King Arthur AU Fic: Weapons of Choice
Feb. 16th, 2006 12:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Weapons of Choice
Warnings: Unfortunately none. Except, you know, the crack. Consume at your own risk.
Series: Part of the AUcrack adventure into madness that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town and this one.
Notes: We’re venturing out of the shallow water into deep end here (or is that “off the deep end”?), as I try to fumble around with a plot. Please do let me know what you think. And, as I’ve shown in the past, I’m highly susceptible to suggestion, so it might be in your own best interest. : )
Acknowledgements: Thanks to all of you who were so kind as to try to give me some fashion education. Thanks in particular to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darklyscarlett for introducing me to Comme des Garcons and the amazing Rei Kawakubo, as well as supplying me with the name “Leighton D'Aubigny.” I could never have come up with such a perfect name on my own. Also, in case anyone has forgotten, this continues to be sasha_b’s fault. She also pre-read for me. I’d thank her, if it weren’t for the all-her-fault thing.
Galahad pelted down the hallway after Tor, screaming, "Give it back!"
Tor merely cackled. Screeching like a banshee, he skidded around the corner but then tripped as the runner slid out from under him. Galahad leaped, tackling him. The two of them rolled around the hall until they crashed into one of the walls. "Whoreson! Give it to me! You're ruining it!"
They grappled furiously. Tor refused to let go of what he had clutched in his hand, and Galahad tried to pry his fist open, while at the same time pummeling him with knees and elbows. Galahad's eyes watered as Tor's free hand pulled viciously at his hair, trying to pound Galahad’s head back against the floor. He was just about to sink his teeth into Tor's arm when a voice cut in.
"As amazed as I am by this demonstration of your fine combat skills, what exactly are you two doing?"
They both froze and looked up to find Lancelot leaning against the wall across from them, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Galahad nearly groaned aloud as he realized that they had fetched up directly across from Arthur's room, which he had been sharing with Lancelot since Lancelot had returned.
Galahad exchanged a look with Tor and by mutual consent they released each other and stood up, but they were unable to resist shoving a little as they let go. Galahad rubbed at his smarting scalp where it felt like Tor had pulled out a good handful of hair, and noted with keen satisfaction that Tor's right eye was already purpling nicely where Galahad had elbowed him.
Then he glanced warily over at Lancelot. Lancelot had been in a dangerous mood for the last few days, and while Arthur had finally let him out of the house yesterday, Galahad was not particularly confident that this meant an improvement in his disposition. Thus far, his mood had exhibited itself merely in the black glitter in his eyes, and the air of stillness that had formed around him. But they all knew what those signs meant. Stillness could explode into fury without warning in a lightening shift of mood. Then the gods help whatever target presented itself. And they had been stupid enough to land at his very feet.
"Don't tell me you're actually fighting over that gaudy—whatever it is?" Lancelot's gaze slanted in the direction of the cloth still clutched in one of Tor's hands.
Reminded of the wrong done against him, Galahad forgot caution. "It's mine! He took it from my closet! If you've torn it I'm going to--"
Tor, the arse, retorted, "You dyed all my clothes pink!"
"Not on purpose!" It had been an accident. Tor had been doing his laundry and Galahad had surreptitiously thrown a few of his own things into the wash. How was he to know that red underwear would leak color off on to everything else? And Tor really had no right to be making a fuss—most of his clothes were cheap and ugly anyway. The pink was only an improvement.
"Give it to me." Lancelot held out a preemptory hand. Reluctantly, Tor handed it over. Lancelot's mouth twitched as the object of contention revealed itself to be a colorful silk shirt. Galahad relaxed a little at his expression. Evidently, they were not going to be ripped to shreds either verbally or physically. Having Lancelot mediate disputes, however, was always a mixed blessing. He had no patience for what he inevitably viewed as the participants' complete stupidity and his solutions tended to be drastic—although usually the parties were just grateful to escape without worse.
This time was no different. Lancelot opened the door beside him, flung the shirt in and shut the door.
"Hey!" Galahad protested. "I bought it! That's mine!" It had been really, really expensive too. But Galahad had liked it when he had seen it in that magazine. He had not even cared that Gawain had laughed at him the entire time they had been in the shop while Galahad had been trying to deal with the snotty sales people without hitting anyone.
"Not any more," Lancelot's voice was as silky as the feel of Galahad's lost shirt against skin.
"It won't even fit you," Galahad muttered resentfully. "Lanky bastard." More loudly, he added, even as Tor tried to shush him by stepping on his foot, "And Arthur is going to be pissed if you're leaving things all over his floor." Arthur, Roman trained military commander that he had been, liked things in precise order.
Lancelot's formerly rather benign expression darkened slightly, and Galahad shut his mouth. "That's between Arthur and me, isn't it?"
Galahad was rescued from having to figure out how to answer that when Dagonet and Meliot turned the corner. Lancelot's attention shifted and he straightened, his posture changing from indolent to intent.
Dagonet gave a surprisingly wide smile. He hefted the long, heavy looking canvas bag he was carrying. "The first ones are finished, Lancelot. You'll be pleased."
Lancelot seemed to have forgotten all about Galahad and Tor. But then he called over his shoulder, as he walked away with the other knights, "You two will be sure to explain to Arthur why there's a dent in the wall, won't you?"
Galahad looked down at the wall, and sure enough. He groaned. And right across from Arthur's room.
It was probably from Tor's stupid, thick head.
~
Leighton D'Aubigny glanced over at his old friend Mervyn Emrys as their driver made the turn onto the private road that led to the house. He felt his heart quicken in anticipation. He had visited a number of times since that miraculous day just over a year ago when legend had become reality, but, still, each time he was filled with an almost childish excitement and anticipation.
It was Emrys who had brought all this wonder into his life. When Emrys had asked to meet with him two years ago and had told a tale of such a fantastic nature, Leighton had been afraid his friend and been spending too much time among his moldering artifacts and had gone a bit mad. How mistaken he had been. He had always been in awe of the formidable and intimidating Emrys, but now, knowing who the man actually was, Leighton could only wonder at the fact that Emrys had befriended him all those years ago and had chosen to entrust him with such an amazing secret.
Feeling overwhelmed once more, Leighton said earnestly, "Thank you, Mervyn, for bringing me along with you once more."
"No need to thank me, Leighton," Emrys' rather hoarse voice answered. "It is your house, after all. You have been very generous in allowing us to use it."
Leighton shook his head. "No, no. It is my great honor." The D'Aubigny family had accumulated wealth over the years in many shrewd business ventures. Leighton, however, had been singularly lacking in the business acumen of his ancestors. In truth, he cared nothing for such worldly pursuits and the businesses were left in the hands of cousins and managers. This house, built by his great grandfather, had been standing empty for years. And just the thought that Arthur—King Arthur—and his knights were actually living in his house was worth more than the price of any house, no matter how large. And now—
He turned to Emrys and asked for what was probably at least the third time. "You were actually able to resurrect Lancelot?"
Emrys gave him one of those eerie smiles that so many people found disconcerting. As ever, Leighton failed to register it. "Yes. As you'll see for yourself shortly."
Leighton felt the ridiculous urge to actually bounce in his seat. "And what is he like?" Speaking to the other knights had been a sharp lesson in reality for him, but this was Lancelot, the best, the most honorable, the most puissant knight who ever lived.
"I don't really know. He and I never really met," Emrys's voice had an odd note, but Leighton did not notice. He was busy thinking about how disconcerting it was, the vast differences between the legends that he had made the study of his life and the things he had learned over the last two years. To think that nearly every one of the knights—including Lancelot—had died before Arthur ever became king! It was amazing.
And now at last, Emrys —he still could not quite bring himself to refer to his friend as “Merlin”—had succeeded in resurrecting Lancelot. "But surely you met him when you brought him back to life?" he asked.
"No, he slept for a good while afterward, and I had business to attend to. I've not been back to the house since then." Emrys smiled one of his strange smiles. "In many ways, my dear friend, I'm just as eager to meet him as you are."
~
It was Arthur himself who opened the door for them. Each time they met, Leighton felt a shiver of awe. Arthur was everything one might imagine him to be. Tall, charismatic, self-possessed, but underneath it all, he radiated pure strength.
"I was not actually expecting you until tomorrow," Arthur said once coats and greetings had been disposed of.
"My schedule opened up early," Emrys responded. Arthur led them into the house, and Leighton was busy craning his neck about, but this part of the house seemed empty. Not a knight in sight. "I hope it's no trouble."
Arthur shot Emrys a look Leighton did not know how to read. So fascinating to think that rather than Merlin being Arthur's teacher, they had been enemies for so long.
"No. But I have no idea where my knights are, if Professor D'Aubigny wishes to speak to some of them."
Leighton tried to hide his dismay. "That's quite—" he began, but Emrys overrode him smoothly.
"Actually, Leighton is particularly interested in meeting Lancelot. As am I."
