King Arthur fic: Resurrection
Jan. 25th, 2006 05:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Resurrection
Warnings: None
Summary: Just a snippet based on a thought that amused me. Arthur may be the once and future king—but no one told Lancelot.
"So you're telling me I've been dead for what—a thousand years?"
"One thousand five hundred," Arthur corrected. "Roughly."
Lancelot kept pacing through the bedroom and waved a hand in the air in a sharp, dismissive gesture. "One thousand, one thousand five hundred, one million—what does it really matter? What am I doing here?" He spun around and glared, furious, at Arthur, "What are you doing here?"
"I was summoned—Britain is in great need of a leader." He said it patiently, although he had already tried to explain it once before. Lancelot's summoning had finally been successful three days ago, but since then Lancelot had lain in deep slumber. He had awoken only a little while ago.
It was understandable that Lancelot was angry and confused, so Arthur did not really object to repeating himself. And, besides, Arthur was preoccupied with drinking in the sight of his friend. He had been waiting nearly a year for this moment, and before that he had lived the last years of his life without this man. He had thought he had remembered every detail—but he had not. The intensity, the vividness that was Lancelot had faded in his memory. It was glorious to see it again, even when—especially when—Lancelot was angry.
"And in one thousand five hundred years," Lancelot said the words with biting precision, "they couldn't find anyone else but you?" He looked annoyed, but at the same time almost resigned.
"Well, no." Arthur tried for distraction. "The others—they're here as well."
A brightening of those dark eyes. "Dagonet was here when I woke—although he wouldn't tell me anything, the close-mouthed bastard." The knights had all insisted—with equal mixtures of glee and self-preservation—that it would be Arthur's job to explain things to Lancelot. "They are here—all of them alive again?"
"Yes. You're the last. You were a bit difficult, since you have didn't have a grave." It was an understatement. The other knights had been summoned over six months ago. Their resurrections had been rather simple, actually, since they were all buried in the same spot. But Lancelot had been a different story. Over the long, painful months, Merlin had come to Arthur more than once insisting that bringing Lancelot back was impossible. Even when he had blamed Merlin for his mother's death, Arthur doubted he had wanted to wring that man's neck as badly as he had at those times.
If Arthur had known anything of the agonizing uncertainty cremating Lancelot would cause, he would never have done it, his friend's wishes or not.
Lancelot, his eyes widening, was staring down at his hands, as though he expected them to dissolve into dust. "You did burn me, right?" Arthur nodded, his throat tightening. "Then how by all the gods—"
"It's better not to think too much about it," Arthur said.
Lancelot was still staring as he flexed his long fingers, but then, voice rising, he cried, "These aren't my hands!"
Some of the others had experienced bouts of panic when they had realized what had happened to them, so Arthur made his voice low and soothing. "Of course they are. Take a deep breath—"
"Oh, shut up with that tone, Arthur," Lancelot snarled. He thrust one of his hands in Arthur's face, palm up. Arthur quite admired the sight. "Look! There are no calluses! What have you done? How am I supposed to fight with these—these things! Smooth as some Roman aristocrat's spoiled son's! It will take months—years—to build them up again—"
"Lancelot!" Arthur broke in, trying to stop the tirade. "We all lost our scars. It won't matter."
"Won't—!"
"We'll get into that later. For now, just please calm down."
Lancelot looked at Arthur with sudden suspicion. "Is this that God of yours doing?" His voice quickened in fury again. "Why am I not surprised? I knew there was something malicious about it—killing a man and then resurrecting him for sport. But I'm not one of his followers—how dare he? I was perfectly happy and then, bam, yanked back here, to a land I hated when I was alive—"
"You were happy? Where were you?" Arthur interrupted, curious, ignoring the rest.
That made Lancelot pause. He opened his mouth but then closed it. "I don't remember," he said slowly.
Arthur nodded. None of them did. "Like a dream, where you wake up knowing it was wonderful, but when you think on it you cannot remember anything about it."
Lancelot shook his head, not disagreeing but dismissing the digression. "Arthur, what am I doing here? You I can understand." His voice sharpened with sarcasm, "Noble Arthur, summoned to save the miserable inhabitants of this cursed island again by his God—but me?"
"The prophecy was Arthur and his knights would return—and, well, you are the first among my knights."
Lancelot gave him a sour look. "While I'm honored, no doubt, I finished my term of service before I died. And damn it, man, I died!" He began to pace again, punctuating his speech with sharp gestures. Arthur noted with interest that whoever had found him the pair of jeans he was wearing had a good eye for fittings. Arthur had always thought that the leather trousers Lancelot had favored had showcased his long legs quite adequately, but he found himself suddenly unable to stop staring as Lancelot stalked around the room.
Lancelot was still talking. "If anything should have freed me from this," he waved his hand—and whether he meant Arthur, Britain, or the world in general was not clear—"being dead should have done it!" He spun again to glare at Arthur. "Why did you call me back here to this place?"
