legs, Guinevere opened her mouth to speak in the stillness that followed, but Arthur was already moving, shifting his weight off Lancelot, lying a little to the side. It exposed to her fully the sprawl of Lancelot's naked body, and no words escaped her lips as she studied him. Unlike Arthur, whose strong body she had learned last night, Lancelot was virtually hairless, his limbs lean and sleek. The armor had disguised just how finely he was built, adding bulk where there was none—only smooth bone and long muscle. He was more, even, than she had been imagining.
Arthur, harsh breathing slowing, rested his head beside Lancelot's, staring steadily into Lancelot's eyes. As she watched, still mute, Arthur's hand touched Lancelot's face, tracing his cheekbone in a gesture whose extreme tenderness was almost shocking after the violence of their coupling. Watching him, Guinevere felt her chest clench. Arthur had not touched her that way either.
Whatever anger, whatever dispute had been between them had clearly been reconciled. She could not deny that what she had just witnessed was more than the often violent affirmation of life that drove warriors to mate after battle, but also a reclaiming, a reassertion of ownership.
As Arthur tilted his head to kiss Lancelot, she could stand to watch this no more.
"Arthur," she said, proud her voice was clear and calm.
Their reaction was sudden, almost too fast to follow. Arthur was sitting up, his body blocking and protecting Lancelot. She nearly missed that Lancelot, hidden by Arthur's body, had reached for one of his swords, which had lain near his head. She had no doubt that, if she were an enemy, she would have been dead by his hand in the next moment. Their movements had been perfectly synchronized.
"Guinevere," Arthur said, some of the coiled tension in his body relaxing. She had been hoping for some shame, some embarrassment, perhaps even for guilt, but there was none of that as he regarded her.
Lancelot's dark eyes watched her without any expression, his sweat damp curls tumbling over his face. It was a mistake to look at him she realized a moment later; she was unable to resist the allure of tracing the exposed lines of his body. She could see now the rising bruises on his hips and the blood smeared on the inside of his lean thighs. At the sight, she felt an unexpected, piercing pang of arousal. But then her view was blocked by the flutter of a different scarlet as Arthur pulled his cloak from the ground and settled it over Lancelot. She met Arthur's eyes, and was taken aback by the angry warning in his look.
Lancelot only looked vaguely amused at Arthur's action. It was he who spoke. "What do you want?" It was not rude or hostile, but merely mildly curious.
She tried to make her voice equally devoid of emotion, although she could not quite keep it free of a sharp edge. "The Britons are assembling. Arthur, they ask for your presence. There is much to do."
Including a crowning and a royal wedding. She could not yet understand how what she had just seen would affect their plans, but there was a growing pit in her stomach.
Arthur studied her, his face inscrutable. He then turned his head and murmured something low and questioning to Lancelot. Lancelot met his eyes and they looked at each other in wordless communication.
Arthur looked back at her. His voice when he answered was stern, as though he was not sitting on the floor before her, half clad, his knight's semen spattered over his chest. "We will be there in half an hour." It was clearly a dismissal, and without another word, he turned back to Lancelot, checking the heavy bandage wrapped around the knight’s shoulder.
Lancelot watched her a moment longer. His eyes were not gloating, nor smug, and there was no hint of that hot, burning anger with which he had regarded her just last night. His eyes were heavy lidded, languid with satiation and perhaps with blood loss, but there was an expression in them as he looked at her that she did not understand.
When she had spun away to go back the way she had came, she realized, furious, what that look was. He had been regarding her with pity.
Summary: The tale doesn't go quite as Guinevere plans.
Warnings: m/m sex (A/L).
Notes: Standalone story. Draft--I may come back to it to try to smooth it out later, but I‘ve no perspective right now. Any comments, suggestions, complaints, welcome.
Thanks to sasha_b for the read through.
Guinevere entered the stables and looked around for Arthur. The battle against the Saxons had ended hours ago. The wounded and the dead were being seen to, and the celebrations had already begun. She had last seen Arthur as he organized things in the aftermath of their victory. He had greeted her rather distantly, and asked after her health, but then she had lost track of him.
With the battle over, it was time now for the fruition of their plans. Merlin and the other Briton leaders were gathering to speak to Arthur. She had volunteered to bring him to the meeting. But, first, she had taken the time to have her own cuts and abrasions cleaned and she had changed out of her battle gear. She now wore a gown that showed off her figure and had made sure her hair was dressed so as to highlight the beauty of her face.