Leighton was startled by the intensity of the gaze that Arthur turned on Emrys. For a moment he thought he saw anger, but surely that could not be?
"I know you said he woke without problems, but I would like to see for myself," Emrys continued as though he had not noticed anything. Leighton relaxed. Yes, he had imagined it. "None of the others slept for so long before waking." Emrys paused; Leighton found himself at a loss as to interpret the look Emrys gave Arthur. "Surely you know where he, at least, can be found."
Arthur opened the door to the library, a light filled room that had doors that opened onto the back terrace. He began to answer, but then cocked his head, listening. Emrys too seemed to be listening to something.
"Please have a seat. Excuse me a moment," Arthur said abruptly and strode over to the terrace doors. When he opened one of the doors, Leighton heard it. Straining after the sound, Leighton moved toward the door. There, again, a sharp, ringing tone. Surely that was not—
Forgetting completely Arthur's instruction, Leighton rushed after him. He arrived at the terrace rail just a few moments after Arthur. Looking down at the wide lawn, Leighton felt his mouth drop open, but could not be bothered to close it.
There on the lawn below, two men were fighting with swords.
Tristan—he recognized him, the closemouthed man who had only stared when Leighton had tried to ask him whether he had ever known anyone called Iseult—was moving like a dancer, a long slightly curved blade in his hand. His opponent was a dark haired man who wielded not one, but two swords, which he spun in his hands independently of one another. The two fighters were moving so quickly that Leighton could not follow the blows. Although he fancied himself something of a weapons expert, Leighton could only marvel at the beautiful brutality of it—grace and deadly force. Every demonstration, every reenactment he had seen of swordplay was only the palest imitation of this.
As he watched, after a flurry of lightening blows, whose shuddering force he could feel even as far away as he stood, the fighters disengaged and circled each other, wary and tense as prowling wolves.
The dark haired one struck first, a wild grin on his face. The unexpectedness of it made Leighton flinch in surprise, although he had been waiting for it. Swords twisted so quickly that they seemed to create a net of flickering steel.
He heard a sharp exclamation beside him, and he was startled to realize that he had completely forgotten Arthur. He forced himself to look away from the combat, but Arthur was no longer standing beside him. Arthur reappeared at the base of the terrace stairs, calling something, loud and carrying, which Leighton did not understand, but the sharp command of it was nevertheless unmistakable.
The men on the grass reacted instantly. The fighters halted, weapons lowered. The crowd of watchers, which Leighton only now noticed, straightened to something like attention.
It was then, seeing the fighters standing still, that Leighton realized they were dressed, quite disconcertingly, in jeans and t-shirts—for some reason he had had the impression of shining armor.
He was musing on that when he saw that Arthur was stalking across the grass, and even Leighton could tell that he was utterly furious.
~
Arthur felt as though he would crack his teeth, he was clenching his jaw so hard. He barely noticed the knights parting to let him through; he was so focused on reaching Lancelot. The reckless damned fool! Arthur could not see anything but red—the small red stain on Tristan's white t-shirt, the line of it on Lancelot's bare forearm.
When he had first caught sight of them, he had forgotten himself. His own pulse had quickened, and he had felt that familiar surge of wild excitement. The battle joy, which made fighting as wonderful as it was terrible, had risen up in him with all the force and inevitability of the returning tide.
He could see it in Lancelot now. The knight's dark eyes were wild, glittering with a mad happiness that Arthur had not seen since— The thought made his step falter.
Some of his anger faded, but he again caught sight of the blood on both of his knights. He halted before Lancelot, who was barely even breathing hard, that crazed light in his eyes unfaltering.
He became aware that he was being watched by some three score interested eyes. "A word with you Lancelot," he grated out, jerking his head away from the gathered knights.
Lancelot began an aborted movement that Arthur recognized as the wrist twist he used to sheathe his swords, but he was not wearing any scabbards. They were long gone, rotted back to earth—lost, as his swords had been. However much these swords looked like the ones Lancelot had once wielded, they could not be those blades.
Lancelot handed his—the—swords to Dagonet who was standing nearby and yanked off the gloves he was wearing before he followed Arthur some good distance out of earshot. He looked utterly uncowed—but when had Lancelot ever looked cowed? Screaming at him would not do any good, no matter how badly Arthur wanted to do it. He would just yell back and things could only degenerate after that.
Arthur managed to keep his tone fairly level. "What do you think you are doing?"
A slight baring of teeth. "I would have thought it obvious. Or have you already forgotten?"
No, not cowed in the least. Arthur clenched his fists to keep himself from reaching out to strangle the other man. He had too many interested eyes watching him to allow him to even shake Lancelot; not just the knights—but there, watching the whole mess from the terrace, was Merlin.
"You're fighting with edged weapons—edged weapons!—without any armor!" Arthur reached out and plucked at the flimsy, slightly damp, shirt Lancelot was wearing. "Are you so irresponsible? It is you who have forgotten!"
"I have forgotten nothing!" Lancelot hissed the words, and for a moment Arthur was actually taken aback by the demonic look of fury on his face, before it faded into something more human. "We were sparring as we have a hundred times before—with and without armor. Do you really think that Tristan or I are so unskilled as to damage each other?"
"And what are you doing with these swords? You had them made?" Arthur ignored the question.
Lancelot's eyes hooded as he clamped down on his temper further. "Yes."
"When I specifically told you that—"
"Oh, in the name of your damned pervasive God, Arthur! Do you ever look down from the clouds? Have you even been looking at your knights?
"What—" Automatically, Arthur's gaze shifted around and encountered many avid eyes, which quickly darted away as they realized he was looking back at them. All eyes except Tristan's, of course, which merely gazed back at him with the usual flat stare.
"You've given them nothing to do! Six months they've been here! They're about five minutes away from killing each other out of sheer boredom."
"Don't exaggerate. I realize that it's been hard—"
"Yesterday I broke up a fight between Agravaine and Kay, the day before it was Gaheris and Meliot. Oh, and this morning I found Tor and Galahad fighting over a shirt. A shirt Arthur! Though given those two hotheads, perhaps that one is nothing unusual."
"Well, you knights have always been given to—"
"The day before that it was Percival, Dinaden and Palomides as well as another between Yvain and Ector. A week ago it was a brawl with Agravaine, Owein, Bors, Urre and Lionel. Do you want me to go on? And I'm not even talking about the fights they get into when they're out of the house. They're bored and restless, Arthur!"
"There are other things they can do. There is much to learn here—"
"Other things? For fuck's sake Arthur! For better or for worse, we are what Rome made us. Soldiers. We have been fighting all our lives." His mouth twisted at that slip. "Most of us died fighting. You expect them to be content doing anything else?"
Arthur felt his chest clench at Lancelot's words. He thought of the way his heart had leapt when he had heard the clash of swords. It had only been a spar, not battle, but it had made him long for the familiar weight of Excalibur in his hands. To move as he had trained for an entire lifetime—to be as one with the blade.
That intoxicating thrill.
The quickening of pulse, the singing of his blood.
Everything else had suddenly become pale and dull in comparison. Everything except this man before him.
He had thought himself beyond the battle madness. That this second life had brought with it a chance to live in the peace he had always longed after. But if he himself could not resist the pull of battle, what could he expect from his knights? "Lancelot—"
Lancelot's voice had lost its edge. He merely watched Arthur as he spoke, his gaze very nearly calm, his eyes seeming to see straight though Arthur. "In the next week or two, the rest of the swords will be completed. At least training will keep them busy.” A slight raise of an eyebrow. “And by then some armored padding will be ready as well."
Arthur closed his eyes. His knights. He had forbidden them swords. And they had obeyed him all these months.
Damn Lancelot. Damn him for being gone for so long and leaving Arthur alone to deal with it all.
He wanted to reach out and touch Lancelot, but he could not, not with people watching. Not with Merlin watching. He drew in a deep breath, then another. And another. At last he opened his eyes and said, "Bors was getting fat and lazy anyway."
Lancelot’s dark eyes studied him for a moment and then he flashed a bright smile. Arthur felt the last of his tension drain away at the sight of it. Yet. "You should have told me first."
Lancelot slanted a look at him from beneath his lashes. "But Arthur, you've been getting lazy and sloppy yourself—you should have seen it coming."
Arthur snorted. Then, something occurred to him. His mind really had gone dull that he had missed this. "And what are you up to in the basement? And don't you dare say nothing. I’ve seen the knights going in and out."
Lancelot did not even blink. "We're planning on building a practice room."
"You never wanted to use the practice halls at the fort," Arthur asked, suspicious.
"Arthur, they were filled with Romans." The tone told Arthur he was stupid for even asking. "And our horses wouldn't exactly fit in them either."
Arthur gazed at him narrowly, but he could see no deception in Lancelot's eyes. After a moment, Arthur said, "If you're done playing with Tristan, there's someone who's come to see you." He nodded in the direction of the terrace.