That broke Arthur from his reverie. For the first time, he looked away from Lancelot. After a moment of silence, he admitted, "It was selfish, I suppose." He had always been selfish when it came to Lancelot. "I wanted you here with me. I had lived so many years without you. And the prophecy said that you should be here with me. So I called you." He swallowed hard, but then tried to lighten it with a bit of humor, "Besides, I had forgotten what a handful all of you were together—forty knights!—I need you to keep them in line."
Lancelot made a noise halfway between disgust and annoyance but finally stopped pacing and came to sit beside Arthur on the bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm no one's fucking hero, Arthur," he said at last.
Arthur had to laugh at that. "You deceive yourself so well, my friend. You even had me believing it at times." For the first time since Lancelot had awoken, he reached out and touched him, resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch sent a frisson of electricity through Arthur, and he knew, without any doubt, that, as selfish as he may have been, he had done the right thing in bringing Lancelot back. "I cannot do this without you."
Lancelot looked at him, straight into his eyes, for a long moment. And then he sighed, posture slumping a little. He looked away, but leaned a little into Arthur's hand. "So who are the enemy? Saxons? Huns? Dragon men from over the sea?"
Arthur smiled, bright with relief. "It's a bit more complicated than that, my friend." He stood. "It will take some effort to explain. This time—it is much different from our own."
Lancelot rose to his feet. "Well best to get started, then. Lead on, noble Arthur," he said, his tone mocking, but his eyes, when they met Arthur's, were entirely serious.
Arthur reached out and, in that old gesture, touched his palm to Lancelot's check before moving away reluctantly and heading to the door. There would be time enough for that later. Right now, the others were waiting with no doubt increasing impatience to see their brother. With Lancelot here at last, Arthur's company of knights would once more be complete. The thought filled him with bright joy. And, although he was not supposed to know about it, there had been bets laid as to whether Arthur would emerge from explaining things to Lancelot with a black eye or other visible signs of damage. He was pleased to have foiled those who had bet against him—but, in truth, it had been no sure thing. It had certainly gone better than it could have—being dead might have improved Lancelot's temper.
"So," Lancelot said, as they left the bedroom together, "I suppose if someone knew to call on you, they remember you in this time." He gave Arthur a sideways grin. "Your legend survived."
"You have no idea, Lancelot—the tales they have concocted. I'm looking forward to your reaction to hearing the ones they tell about you." He could not restrain the laughter then, which rang from him free and clear. "I believe Bors and some of the others are quite eager to inform you of them."
The story continues. Click the "resurrection fic" tag.
Warnings: None
Summary: Just a snippet based on a thought that amused me. Arthur may be the once and future king—but no one told Lancelot.
"So you're telling me I've been dead for what—a thousand years?"
"One thousand five hundred," Arthur corrected. "Roughly."
Lancelot kept pacing through the bedroom and waved a hand in the air in a sharp, dismissive gesture. "One thousand, one thousand five hundred, one million—what does it really matter? What am I doing here?" He spun around and glared, furious, at Arthur, "What are you doing here?"
"I was summoned—Britain is in great need of a leader." He said it patiently, although he had already tried to explain it once before. Lancelot's summoning had finally been successful three days ago, but since then Lancelot had lain in deep slumber. He had awoken only a little while ago.
It was understandable that Lancelot was angry and confused, so Arthur did not really object to repeating himself. And, besides, Arthur was preoccupied with drinking in the sight of his friend. He had been waiting nearly a year for this moment, and before that he had lived the last years of his life without this man. He had thought he had remembered every detail—but he had not. The intensity, the vividness that was Lancelot had faded in his memory. It was glorious to see it again, even when—especially when—Lancelot was angry.
"And in one thousand five hundred years," Lancelot said the words with biting precision, "they couldn't find anyone else but you?" He looked annoyed, but at the same time almost resigned.
"Well, no." Arthur tried for distraction. "The others—they're here as well."
A brightening of those dark eyes. "Dagonet was here when I woke—although he wouldn't tell me anything, the close-mouthed bastard." The knights had all insisted—with equal mixtures of glee and self-preservation—that it would be Arthur's job to explain things to Lancelot. "They are here—all of them alive again?"
"Yes. You're the last. You were a bit difficult, since you have didn't have a grave." It was an understatement. The other knights had been summoned over six months ago. Their resurrections had been rather simple, actually, since they were all buried in the same spot. But Lancelot had been a different story. Over the long, painful months, Merlin had come to Arthur more than once insisting that bringing Lancelot back was impossible. Even when he had blamed Merlin for his mother's death, Arthur doubted he had wanted to wring that man's neck as badly as he had at those times.
If Arthur had known anything of the agonizing uncertainty cremating Lancelot would cause, he would never have done it, his friend's wishes or not.
Lancelot, his eyes widening, was staring down at his hands, as though he expected them to dissolve into dust. "You did burn me, right?" Arthur nodded, his throat tightening. "Then how by all the gods—"
"It's better not to think too much about it," Arthur said.