By the end of the day there would be a new king to unite Britain and a marriage to plan.
The victory had left her euphoric and full of confidence. She felt as though there was nothing she wanted that she could not have. After centuries of resistance, the Romans were at last gone. The Britons had won a major victory against the Saxons. And her people had him now, the legendary Arthur, to fight for them. And she had him, now, as theirs. She had laid claim to him for Britain last night and he had proven that claim when he had chosen to stay, even against the pleas of his closest friend.
A smile touched her lips, as she thought of Lancelot. She had heard tales of him, as she had heard tales of Arthur. Arthur's second in command, the dark knight, the killer and the lover, said to be peerless at both arts. Watching him, she had been fascinated—so beautiful and intense and angry. He too would be hers now.
She had given him up as lost when her attempts to win him over had been rebuffed. Oh, she was sure she could have seduced him that night among the trees—but she had not thought that sex alone would tie him to her, and so she had focused on Arthur. But even then, she had sensed a vulnerability in Lancelot, although she had had no means to exploit it. But now everything was different—Lancelot had returned of his own will and then he had rushed to save her life during the battle. No longer could he claim indifference.
She would marry Arthur and rule, but she had already decided that she would take the knight as her lover. She would have them both. Arthur, with his strength and nobility, who had already proven himself a great leader, and Lancelot.
Arthur would belong to the land. It would be—had been—no hardship at all to share his bed, but she had chosen him for that purpose. Lancelot, though, would belong only to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining him—all long, lean limbs, beneath her as she rode him to her completion. She wondered what that voice, enough to make her shiver when he simply spoke, would sound like in arousal.
It would be easy enough for her to manage. While those two might once have been close, clearly their relationship had become strained. Once she was married to Arthur, it would be a simple thing to seduce Lancelot. Arthur, she already knew, would always think the best of people and would never suspect. Lancelot's guilt over the betrayal of his friend would be another way to bind him closer to her. She would bind both of them to her and thus to her land. A king, a queen, and their—her—knight. Just like in a legendary tale.
Arthur was not in the stables as she had hoped. Instead, she found two of the knights, Gawain and the younger one, tending to the horses. They were speaking to each other in a language she guessed to be their native tongue, but as she approached, the scout's hawk, sitting on a perch off to one side, cried out and they fell silent. They turned and eyed her without enthusiasm.
"I'm glad to see you both well," she said. "How is your fellow—Tristan?—faring?"
It was Gawain who answered. "He should recover. The wound is deep, but he has always healed well."
"I am glad to hear it," she said graciously, smiling. She would be their queen, after all. They did not smile back, but she did not let that bother her now. "I am looking for Arthur."
"You can't—" the younger one started, he looked over at Gawain, his eyes questioning.
"He's in the barracks." Gawain jerked his head toward the other side of the stables. The other gave him a sharp, surprised look, but Gawain ignored it, an odd, speculative light in his eyes. "Back that way."
She nodded her thanks and walked the way he directed, her mind still busy with thinking of the coming days.
There was a corridor of rather dingy rooms at the back of the stables, and she realized that this was where the Sarmatians must have lived for the fifteen years of their service. No wonder they had been less than fond of Rome.
The first rooms were empty; none of them had doors, so she was able to look into each as she passed. She heard a muffled sound from the end of the corridor, and quickened her pace—it sounded like it had come from the last room. She reached the doorway and froze.
The tableau that met her eyes took her a moment to understand. A room, just like the others she had passed, but not empty. Blood streaked armor and clothing lay scattered around, along with white bandages. And there, on the floor, were Arthur and Lancelot. Lancelot was naked, but for bandages wrapped around his shoulder where the arrow had pierced—the arrow that would have killed him had he not twisted away. She could not see any other wounds, for Arthur's bare back blocked her view. Arthur too was bandaged, at least one that she could see, on his forearm. He still wore his breeches—although they were sagging and unfastened.
They were both of them bruised and still streaked with blood and soot, rutting on the floor as though after dressing each other's wounds they had not even been able to wait long enough to make it to the bunk, only a few steps away.