Lancelot's eyes raked over the two men standing there. He dismissed the taller of the two quickly, but his eyes bored into the other. Arthur had not really expected Lancelot to recognize him; Lancelot had never seen the man close up, and he had been covered by quite a lot of hair and dirt back then. But whatever anger had eased from Lancelot during the last few moments, snapped back. "Merlin!" He spat the word like a curse.
~
Someone had brewed tea and Emrys and Leighton now sat with Arthur in the library. Leighton had to bite his tongue to keep from asking what had happened earlier. Clearly, Arthur had been angry about something, but when he had returned to the terrace, he had appeared calm again. Lancelot, he had told them, would join them in a little while.
Leighton's heart was still pounding a bit from the earlier excitement. He was hardly listening to the conversation Emrys was having with Arthur—something about politics, which did not interest him. He knew that Emrys planned to have Arthur gain control of the government, which seemed like a fine thing to him, and he was quite happy to make whatever financial contributions Emrys might need, but he did not really care for the details of it.
In his preoccupation, he found that he had drunk too much tea, and excused himself. On his way back to the library, he mused over whether he could recall anything about legends of a fighter with two swords. He was so distracted that he nearly ran into the object of his contemplation.
"Ah! Excuse me," he stammered, immediately caught by the man's intent stare. This man was somehow intimidating in a way entirely different from the awe that Leighton felt in Arthur's presence.
Dark eyes considered him, and Leighton resisted the urge to shift uneasily under the piercing gaze. The man’s curly hair was damp as if he had just come from washing and the t-shirt and jeans had been exchanged for jumper and trousers.
"Professor D'Aubigny?" The voice was enriched with a faint accent that Leighton could not place—a phenomenon that he had noticed with many of the knights. For all that they spoke English with the fluidity of natives, they seemed to retain something of their prior accents.
Leighton nodded hesitantly.
"This is your house, then?"
“Er—yes.”
"I hope you're not expecting to get it back exactly as you lent it."
Leighton blinked, not following, so he concentrated on what was important. A knight who fought with two swords. "I'm afraid I don't recall—" Actually, he was sure he had not met this man before. "You are—Balin?" That was it! The knight of two swords.
"No. Lancelot."
For the second time that day, Leighton felt his jaw drop open.
Dark eyes continued to regard him, but then some of the piercing quality of the gaze shifted and there was a flash of something that might have been laughter. "Not what you were expecting, then?"
"Err—No—I mean—" Leighton felt himself flush in consternation.
To his surprise, he was given a quite charming smile. "Not to worry. It is not quite as I expected either." Leighton was not sure how to respond to that. But his earlier uneasiness left him. Really, the young man was quite pleasant. Not really what Leighton had been envisioning as Lancelot, but, really, a fine young man.
Lancelot glanced down the hallway. "Are they in that bookroom?"
Leighton trailed after him as he headed down the hall. Hurrying to catch up, he asked, "I was wondering, in your childhood, did you know a woman associated with a lake?"
Lancelot glanced back at him, eyebrow raised in surprise. "A woman? No. But I used to occasionally trip Bors into the river. He shrieked like a woman. Does that count?"
~
As soon as Professor D’Aubigny left the room, Arthur turned to Merlin, eyes narrowed. “What is it you want with Lancelot?”
Merlin only looked back at him calmly. “It’s nothing to be concerned about. I merely wished to meet the young man.”
“Why?”
“Need you even ask? He commands your knights, does he not? Second to you?”
“I don’t know that Lancelot would agree that he commands anyone,” Arthur said dryly. “Only that people listen to him for the sake of their own health.”
“Is it so surprising that I wish to get to a sense of this man?” Merlin looked at him, his expression was, as it always was to Arthur, inscrutable. “Do you not trust me Arthur? Did I not prove myself to you for all the years of your kingship? Did I not resurrect your knights for you—even Lancelot who proved so difficult?” Merlin look a sip of his tea.
Arthur’s stared at him for a moment, trying to read him. He could not. He sighed silently to himself. “I do trust you, Merlin.” Merlin had proven himself many times over the years, despite Arthur’s initial feelings about him. Merlin smiled, but Arthur had not finished. “But Lancelot is hardly an easy man, and he has no reason to trust you.”
Merlin took another sip of his tea. “Except that he knows that you do.”
Arthur nodded in acknowledgment. “Except that.”
~
Merlin had insisted on speaking to Lancelot alone, something that had displeased Arthur, but he had not protested, only giving Merlin a hard look and following it with a warning glance at Lancelot before taking Leighton out of the room, ostensibly to let the man ask some more of his questions of the knights.
Merlin studied Lancelot, who was leaning against one of the bookcases, watching him with an arrogant lift to his chin, his eyes angry and wary at once. So this was Lancelot, whose long shadow had cast itself over Britain. In many ways he was exactly what Merlin had been expecting.
Lancelot spoke first once they were alone, his tone both light and precise. “Arthur says you’re supposed to be a scholar now. Claiming to make discoveries about fifth century Britain. It seems like a bit of a cheat to me, though, since you were actually there.”
Merlin ignored that. "Tell me, young Lancelot, is there any seer's blood in your line?"
A sneer touched the full lips. "I am Sarmatian, not one of you mumbling wood witches."
"But surely even among your people, you had your wise men."
"Perhaps. There were those who claimed the gods granted them visions. But those gods, if they existed, never walked in this cursed land."
"Cursed?" Merlin actually chuckled. "I ask, young one, because I have long wondered at your desire to have your body burned. That was not a custom of your people."
Lancelot shrugged, a fluid, easy movement that belied the dark intensity of his gaze. "A fancy."
"A fancy." Merlin pursed his lips for a moment. "Do you know, your resurrection should have been impossible?"
"And yet, here I am."
"And yet, here you are. But the magic requires mortal remains—something of the original body. We had that for your fellow knights, all so conveniently buried in one location. But nothing of you. You were nothing but dust in the wind."
"An obstacle you clearly overcame," Lancelot responded, unimpressed
"I? I did not. I expected this latest attempt to fail, as had all the others. I made it only at Arthur's insistence. Your revival had nothing to do with my magic."
Lancelot sneered at him. "Which means what?"
"I have no idea," Merlin lied. "But you were never supposed to be here." He was an obstacle Merlin had not planned for.
Lancelot's eyes narrowed, but then he shook his head. "I care nothing for this talk or your sorceries. By whatever means, I am here. But more to the point, you have purposefully brought to this time and place, Arthur. What is it you are planning, old man?"
Merlin smiled. "I want to save Britain. Is that not what the prophecy says?"
"And what exactly is Arthur to save Britain from?" The boy's tone was scathing. "There are no Saxons at your shores."
"Surely you have seen something of the state of this country. The people have made poor choices." Merlin said, voice bland.
"I have seen nothing but the creation of man's own folly and greed."
"And so it is."
"The only thing that can save men from themselves is a tyrant. Arthur believes he is here to take charge through this democratic process." Lancelot practically spat out the words. "I ask you again, what is it you are planning?"
Merlin's smile widened. Not so stupid after all. But then Guinevere had told him. "Nothing that Arthur will not choose for himself."
Lancelot was across the room before Merlin even realized he had moved. He hauled Merlin out of his chair by his shirtfront. "If I thought it would do any good, Woad, I would snap your neck here and now," he hissed.
Merlin's smile did not waver and he made no move to free himself. "You could not kill me, child, if you tried. I cannot die."
Black eyes bored into him. "Perhaps. But I would wager that you do bleed." Lancelot's grip tightened, choking off Merlin's breath. "If I find you have set one foot wrong—if you hurt Arthur—I will hunt you down and you will curse the names of your own demon gods for whatever immortality you've bargained for."
He shoved Merlin back into his chair, and for a moment Merlin coughed, trying to regain his breath. Lancelot only watched him, gaze pitiless.
"And then perhaps we understand each other, knight Lancelot," Merlin said when he could speak. His manner was unperturbed, despite the increased hoarseness of his voice.
"Do we? I don't think so. But you stand warned."
~
Galahad stood outside the door to Arthur's room. Lancelot was most likely alone inside. Galahad knew that Arthur had gone out to attend some political function after Merlin and that strange professor had left. As he had on his previous visits, the professor had peppered the knights with bizarre questions. Arthur had told them they had to be polite—they were living in the man’s house after all, and so they were in some way his guests. This time, he had asked Galahad about visions and some kind of cup. Galahad had nearly started laughing, guest or no guest, but fortunately the man had gotten distracted by Gawain and Gaheris. Putting up with it all had been worth it just to watch as Gaheris nearly swallowed his tongue when the man had asked if he and Gawain were brothers.
Galahad shook his head. He was hesitating. He had come here with a purpose. Galahad raised a hand to knock, then paused again. But damn it, he wanted his shirt back! He pounded his fist on the door.
"Come in."
He opened the door and walked in, unable to resist looking around. He had never been in here before. The room was surprisingly neat with few traces of its occupants. The exception were the books spread across the floor, but in the midst of them was Lancelot, sitting on the floor, back to the foot of the bed. He looked up from the large book in his lap with eyebrows raised.