Lancelot was still staring as he flexed his long fingers, but then, voice rising, he cried, "These aren't my hands!"
Some of the others had experienced bouts of panic when they had realized what had happened to them, so Arthur made his voice low and soothing. "Of course they are. Take a deep breath—"
"Oh, shut up with that tone, Arthur," Lancelot snarled. He thrust one of his hands in Arthur's face, palm up. Arthur quite admired the sight. "Look! There are no calluses! What have you done? How am I supposed to fight with these—these things! Smooth as some Roman aristocrat's spoiled son's! It will take months—years—to build them up again—"
"Lancelot!" Arthur broke in, trying to stop the tirade. "We all lost our scars. It won't matter."
"Won't—!"
"We'll get into that later. For now, just please calm down."
Lancelot looked at Arthur with sudden suspicion. "Is this that God of yours doing?" His voice quickened in fury again. "Why am I not surprised? I knew there was something malicious about it—killing a man and then resurrecting him for sport. But I'm not one of his followers—how dare he? I was perfectly happy and then, bam, yanked back here, to a land I hated when I was alive—"
"You were happy? Where were you?" Arthur interrupted, curious, ignoring the rest.
That made Lancelot pause. He opened his mouth but then closed it. "I don't remember," he said slowly.
Arthur nodded. None of them did. "Like a dream, where you wake up knowing it was wonderful, but when you think on it you cannot remember anything about it."
Lancelot shook his head, not disagreeing but dismissing the digression. "Arthur, what am I doing here? You I can understand." His voice sharpened with sarcasm, "Noble Arthur, summoned to save the miserable inhabitants of this cursed island again by his God—but me?"
"The prophecy was Arthur and his knights would return—and, well, you are the first among my knights."
Lancelot gave him a sour look. "While I'm honored, no doubt, I finished my term of service before I died. And damn it, man, I died!" He began to pace again, punctuating his speech with sharp gestures. Arthur noted with interest that whoever had found him the pair of jeans he was wearing had a good eye for fittings. Arthur had always thought that the leather trousers Lancelot had favored had showcased his long legs quite adequately, but he found himself suddenly unable to stop staring as Lancelot stalked around the room.
Lancelot was still talking. "If anything should have freed me from this," he waved his hand—and whether he meant Arthur, Britain, or the world in general was not clear—"being dead should have done it!" He spun again to glare at Arthur. "Why did you call me back here to this place?"
That broke Arthur from his reverie. For the first time, he looked away from Lancelot. After a moment of silence, he admitted, "It was selfish, I suppose." He had always been selfish when it came to Lancelot. "I wanted you here with me. I had lived so many years without you. And the prophecy said that you should be here with me. So I called you." He swallowed hard, but then tried to lighten it with a bit of humor, "Besides, I had forgotten what a handful all of you were together—forty knights!—I need you to keep them in line."
Lancelot made a noise halfway between disgust and annoyance but finally stopped pacing and came to sit beside Arthur on the bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm no one's fucking hero, Arthur," he said at last.
Arthur had to laugh at that. "You deceive yourself so well, my friend. You even had me believing it at times." For the first time since Lancelot had awoken, he reached out and touched him, resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch sent a frisson of electricity through Arthur, and he knew, without any doubt, that, as selfish as he may have been, he had done the right thing in bringing Lancelot back. "I cannot do this without you."
Lancelot looked at him, straight into his eyes, for a long moment. And then he sighed, posture slumping a little. He looked away, but leaned a little into Arthur's hand. "So who are the enemy? Saxons? Huns? Dragon men from over the sea?"
Arthur smiled, bright with relief. "It's a bit more complicated than that, my friend." He stood. "It will take some effort to explain. This time—it is much different from our own."
Lancelot rose to his feet. "Well best to get started, then. Lead on, noble Arthur," he said, his tone mocking, but his eyes, when they met Arthur's, were entirely serious.
Arthur reached out and, in that old gesture, touched his palm to Lancelot's check before moving away reluctantly and heading to the door. There would be time enough for that later. Right now, the others were waiting with no doubt increasing impatience to see their brother. With Lancelot here at last, Arthur's company of knights would once more be complete. The thought filled him with bright joy. And, although he was not supposed to know about it, there had been bets laid as to whether Arthur would emerge from explaining things to Lancelot with a black eye or other visible signs of damage. He was pleased to have foiled those who had bet against him—but, in truth, it had been no sure thing. It had certainly gone better than it could have—being dead might have improved Lancelot's temper.
"So," Lancelot said, as they left the bedroom together, "I suppose if someone knew to call on you, they remember you in this time." He gave Arthur a sideways grin. "Your legend survived."
"You have no idea, Lancelot—the tales they have concocted. I'm looking forward to your reaction to hearing the ones they tell about you." He could not restrain the laughter then, which rang from him free and clear. "I believe Bors and some of the others are quite eager to inform you of them."
The story continues. Click the "resurrection fic" tag.