Arthur was thrusting hard, violently into Lancelot who lay beneath him, head thrown back, and as she watched, Arthur dipped down to bite savagely at Lancelot’s exposed throat. Arthur's hands were digging brutally, possessively into Lancelot's hips holding him still as he slammed forward. Lancelot, the hand of his good arm tangled in Arthur's hair was speaking, his voice breathless and hoarse, crying out foreign words, but amidst them, again and again—
Arthur . . . Arthur . . . Arthur . . . .
Even through her shock and growing fury it made her shudder.
As her mind began to work again, she tried to understand what this would mean to her plans.
She took in Arthur's brutal possessiveness. He had been nothing like that with her—he had been forceful at the end yes, but still careful and considerate. He had not thrust into her as he did into Lancelot— as though he could not seem to get deep enough into the body beneath him no mater how he tried.
They came nearly at the same moment. Arthur, every exposed muscle of his body clenching, cried out for the first time, breathlessly triumphant; Lancelot now silent, his body arching hard beneath Arthur's.
Dismissing the wet ache between her own legs, Guinevere opened her mouth to speak in the stillness that followed, but Arthur was already moving, shifting his weight off Lancelot, lying a little to the side. It exposed to her fully the sprawl of Lancelot's naked body, and no words escaped her lips as she studied him. Unlike Arthur, whose strong body she had learned last night, Lancelot was virtually hairless, his limbs lean and sleek. The armor had disguised just how finely he was built, adding bulk where there was none—only smooth bone and long muscle. He was more, even, than she had been imagining.
Arthur, harsh breathing slowing, rested his head beside Lancelot's, staring steadily into Lancelot's eyes. As she watched, still mute, Arthur's hand touched Lancelot's face, tracing his cheekbone in a gesture whose extreme tenderness was almost shocking after the violence of their coupling. Watching him, Guinevere felt her chest clench. Arthur had not touched her that way either.
Whatever anger, whatever dispute had been between them had clearly been reconciled. She could not deny that what she had just witnessed was more than the often violent affirmation of life that drove warriors to mate after battle, but also a reclaiming, a reassertion of ownership.
As Arthur tilted his head to kiss Lancelot, she could stand to watch this no more.
"Arthur," she said, proud her voice was clear and calm.
Their reaction was sudden, almost too fast to follow. Arthur was sitting up, his body blocking and protecting Lancelot. She nearly missed that Lancelot, hidden by Arthur's body, had reached for one of his swords, which had lain near his head. She had no doubt that, if she were an enemy, she would have been dead by his hand in the next moment. Their movements had been perfectly synchronized.
"Guinevere," Arthur said, some of the coiled tension in his body relaxing. She had been hoping for some shame, some embarrassment, perhaps even for guilt, but there was none of that as he regarded her.
Lancelot's dark eyes watched her without any expression, his sweat damp curls tumbling over his face. It was a mistake to look at him she realized a moment later; she was unable to resist the allure of tracing the exposed lines of his body. She could see now the rising bruises on his hips and the blood smeared on the inside of his lean thighs. At the sight, she felt an unexpected, piercing pang of arousal. But then her view was blocked by the flutter of a different scarlet as Arthur pulled his cloak from the ground and settled it over Lancelot. She met Arthur's eyes, and was taken aback by the angry warning in his look.
Lancelot only looked vaguely amused at Arthur's action. It was he who spoke. "What do you want?" It was not rude or hostile, but merely mildly curious.
She tried to make her voice equally devoid of emotion, although she could not quite keep it free of a sharp edge. "The Britons are assembling. Arthur, they ask for your presence. There is much to do."
Including a crowning and a royal wedding. She could not yet understand how what she had just seen would affect their plans, but there was a growing pit in her stomach.
Arthur studied her, his face inscrutable. He then turned his head and murmured something low and questioning to Lancelot. Lancelot met his eyes and they looked at each other in wordless communication.
Arthur looked back at her. His voice when he answered was stern, as though he was not sitting on the floor before her, half clad, his knight's semen spattered over his chest. "We will be there in half an hour." It was clearly a dismissal, and without another word, he turned back to Lancelot, checking the heavy bandage wrapped around the knight’s shoulder.
Lancelot watched her a moment longer. His eyes were not gloating, nor smug, and there was no hint of that hot, burning anger with which he had regarded her just last night. His eyes were heavy lidded, languid with satiation and perhaps with blood loss, but there was an expression in them as he looked at her that she did not understand.