Galahad reminded himself he was here on a mission. "I want my shirt back." His beautiful Comme des Garcons shirt with those amazing bright colors.
"Do you?"
Galahad was about to answer hotly when his eyes caught sight of what was displayed on the pages of the open book. He moved closer. "What are you looking at?" he breathed.
Lancelot turned the book so he could see better. "This is a picture from a place now called 'Ukraine,' it's—"
"Home." Galahad finished. He squatted down beside Lancelot, staring at the picture. He grabbed at the book and Lancelot allowed him to take it. He flipped slowly though the pages, staring at the pictures; his heart felt like it was being squeezed in his chest.
It was a long time before he spoke. "Do all these books show Sarmatia?"
Lancelot had waited for him to finish looking at the book with surprising patience. "Some. Some of them are about the history."
Galahad handed the book back and sat on his heels, hugging his knees to his chest. He did not want to know, but somehow there was no way not to ask. "What happened to them—the tribes?"
Lancelot only shrugged. "They're gone. The books say we continued to be pushed out by the Huns, but they don't really know what happened to the people."
"Wherever they went, that would be Sarmatia." It had always been thus. Had they not ridden out of the far east, once and always Sarmatians, wherever on the grass lands they wandered?
"Do you think so? Even if they left behind the steppes, the herds and wagons and lived in towns or farmed the land?"
Galahad opened and shut his mouth several times. He had no response.
Lancelot shrugged again. "Well, the books don't know much—and of what they do say a great deal is laughably wrong anyway."
Galahad clenched his arms around his knees. He had expected this, but in truth he had not wanted to know. This was both why he hated and could not hate Lancelot at the same time. He refused to flinch from staring down things that rest of them did not want to look at.
At last, Galahad said, "Can I borrow this?" He pointed at the book. "I want to show it to Gawain."
Lancelot handed it to him, but raised an eyebrow. "Only Gawain? Not Gaheris?"
Galahad scowled, but felt his cheeks flush. "Shut up!"
Lancelot only smirked.
Anger recalled Galahad to his mission. "And where's my shirt, you bastard?"
"I used it to oil my swords. The cloth was quite useful for that. Not grainy at all."
Galahad dropped the book and a sound came out of his mouth that could only be described as a squawk. "You used my Comme des Garcons shirt to clean your swords?" His voice was strangled.
"Why? Was there something special about it? Beyond the fact that it was garish enough to blind a man?" Lancelot's voice was bland.
"It's not garish! You don't have any taste! Just because you think wearing black makes you look threatening— " Galahad couldn't breathe; he felt like he wanted to cry.
Lancelot actually seemed to take pity on him. "Calm down, idiot. Pay attention. It's on the chair behind you."
Galahad whipped around, and there it was, neatly folded. He sprang up and carefully picked it up, checking it over. "Fucker," he muttered. He clutched it carefully to his chest.
Lancelot shook his head, his mouth crooking. "You really are pathetic. Here." He held out the book Galahad had dropped. "Tell me something, though."
Galahad took the book, careful to hold on to his shirt. "What?"
Lancelot leaned back against the end of the bed, drawing his legs up so could rest his arms on them. "Why did you stay here, the three of you?"
"What?"
"You stayed here in Britain, you, Gawain and Bors, didn't you? You were all buried here."
Galahad realized what Lancelot was talking about, and he felt his stomach clench. "Um, I don't know—I guess we kept putting leaving off. There always seemed to be some crisis, and we'd say, as soon as this one is resolved, we'll go. Although I don't know that Bors really would have left." Galahad chewed his lip. "And—we probably would never have found them, our families. Even before, you know we had heard that the Huns had been moving into our lands. After a few years, the news we got made it clear that the people were scattered. I guess we realized that we could search the rest of our lives and never find our families—even if they had survived." Galahad's voice trailed off and he swallowed hard.
Lancelot's eyes lowered to the floor, and Galahad found himself holding his breath, dreading what might next come out of Lancelot's mouth. He had never been a good liar, and Lancelot had never been a fool. But Lancelot did not say anything else, only reaching for another of the books. Heaving a silent sigh of relief, Galahad turned to leave, but then Lancelot's voice called out to him.
"Oh, and Galahad, Arthur wants to speak to you when he comes back."
Galahad whirled around. "You told him about the wall! I was going to tell him—you didn't have to—"
"Not about the wall."
"Oh." Galahad's indignation deflated. "But then what does he want?"
"Something about your credit card statement. He thinks there's a mistake. It says you spent a small fortune at some clothes shops." Lancelot looked up at him, his eyes filled with laughter.
Galahad blanched. "Oh," he said in a small voice. He left the room, holding his shirt carefully. He looked down at it. Despite the growing pit in his stomach, a smile touched his lips. Even if Arthur yelled at him, or worse, merely looked at him with his eyes full of disappointment, it was so worth it.
~
Leaving shirt (carefully hung in the closet) and book in the room he shared with Gawain and Gaheris, Galahad went in search of some of the other knights. He found Gawain and Bors playing cards with Gareth and Dagonet.
He couldn't have asked for a better group to speak to if he'd called them together himself. He shut the door behind him, and without preface said, "Lancelot asked me about the time afterward."
Four heads jerked around. "What did you tell him?" Gawain demanded.
"Nothing—he didn't ask anything about what happened exactly, only why you, Bors and I didn't go home. I told him the truth."
"So there's nothing to worry about," Gareth said.
"But he'll ask about it eventually," Bors said, heaving a sigh. "I had to skirt around it when I spoke to him." He had told all of them about the conversation he had with Lancelot a few nights ago.
"I don't like lying!" Galahad burst out.
"I thought you said you didn't have to," Gawain said.
"I didn't—not directly—but we're lying by not telling him. It's Lancelot! Since when do we keep things from Lancelot? And what would it really matter if we told him?”
"Arthur asked us not to tell him," Dagonet said simply.
"But why choose Arthur over Lancelot," Gawain asked quietly.
They were all silent for a moment, before Gareth said slowly, "It's not a matter of choosing. What good will it do for Lancelot to know?"
"None," Bors said heavily.
"So we should honor what Arthur asks of us," Dagonet said. They had had this conversation in different variations many times before, but they never felt comfortable with the answer they arrived at.
"Agreed?" Bors asked.
They all nodded, even Galahad, though he continued to chew at his lip.
Bors rose from the table and clapped Galahad on the back. "I know it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, lad, but it's for the best. There’s no profit in telling him about it."
Galahad looked over at Gawain who nodded at him, so he nodded. He didn't like it. He had a feeling it would come back to strike at them, like an arrow to the heart.
~~~~
End note: Galahad’s shirt gained its personality after I looked at these pictures, among other examples of Rei Kawakubo’s work. Oh, and this led to Galahad's thought about pink. Don’t kill me.
Warnings: Unfortunately none. Except, you know, the crack. Consume at your own risk.
Series: Part of the AU
Notes: We’re venturing out of the shallow water into deep end here (or is that “off the deep end”?), as I try to fumble around with a plot. Please do let me know what you think. And, as I’ve shown in the past, I’m highly susceptible to suggestion, so it might be in your own best interest. : )
Acknowledgements: Thanks to all of you who were so kind as to try to give me some fashion education. Thanks in particular to
darklyscarlett for introducing me to Comme des Garcons and the amazing Rei Kawakubo, as well as supplying me with the name “Leighton D'Aubigny.” I could never have come up with such a perfect name on my own. Also, in case anyone has forgotten, this continues to be sasha_b’s fault. She also pre-read for me. I’d thank her, if it weren’t for the all-her-fault thing.Galahad pelted down the hallway after Tor, screaming, "Give it back!"
Tor merely cackled. Screeching like a banshee, he skidded around the corner but then tripped as the runner slid out from under him. Galahad leaped, tackling him. The two of them rolled around the hall until they crashed into one of the walls. "Whoreson! Give it to me! You're ruining it!"
They grappled furiously. Tor refused to let go of what he had clutched in his hand, and Galahad tried to pry his fist open, while at the same time pummeling him with knees and elbows. Galahad's eyes watered as Tor's free hand pulled viciously at his hair, trying to pound Galahad’s head back against the floor. He was just about to sink his teeth into Tor's arm when a voice cut in.
"As amazed as I am by this demonstration of your fine combat skills, what exactly are you two doing?"
They both froze and looked up to find Lancelot leaning against the wall across from them, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Galahad nearly groaned aloud as he realized that they had fetched up directly across from Arthur's room, which he had been sharing with Lancelot since Lancelot had returned.
Galahad exchanged a look with Tor and by mutual consent they released each other and stood up, but they were unable to resist shoving a little as they let go. Galahad rubbed at his smarting scalp where it felt like Tor had pulled out a good handful of hair, and noted with keen satisfaction that Tor's right eye was already purpling nicely where Galahad had elbowed him.
Then he glanced warily over at Lancelot. Lancelot had been in a dangerous mood for the last few days, and while Arthur had finally let him out of the house yesterday, Galahad was not particularly confident that this meant an improvement in his disposition. Thus far, his mood had exhibited itself merely in the black glitter in his eyes, and the air of stillness that had formed around him. But they all knew what those signs meant. Stillness could explode into fury without warning in a lightening shift of mood. Then the gods help whatever target presented itself. And they had been stupid enough to land at his very feet.
"Don't tell me you're actually fighting over that gaudy—whatever it is?" Lancelot's gaze slanted in the direction of the cloth still clutched in one of Tor's hands.
Reminded of the wrong done against him, Galahad forgot caution. "It's mine! He took it from my closet! If you've torn it I'm going to--"
Tor, the arse, retorted, "You dyed all my clothes pink!"
"Not on purpose!" It had been an accident. Tor had been doing his laundry and Galahad had surreptitiously thrown a few of his own things into the wash. How was he to know that red underwear would leak color off on to everything else? And Tor really had no right to be making a fuss—most of his clothes were cheap and ugly anyway. The pink was only an improvement.
"Give it to me." Lancelot held out a preemptory hand. Reluctantly, Tor handed it over. Lancelot's mouth twitched as the object of contention revealed itself to be a colorful silk shirt. Galahad relaxed a little at his expression. Evidently, they were not going to be ripped to shreds either verbally or physically. Having Lancelot mediate disputes, however, was always a mixed blessing. He had no patience for what he inevitably viewed as the participants' complete stupidity and his solutions tended to be drastic—although usually the parties were just grateful to escape without worse.
This time was no different. Lancelot opened the door beside him, flung the shirt in and shut the door.
"Hey!" Galahad protested. "I bought it! That's mine!" It had been really, really expensive too. But Galahad had liked it when he had seen it in that magazine. He had not even cared that Gawain had laughed at him the entire time they had been in the shop while Galahad had been trying to deal with the snotty sales people without hitting anyone.
"Not any more," Lancelot's voice was as silky as the feel of Galahad's lost shirt against skin.
"It won't even fit you," Galahad muttered resentfully. "Lanky bastard." More loudly, he added, even as Tor tried to shush him by stepping on his foot, "And Arthur is going to be pissed if you're leaving things all over his floor." Arthur, Roman trained military commander that he had been, liked things in precise order.
Lancelot's formerly rather benign expression darkened slightly, and Galahad shut his mouth. "That's between Arthur and me, isn't it?"
Galahad was rescued from having to figure out how to answer that when Dagonet and Meliot turned the corner. Lancelot's attention shifted and he straightened, his posture changing from indolent to intent.
Dagonet gave a surprisingly wide smile. He hefted the long, heavy looking canvas bag he was carrying. "The first ones are finished, Lancelot. You'll be pleased."
Lancelot seemed to have forgotten all about Galahad and Tor. But then he called over his shoulder, as he walked away with the other knights, "You two will be sure to explain to Arthur why there's a dent in the wall, won't you?"
Galahad looked down at the wall, and sure enough. He groaned. And right across from Arthur's room.
It was probably from Tor's stupid, thick head.
~
Leighton D'Aubigny glanced over at his old friend Mervyn Emrys as their driver made the turn onto the private road that led to the house. He felt his heart quicken in anticipation. He had visited a number of times since that miraculous day just over a year ago when legend had become reality, but, still, each time he was filled with an almost childish excitement and anticipation.
It was Emrys who had brought all this wonder into his life. When Emrys had asked to meet with him two years ago and had told a tale of such a fantastic nature, Leighton had been afraid his friend and been spending too much time among his moldering artifacts and had gone a bit mad. How mistaken he had been. He had always been in awe of the formidable and intimidating Emrys, but now, knowing who the man actually was, Leighton could only wonder at the fact that Emrys had befriended him all those years ago and had chosen to entrust him with such an amazing secret.
Feeling overwhelmed once more, Leighton said earnestly, "Thank you, Mervyn, for bringing me along with you once more."
"No need to thank me, Leighton," Emrys' rather hoarse voice answered. "It is your house, after all. You have been very generous in allowing us to use it."
Leighton shook his head. "No, no. It is my great honor." The D'Aubigny family had accumulated wealth over the years in many shrewd business ventures. Leighton, however, had been singularly lacking in the business acumen of his ancestors. In truth, he cared nothing for such worldly pursuits and the businesses were left in the hands of cousins and managers. This house, built by his great grandfather, had been standing empty for years. And just the thought that Arthur—King Arthur—and his knights were actually living in his house was worth more than the price of any house, no matter how large. And now—
He turned to Emrys and asked for what was probably at least the third time. "You were actually able to resurrect Lancelot?"
Emrys gave him one of those eerie smiles that so many people found disconcerting. As ever, Leighton failed to register it. "Yes. As you'll see for yourself shortly."
Leighton felt the ridiculous urge to actually bounce in his seat. "And what is he like?" Speaking to the other knights had been a sharp lesson in reality for him, but this was Lancelot, the best, the most honorable, the most puissant knight who ever lived.
"I don't really know. He and I never really met," Emrys's voice had an odd note, but Leighton did not notice. He was busy thinking about how disconcerting it was, the vast differences between the legends that he had made the study of his life and the things he had learned over the last two years. To think that nearly every one of the knights—including Lancelot—had died before Arthur ever became king! It was amazing.
And now at last, Emrys —he still could not quite bring himself to refer to his friend as “Merlin”—had succeeded in resurrecting Lancelot. "But surely you met him when you brought him back to life?" he asked.
"No, he slept for a good while afterward, and I had business to attend to. I've not been back to the house since then." Emrys smiled one of his strange smiles. "In many ways, my dear friend, I'm just as eager to meet him as you are."
~
It was Arthur himself who opened the door for them. Each time they met, Leighton felt a shiver of awe. Arthur was everything one might imagine him to be. Tall, charismatic, self-possessed, but underneath it all, he radiated pure strength.
"I was not actually expecting you until tomorrow," Arthur said once coats and greetings had been disposed of.
"My schedule opened up early," Emrys responded. Arthur led them into the house, and Leighton was busy craning his neck about, but this part of the house seemed empty. Not a knight in sight. "I hope it's no trouble."
Arthur shot Emrys a look Leighton did not know how to read. So fascinating to think that rather than Merlin being Arthur's teacher, they had been enemies for so long.
"No. But I have no idea where my knights are, if Professor D'Aubigny wishes to speak to some of them."
Leighton tried to hide his dismay. "That's quite—" he began, but Emrys overrode him smoothly.
"Actually, Leighton is particularly interested in meeting Lancelot. As am I."
Leighton was startled by the intensity of the gaze that Arthur turned on Emrys. For a moment he thought he saw anger, but surely that could not be?
"I know you said he woke without problems, but I would like to see for myself," Emrys continued as though he had not noticed anything. Leighton relaxed. Yes, he had imagined it. "None of the others slept for so long before waking." Emrys paused; Leighton found himself at a loss as to interpret the look Emrys gave Arthur. "Surely you know where he, at least, can be found."
Arthur opened the door to the library, a light filled room that had doors that opened onto the back terrace. He began to answer, but then cocked his head, listening. Emrys too seemed to be listening to something.
"Please have a seat. Excuse me a moment," Arthur said abruptly and strode over to the terrace doors. When he opened one of the doors, Leighton heard it. Straining after the sound, Leighton moved toward the door. There, again, a sharp, ringing tone. Surely that was not—
Forgetting completely Arthur's instruction, Leighton rushed after him. He arrived at the terrace rail just a few moments after Arthur. Looking down at the wide lawn, Leighton felt his mouth drop open, but could not be bothered to close it.
There on the lawn below, two men were fighting with swords.
Tristan—he recognized him, the closemouthed man who had only stared when Leighton had tried to ask him whether he had ever known anyone called Iseult—was moving like a dancer, a long slightly curved blade in his hand. His opponent was a dark haired man who wielded not one, but two swords, which he spun in his hands independently of one another. The two fighters were moving so quickly that Leighton could not follow the blows. Although he fancied himself something of a weapons expert, Leighton could only marvel at the beautiful brutality of it—grace and deadly force. Every demonstration, every reenactment he had seen of swordplay was only the palest imitation of this.
As he watched, after a flurry of lightening blows, whose shuddering force he could feel even as far away as he stood, the fighters disengaged and circled each other, wary and tense as prowling wolves.
The dark haired one struck first, a wild grin on his face. The unexpectedness of it made Leighton flinch in surprise, although he had been waiting for it. Swords twisted so quickly that they seemed to create a net of flickering steel.
He heard a sharp exclamation beside him, and he was startled to realize that he had completely forgotten Arthur. He forced himself to look away from the combat, but Arthur was no longer standing beside him. Arthur reappeared at the base of the terrace stairs, calling something, loud and carrying, which Leighton did not understand, but the sharp command of it was nevertheless unmistakable.