When she had spun away to go back the way she had came, she realized, furious, what that look was. He had been regarding her with pity.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Fairy Tales
Date: 2006-01-23 03:34 am (UTC)This concept is truly amazing! :)))
Shelley
Re: Fairy Tales
Date: 2006-01-23 04:03 pm (UTC)Thanks very much for reading! I'm glad you liked the concept--there was definitely some of my own wish fulfillment going on here. : )
amari
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 02:05 am (UTC)When she had spun away to go back the way she had came, she realized, furious, what that look was. He had been regarding her with pity. Ending it with this line just made me want to go deeper into quagmire that they're all falling into with Arthur's impending marriage.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 02:48 am (UTC)Ending it with this line just made me want to go deeper into quagmire that they're all falling into with Arthur's impending marriage.
Well, I'm unlikely to dip into it, I'm afraid. I think that this is it for this one. : )
It's interesting to me that you ended up with the impression that Arthur and Guin would still get married. I tried to leave that open ended. When sasha_b read it, I'm pretty sure she interpreted it as Guin getting the shaft, so to speak. : )
Thanks so much for reading!
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 03:06 am (UTC)I guess I'm projecting an Arthur who is an uncompromising, stubborn bastard, but is also politically savvy and can potentially be as calculating as ol' Merlin and Guin. I took the glance, the throwing of his cloak protectively over Lance, and the tone of the response he gave her at the end as saying 'now you DO see it's all business, and I'm not giving him up either'.
Great, even as a one-shot.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 05:02 am (UTC)Here's my thing with that - I see Arthur as politically savvy as well - but honestly? I think he could go both ways. There's the HUGE impact that finding out about Pelagius' death had on him - what caused him to stay and fight with the Woads in the first place IMHO (not some misguided sense of "ooh, oppressed people! Must help") - due to the feeling I have that his whole life, his professional life, was only okay because he knew he was doing what his father wanted, but in his way - by championing his men's lives and wants he was making it okay to be killing strangers in a strange land. (whoot! Long run on sentence)
So, when he stays to fight, he stays because (again, imho) he *lives* for a cause and hasn't had much time to digest what really happened. Rome's dead, baby. So what the fuck was I fighting for? and all that.
However - and here's my point - I think had Lancelot lived, Arthur would have had greater impetus to leave. Or to do what the other man wanted. His cause was/is Lancelot. So....it's annoying b/c I can't make up my mind. But it's also cool in terms of providing lots of fic fodder!
...and I'm done. :p
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 04:34 pm (UTC)I also wonder a bit if Arthur (in the film not the fic) isn't so used to being so self-sacrificing and service-oriented that he can't even contemplate doing something just because he wants to.
Hehee--and you and Arthur's father issues. ; )
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 05:01 am (UTC)Love the icon by the way.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-25 05:03 am (UTC)And yes, those were the words. :p
Fairy Tales
Date: 2006-03-15 04:51 am (UTC)Marti Koeppe aka wildbearies
Re: Fairy Tales
Date: 2006-03-20 04:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-28 02:34 am (UTC)And I love the fact that she realizes that not only is this coupling an act of forgiveness, but one of ownership as well.
*lesigh* You really do have a way with the words, young lady. :)))
no subject
Date: 2006-03-28 03:23 am (UTC)I had a good time setting up Guin for the fall here, so, no, she doesn't need your sympathy, I don't think. :p
I need to write some fic, dammit! I just got home--I had thought I might take a stab at working on the fic I'm suppose to be writing, but it's already so late-- Well, we'll see. : )
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 08:15 pm (UTC)He had been regarding her with pity.
Great line to end this story. I can picture it so clearly, Guinevere stopping dead in her tracks. She's like a little girl thinking she's all grown-up, until she finds out everyone just didn't want to tell her the real rules to the game and in truth she lost long, long ago. Poor Guin. :3
And it's so like Guinevere to not run away when she sees Arthur and Lancelot, but stay staring and, on top of that, to make her presence known.
Great, powerful story. :) Love it.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 10:40 pm (UTC)This was one of those guilty pleasure, wish fulfillment stories where I got to pick on Guin, because, really, even though I do occasionally try to see her side, I just don't much like her. :p She could have been a great character, but whether it was the acting or the writing, she just . . . isn't.
Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2006-09-30 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-09 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-09 03:49 pm (UTC)