The men on the grass reacted instantly. The fighters halted, weapons lowered. The crowd of watchers, which Leighton only now noticed, straightened to something like attention.
It was then, seeing the fighters standing still, that Leighton realized they were dressed, quite disconcertingly, in jeans and t-shirts—for some reason he had had the impression of shining armor.
He was musing on that when he saw that Arthur was stalking across the grass, and even Leighton could tell that he was utterly furious.
~
Arthur felt as though he would crack his teeth, he was clenching his jaw so hard. He barely noticed the knights parting to let him through; he was so focused on reaching Lancelot. The reckless damned fool! Arthur could not see anything but red—the small red stain on Tristan's white t-shirt, the line of it on Lancelot's bare forearm.
When he had first caught sight of them, he had forgotten himself. His own pulse had quickened, and he had felt that familiar surge of wild excitement. The battle joy, which made fighting as wonderful as it was terrible, had risen up in him with all the force and inevitability of the returning tide.
He could see it in Lancelot now. The knight's dark eyes were wild, glittering with a mad happiness that Arthur had not seen since— The thought made his step falter.
Some of his anger faded, but he again caught sight of the blood on both of his knights. He halted before Lancelot, who was barely even breathing hard, that crazed light in his eyes unfaltering.
He became aware that he was being watched by some three score interested eyes. "A word with you Lancelot," he grated out, jerking his head away from the gathered knights.
Lancelot began an aborted movement that Arthur recognized as the wrist twist he used to sheathe his swords, but he was not wearing any scabbards. They were long gone, rotted back to earth—lost, as his swords had been. However much these swords looked like the ones Lancelot had once wielded, they could not be those blades.
Lancelot handed his—the—swords to Dagonet who was standing nearby and yanked off the gloves he was wearing before he followed Arthur some good distance out of earshot. He looked utterly uncowed—but when had Lancelot ever looked cowed? Screaming at him would not do any good, no matter how badly Arthur wanted to do it. He would just yell back and things could only degenerate after that.
Arthur managed to keep his tone fairly level. "What do you think you are doing?"
A slight baring of teeth. "I would have thought it obvious. Or have you already forgotten?"
No, not cowed in the least. Arthur clenched his fists to keep himself from reaching out to strangle the other man. He had too many interested eyes watching him to allow him to even shake Lancelot; not just the knights—but there, watching the whole mess from the terrace, was Merlin.
"You're fighting with edged weapons—edged weapons!—without any armor!" Arthur reached out and plucked at the flimsy, slightly damp, shirt Lancelot was wearing. "Are you so irresponsible? It is you who have forgotten!"
"I have forgotten nothing!" Lancelot hissed the words, and for a moment Arthur was actually taken aback by the demonic look of fury on his face, before it faded into something more human. "We were sparring as we have a hundred times before—with and without armor. Do you really think that Tristan or I are so unskilled as to damage each other?"
"And what are you doing with these swords? You had them made?" Arthur ignored the question.
Lancelot's eyes hooded as he clamped down on his temper further. "Yes."
"When I specifically told you that—"
"Oh, in the name of your damned pervasive God, Arthur! Do you ever look down from the clouds? Have you even been looking at your knights?
"What—" Automatically, Arthur's gaze shifted around and encountered many avid eyes, which quickly darted away as they realized he was looking back at them. All eyes except Tristan's, of course, which merely gazed back at him with the usual flat stare.
"You've given them nothing to do! Six months they've been here! They're about five minutes away from killing each other out of sheer boredom."
"Don't exaggerate. I realize that it's been hard—"
"Yesterday I broke up a fight between Agravaine and Kay, the day before it was Gaheris and Meliot. Oh, and this morning I found Tor and Galahad fighting over a shirt. A shirt Arthur! Though given those two hotheads, perhaps that one is nothing unusual."
"Well, you knights have always been given to—"
"The day before that it was Percival, Dinaden and Palomides as well as another between Yvain and Ector. A week ago it was a brawl with Agravaine, Owein, Bors, Urre and Lionel. Do you want me to go on? And I'm not even talking about the fights they get into when they're out of the house. They're bored and restless, Arthur!"
"There are other things they can do. There is much to learn here—"
"Other things? For fuck's sake Arthur! For better or for worse, we are what Rome made us. Soldiers. We have been fighting all our lives." His mouth twisted at that slip. "Most of us died fighting. You expect them to be content doing anything else?"
Arthur felt his chest clench at Lancelot's words. He thought of the way his heart had leapt when he had heard the clash of swords. It had only been a spar, not battle, but it had made him long for the familiar weight of Excalibur in his hands. To move as he had trained for an entire lifetime—to be as one with the blade.
That intoxicating thrill.
The quickening of pulse, the singing of his blood.
Everything else had suddenly become pale and dull in comparison. Everything except this man before him.
He had thought himself beyond the battle madness. That this second life had brought with it a chance to live in the peace he had always longed after. But if he himself could not resist the pull of battle, what could he expect from his knights? "Lancelot—"
Lancelot's voice had lost its edge. He merely watched Arthur as he spoke, his gaze very nearly calm, his eyes seeming to see straight though Arthur. "In the next week or two, the rest of the swords will be completed. At least training will keep them busy.” A slight raise of an eyebrow. “And by then some armored padding will be ready as well."
Arthur closed his eyes. His knights. He had forbidden them swords. And they had obeyed him all these months.
Damn Lancelot. Damn him for being gone for so long and leaving Arthur alone to deal with it all.
He wanted to reach out and touch Lancelot, but he could not, not with people watching. Not with Merlin watching. He drew in a deep breath, then another. And another. At last he opened his eyes and said, "Bors was getting fat and lazy anyway."
Lancelot’s dark eyes studied him for a moment and then he flashed a bright smile. Arthur felt the last of his tension drain away at the sight of it. Yet. "You should have told me first."
Lancelot slanted a look at him from beneath his lashes. "But Arthur, you've been getting lazy and sloppy yourself—you should have seen it coming."
Arthur snorted. Then, something occurred to him. His mind really had gone dull that he had missed this. "And what are you up to in the basement? And don't you dare say nothing. I’ve seen the knights going in and out."
Lancelot did not even blink. "We're planning on building a practice room."
"You never wanted to use the practice halls at the fort," Arthur asked, suspicious.
"Arthur, they were filled with Romans." The tone told Arthur he was stupid for even asking. "And our horses wouldn't exactly fit in them either."
Arthur gazed at him narrowly, but he could see no deception in Lancelot's eyes. After a moment, Arthur said, "If you're done playing with Tristan, there's someone who's come to see you." He nodded in the direction of the terrace.
Lancelot's eyes raked over the two men standing there. He dismissed the taller of the two quickly, but his eyes bored into the other. Arthur had not really expected Lancelot to recognize him; Lancelot had never seen the man close up, and he had been covered by quite a lot of hair and dirt back then. But whatever anger had eased from Lancelot during the last few moments, snapped back. "Merlin!" He spat the word like a curse.
~
Someone had brewed tea and Emrys and Leighton now sat with Arthur in the library. Leighton had to bite his tongue to keep from asking what had happened earlier. Clearly, Arthur had been angry about something, but when he had returned to the terrace, he had appeared calm again. Lancelot, he had told them, would join them in a little while.
Leighton's heart was still pounding a bit from the earlier excitement. He was hardly listening to the conversation Emrys was having with Arthur—something about politics, which did not interest him. He knew that Emrys planned to have Arthur gain control of the government, which seemed like a fine thing to him, and he was quite happy to make whatever financial contributions Emrys might need, but he did not really care for the details of it.
In his preoccupation, he found that he had drunk too much tea, and excused himself. On his way back to the library, he mused over whether he could recall anything about legends of a fighter with two swords. He was so distracted that he nearly ran into the object of his contemplation.
"Ah! Excuse me," he stammered, immediately caught by the man's intent stare. This man was somehow intimidating in a way entirely different from the awe that Leighton felt in Arthur's presence.
Dark eyes considered him, and Leighton resisted the urge to shift uneasily under the piercing gaze. The man’s curly hair was damp as if he had just come from washing and the t-shirt and jeans had been exchanged for jumper and trousers.
"Professor D'Aubigny?" The voice was enriched with a faint accent that Leighton could not place—a phenomenon that he had noticed with many of the knights. For all that they spoke English with the fluidity of natives, they seemed to retain something of their prior accents.
Leighton nodded hesitantly.
"This is your house, then?"
“Er—yes.”
"I hope you're not expecting to get it back exactly as you lent it."
Leighton blinked, not following, so he concentrated on what was important. A knight who fought with two swords. "I'm afraid I don't recall—" Actually, he was sure he had not met this man before. "You are—Balin?" That was it! The knight of two swords.
"No. Lancelot."
For the second time that day, Leighton felt his jaw drop open.
Dark eyes continued to regard him, but then some of the piercing quality of the gaze shifted and there was a flash of something that might have been laughter. "Not what you were expecting, then?"
"Err—No—I mean—" Leighton felt himself flush in consternation.
To his surprise, he was given a quite charming smile. "Not to worry. It is not quite as I expected either." Leighton was not sure how to respond to that. But his earlier uneasiness left him. Really, the young man was quite pleasant. Not really what Leighton had been envisioning as Lancelot, but, really, a fine young man.
Lancelot glanced down the hallway. "Are they in that bookroom?"
Leighton trailed after him as he headed down the hall. Hurrying to catch up, he asked, "I was wondering, in your childhood, did you know a woman associated with a lake?"
Lancelot glanced back at him, eyebrow raised in surprise. "A woman? No. But I used to occasionally trip Bors into the river. He shrieked like a woman. Does that count?"
~
As soon as Professor D’Aubigny left the room, Arthur turned to Merlin, eyes narrowed. “What is it you want with Lancelot?”
Merlin only looked back at him calmly. “It’s nothing to be concerned about. I merely wished to meet the young man.”
“Why?”
“Need you even ask? He commands your knights, does he not? Second to you?”
“I don’t know that Lancelot would agree that he commands anyone,” Arthur said dryly. “Only that people listen to him for the sake of their own health.”
“Is it so surprising that I wish to get to a sense of this man?” Merlin looked at him, his expression was, as it always was to Arthur, inscrutable. “Do you not trust me Arthur? Did I not prove myself to you for all the years of your kingship? Did I not resurrect your knights for you—even Lancelot who proved so difficult?” Merlin look a sip of his tea.
Arthur’s stared at him for a moment, trying to read him. He could not. He sighed silently to himself. “I do trust you, Merlin.” Merlin had proven himself many times over the years, despite Arthur’s initial feelings about him. Merlin smiled, but Arthur had not finished. “But Lancelot is hardly an easy man, and he has no reason to trust you.”
Merlin took another sip of his tea. “Except that he knows that you do.”
Arthur nodded in acknowledgment. “Except that.”
~
Merlin had insisted on speaking to Lancelot alone, something that had displeased Arthur, but he had not protested, only giving Merlin a hard look and following it with a warning glance at Lancelot before taking Leighton out of the room, ostensibly to let the man ask some more of his questions of the knights.
Merlin studied Lancelot, who was leaning against one of the bookcases, watching him with an arrogant lift to his chin, his eyes angry and wary at once. So this was Lancelot, whose long shadow had cast itself over Britain. In many ways he was exactly what Merlin had been expecting.
Lancelot spoke first once they were alone, his tone both light and precise. “Arthur says you’re supposed to be a scholar now. Claiming to make discoveries about fifth century Britain. It seems like a bit of a cheat to me, though, since you were actually there.”
Merlin ignored that. "Tell me, young Lancelot, is there any seer's blood in your line?"
A sneer touched the full lips. "I am Sarmatian, not one of you mumbling wood witches."
"But surely even among your people, you had your wise men."
"Perhaps. There were those who claimed the gods granted them visions. But those gods, if they existed, never walked in this cursed land."
"Cursed?" Merlin actually chuckled. "I ask, young one, because I have long wondered at your desire to have your body burned. That was not a custom of your people."
Lancelot shrugged, a fluid, easy movement that belied the dark intensity of his gaze. "A fancy."
"A fancy." Merlin pursed his lips for a moment. "Do you know, your resurrection should have been impossible?"
"And yet, here I am."
"And yet, here you are. But the magic requires mortal remains—something of the original body. We had that for your fellow knights, all so conveniently buried in one location. But nothing of you. You were nothing but dust in the wind."
"An obstacle you clearly overcame," Lancelot responded, unimpressed
"I? I did not. I expected this latest attempt to fail, as had all the others. I made it only at Arthur's insistence. Your revival had nothing to do with my magic."
Lancelot sneered at him. "Which means what?"
"I have no idea," Merlin lied. "But you were never supposed to be here." He was an obstacle Merlin had not planned for.
Lancelot's eyes narrowed, but then he shook his head. "I care nothing for this talk or your sorceries. By whatever means, I am here. But more to the point, you have purposefully brought to this time and place, Arthur. What is it you are planning, old man?"
Merlin smiled. "I want to save Britain. Is that not what the prophecy says?"
"And what exactly is Arthur to save Britain from?" The boy's tone was scathing. "There are no Saxons at your shores."
"Surely you have seen something of the state of this country. The people have made poor choices." Merlin said, voice bland.
"I have seen nothing but the creation of man's own folly and greed."
"And so it is."
"The only thing that can save men from themselves is a tyrant. Arthur believes he is here to take charge through this democratic process." Lancelot practically spat out the words. "I ask you again, what is it you are planning?"
Merlin's smile widened. Not so stupid after all. But then Guinevere had told him. "Nothing that Arthur will not choose for himself."
Lancelot was across the room before Merlin even realized he had moved. He hauled Merlin out of his chair by his shirtfront. "If I thought it would do any good, Woad, I would snap your neck here and now," he hissed.
Merlin's smile did not waver and he made no move to free himself. "You could not kill me, child, if you tried. I cannot die."
Black eyes bored into him. "Perhaps. But I would wager that you do bleed." Lancelot's grip tightened, choking off Merlin's breath. "If I find you have set one foot wrong—if you hurt Arthur—I will hunt you down and you will curse the names of your own demon gods for whatever immortality you've bargained for."
He shoved Merlin back into his chair, and for a moment Merlin coughed, trying to regain his breath. Lancelot only watched him, gaze pitiless.
"And then perhaps we understand each other, knight Lancelot," Merlin said when he could speak. His manner was unperturbed, despite the increased hoarseness of his voice.
"Do we? I don't think so. But you stand warned."
~
Galahad stood outside the door to Arthur's room. Lancelot was most likely alone inside. Galahad knew that Arthur had gone out to attend some political function after Merlin and that strange professor had left. As he had on his previous visits, the professor had peppered the knights with bizarre questions. Arthur had told them they had to be polite—they were living in the man’s house after all, and so they were in some way his guests. This time, he had asked Galahad about visions and some kind of cup. Galahad had nearly started laughing, guest or no guest, but fortunately the man had gotten distracted by Gawain and Gaheris. Putting up with it all had been worth it just to watch as Gaheris nearly swallowed his tongue when the man had asked if he and Gawain were brothers.
Galahad shook his head. He was hesitating. He had come here with a purpose. Galahad raised a hand to knock, then paused again. But damn it, he wanted his shirt back! He pounded his fist on the door.
"Come in."
He opened the door and walked in, unable to resist looking around. He had never been in here before. The room was surprisingly neat with few traces of its occupants. The exception were the books spread across the floor, but in the midst of them was Lancelot, sitting on the floor, back to the foot of the bed. He looked up from the large book in his lap with eyebrows raised.
Galahad reminded himself he was here on a mission. "I want my shirt back." His beautiful Comme des Garcons shirt with those amazing bright colors.
"Do you?"
Galahad was about to answer hotly when his eyes caught sight of what was displayed on the pages of the open book. He moved closer. "What are you looking at?" he breathed.
Lancelot turned the book so he could see better. "This is a picture from a place now called 'Ukraine,' it's—"
"Home." Galahad finished. He squatted down beside Lancelot, staring at the picture. He grabbed at the book and Lancelot allowed him to take it. He flipped slowly though the pages, staring at the pictures; his heart felt like it was being squeezed in his chest.
It was a long time before he spoke. "Do all these books show Sarmatia?"
Lancelot had waited for him to finish looking at the book with surprising patience. "Some. Some of them are about the history."
Galahad handed the book back and sat on his heels, hugging his knees to his chest. He did not want to know, but somehow there was no way not to ask. "What happened to them—the tribes?"
Lancelot only shrugged. "They're gone. The books say we continued to be pushed out by the Huns, but they don't really know what happened to the people."
"Wherever they went, that would be Sarmatia." It had always been thus. Had they not ridden out of the far east, once and always Sarmatians, wherever on the grass lands they wandered?
"Do you think so? Even if they left behind the steppes, the herds and wagons and lived in towns or farmed the land?"
Galahad opened and shut his mouth several times. He had no response.
Lancelot shrugged again. "Well, the books don't know much—and of what they do say a great deal is laughably wrong anyway."
Galahad clenched his arms around his knees. He had expected this, but in truth he had not wanted to know. This was both why he hated and could not hate Lancelot at the same time. He refused to flinch from staring down things that rest of them did not want to look at.
At last, Galahad said, "Can I borrow this?" He pointed at the book. "I want to show it to Gawain."
Lancelot handed it to him, but raised an eyebrow. "Only Gawain? Not Gaheris?"
Galahad scowled, but felt his cheeks flush. "Shut up!"
Lancelot only smirked.
Anger recalled Galahad to his mission. "And where's my shirt, you bastard?"
"I used it to oil my swords. The cloth was quite useful for that. Not grainy at all."
Galahad dropped the book and a sound came out of his mouth that could only be described as a squawk. "You used my Comme des Garcons shirt to clean your swords?" His voice was strangled.
"Why? Was there something special about it? Beyond the fact that it was garish enough to blind a man?" Lancelot's voice was bland.
"It's not garish! You don't have any taste! Just because you think wearing black makes you look threatening— " Galahad couldn't breathe; he felt like he wanted to cry.
Lancelot actually seemed to take pity on him. "Calm down, idiot. Pay attention. It's on the chair behind you."
Galahad whipped around, and there it was, neatly folded. He sprang up and carefully picked it up, checking it over. "Fucker," he muttered. He clutched it carefully to his chest.
Lancelot shook his head, his mouth crooking. "You really are pathetic. Here." He held out the book Galahad had dropped. "Tell me something, though."
Galahad took the book, careful to hold on to his shirt. "What?"
Lancelot leaned back against the end of the bed, drawing his legs up so could rest his arms on them. "Why did you stay here, the three of you?"
"What?"
"You stayed here in Britain, you, Gawain and Bors, didn't you? You were all buried here."
Galahad realized what Lancelot was talking about, and he felt his stomach clench. "Um, I don't know—I guess we kept putting leaving off. There always seemed to be some crisis, and we'd say, as soon as this one is resolved, we'll go. Although I don't know that Bors really would have left." Galahad chewed his lip. "And—we probably would never have found them, our families. Even before, you know we had heard that the Huns had been moving into our lands. After a few years, the news we got made it clear that the people were scattered. I guess we realized that we could search the rest of our lives and never find our families—even if they had survived." Galahad's voice trailed off and he swallowed hard.
Lancelot's eyes lowered to the floor, and Galahad found himself holding his breath, dreading what might next come out of Lancelot's mouth. He had never been a good liar, and Lancelot had never been a fool. But Lancelot did not say anything else, only reaching for another of the books. Heaving a silent sigh of relief, Galahad turned to leave, but then Lancelot's voice called out to him.
"Oh, and Galahad, Arthur wants to speak to you when he comes back."
Galahad whirled around. "You told him about the wall! I was going to tell him—you didn't have to—"
"Not about the wall."
"Oh." Galahad's indignation deflated. "But then what does he want?"
"Something about your credit card statement. He thinks there's a mistake. It says you spent a small fortune at some clothes shops." Lancelot looked up at him, his eyes filled with laughter.
Galahad blanched. "Oh," he said in a small voice. He left the room, holding his shirt carefully. He looked down at it. Despite the growing pit in his stomach, a smile touched his lips. Even if Arthur yelled at him, or worse, merely looked at him with his eyes full of disappointment, it was so worth it.
~
Leaving shirt (carefully hung in the closet) and book in the room he shared with Gawain and Gaheris, Galahad went in search of some of the other knights. He found Gawain and Bors playing cards with Gareth and Dagonet.
He couldn't have asked for a better group to speak to if he'd called them together himself. He shut the door behind him, and without preface said, "Lancelot asked me about the time afterward."
Four heads jerked around. "What did you tell him?" Gawain demanded.
"Nothing—he didn't ask anything about what happened exactly, only why you, Bors and I didn't go home. I told him the truth."
"So there's nothing to worry about," Gareth said.
"But he'll ask about it eventually," Bors said, heaving a sigh. "I had to skirt around it when I spoke to him." He had told all of them about the conversation he had with Lancelot a few nights ago.
"I don't like lying!" Galahad burst out.
"I thought you said you didn't have to," Gawain said.
"I didn't—not directly—but we're lying by not telling him. It's Lancelot! Since when do we keep things from Lancelot? And what would it really matter if we told him?”
"Arthur asked us not to tell him," Dagonet said simply.
"But why choose Arthur over Lancelot," Gawain asked quietly.
They were all silent for a moment, before Gareth said slowly, "It's not a matter of choosing. What good will it do for Lancelot to know?"
"None," Bors said heavily.
"So we should honor what Arthur asks of us," Dagonet said. They had had this conversation in different variations many times before, but they never felt comfortable with the answer they arrived at.
"Agreed?" Bors asked.
They all nodded, even Galahad, though he continued to chew at his lip.
Bors rose from the table and clapped Galahad on the back. "I know it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, lad, but it's for the best. There’s no profit in telling him about it."
Galahad looked over at Gawain who nodded at him, so he nodded. He didn't like it. He had a feeling it would come back to strike at them, like an arrow to the heart.
~~~~
End note: Galahad’s shirt gained its personality after I looked at these pictures, among other examples of Rei Kawakubo’s work. Oh, and this led to Galahad's thought about pink. Don’t kill me.
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Date: 2006-02-16 06:32 am (UTC)I really love how you're structuring this 'verse around Lance, making him the fulcrum of the story, and showing how he's really the man holding everything together, now as before. It's hard to write something so character-driven when there are players a plenty, and you've acquitted yourself well. I can feel Lance's passion, how he yearns and seethes inside, and his unwavering devotion to the well-being of the knights and Arthur. I also get a sense of that prescience that Merlin alluded to, that somehow, Lance knows that his fate hangs on very tenuous string -- he's always under siege -- and that he will have to remain vigilante for him to have any chance of a life with Arthur in this incarnation. I also feel that Lance knows that he might have the upperhand on Merlin this time around.
He was an obstacle Merlin had not planned for. Great foreshadowing detail there. I think it also strengthens the point of Lance being the wild card in all of this, from Merlin's plans, to Arthur's heart.
I think I'm getting a sense of what role my boy, Mr. D'Aubigny, will play in all of this. Am seriously chuffed. The name did end up being perfect for the character, now. **squeee!** I love it when stuff like that just jumps out at you without a thought. Leighton D'aubigny is my boy indeed. Take care of him, now, the nebbish little toff.
And great use of the Comme des Garcons collection. Yeah, prissy Gally pretty in pink. I'm loving it. Poor conflicted pup!
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Date: 2006-02-16 06:48 am (UTC)Percival, Dinaden and Palomides: exactly just what (who) were they fighting over? Hmm...
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Date: 2006-02-16 05:16 pm (UTC)Yes the plot is thickening! I'm not sure whether to rub my hands and cackle in glee at all my half-assed, harebrained ideas, or if I should be hiding under my bed. It's a good thing that my bed isn't actually high enough off the ground to hide under, I guess.
And I totally freely admit that Lancelot is my favorite, although I do love all the knights. Arthur and I have a bit of a more complicated relationship. ; ) I'm glad you're liking how the story is shaping up--especially since I know your favorite is someone else--who was it again?:p I am trying to give all the characters a bit of their due, but that may not be so easy.
I think I'm getting a sense of what role my boy, Mr. D'Aubigny, will play in all of this.
Comic relief? Oh, no, wait that's what Galahad is for. Seriously though, yes, the name was perfect for him! Yeah for flashes of inspiration! And Comme des Garcons was perfect as well. I keep wondering now if Galahad will show up in one of those pink numbers with the shorts--but perhaps that's too 2005 for him. He is a boy on the cutting edge--so long as Arthur doesn't take his credit card away (but then he might just whine until Gawain lends him his).
This was priceless too: "A woman? No. But I used to occasionally trip Bors into the river. He shrieked like a woman. Does that count?"
Glad you liked it. That Lancelot--always with the mocking! :p I think it's my second favorite line in the fic--the first oddly enough is one Arthur says. Who'd have thunk?
Percival, Dinaden and Palomides
Hehehee. I was hoping you'd catch that--I threw that combination in just for you. Though your guess is as good as mine as to what they're fighting about. I'm kind of wondering if they were fighting over the last of the Lucky Charms myself, but who can say?
Thanks for reading!!
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Date: 2006-02-16 06:46 pm (UTC)Ah, Maria, you are so right about loving this. I do love Lancelot (despite me own "closeness" with Arthur *snort* that bastard), so it's truly fun to read a story that has him IC and is funny and touching and worrisome and full of great characterizations and wonderful moments.
Damn you again for foreshadowing. *wah!*
Enjoyed it even more the second time 'round.
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Date: 2006-02-16 08:21 pm (UTC)You know, I've been thinking that Arthur has actually been getting a lot more POV time than Lancelot. Hmmm--and I once swore I couldn't write anything from his perspective. Yeeaaahhh. I still want to slap him upside the head most of the time, though. Stupid, too serious git.
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Date: 2006-02-20 06:10 pm (UTC)Really, I'm amazed with not only the whole story, but especially about how well you're developing the knights' behavior.
You write Lancelot so well, he sounds so natural and absolutely perfect in your hands!
Do you mind if I friend you, so I can keep an eye on this story?
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Date: 2006-02-20 07:52 pm (UTC)Yes, please do friend me--I'd be happy to friend you back as well.
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Date: 2006-04-03 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-03 04:33 pm (UTC)Thanks for letting me know you're reading!
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Date: 2006-09-30 12:12 am (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying this reading this series, and I'm filled with glee at your reactions. Thanks for commenting! : )
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Date: 2006-09-30 11:50 pm (UTC)