![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Myths, Legends and Lies
Warnings: Slash.
Series: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town, Weapons of Choice and this one.
Feeback: Anything you're inclined to say.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b for the read through.
Wild rage followed hard on the heels of reeling shock when the arrow punched through his chest. He struck back in sheer reflexive fury; there was no room for fear, nor regret, nor sorrow as he clawed himself forward, his whole self narrowed on a furious need to obliterate the life from the pissant of a Saxon dog who already wore one of Lancelot's swords through his chest.
It was only when, an eternity later, he had forced his second blade through the Saxon's neck that the rage fled. Agony rushed in, greedy to fill the space.
His strength poured out of him, along with his blood. He could feel it flowing from his body in pulsing waves, to fall on the unnurturing soil of this angry, devouring land. It had tasted his blood many, many times before, but now this was his very heart's blood at last. Would this finally be enough?
Let it be enough, he had no more left to give. He was empty now; the land itself seeming to suck out the last of him, although he knew a dim satisfaction that it would not have his flesh to devour, because he had promised. That would belong to the fire.
The sounds of the battle around him faded into silence as the sky dimmed with approaching night. It was over, he realized. But had he not long wished to fly away from this place? Might he at last see the wide plains of his dreams? Except that would mean leaving behind—
"Arthur," he mouthed the name. "Arthur." But he had no breath left.
. . . for Arthur.
Lancelot woke, a gasp tearing out of him. He clutched at his chest, and, for a moment, he could feel it, that iron agony, before he realized where he was. Arthur made a noise, half querulous, half inquiry, and Lancelot automatically tried to soothe him. His hand shook a little as it stroked through Arthur's hair, although he managed to keep his voice steady as he murmured a reassurance.
Arthur, however, stirred into wakefulness despite Lancelot's attempt to calm him back to sleep. He could no doubt feel Lancelot's heart racing, and Lancelot's breaths were still coming too quickly. But Arthur said nothing; he only wrapped his arms more securely around Lancelot. Arthur knew better than to ask questions.
Lancelot took a deep breath, blessedly free of pain, and closed his eyes. Yet it was not the too vivid memory of pain that kept him awake until he finally fell asleep just as dawn began to light the sky, but that of the sweeping relief that had cast him free when he had known that he was dying.
~
Lancelot was sprawled across the length of a couch in one of the large downstairs sitting rooms when Kay found him. Thankfully for Kay's aching feet, locating Lancelot had not been difficult. This particular couch had become one of Lancelot's favorite spots. It was exactly the right length for him to prop his feet up on the opposite arm from his head.
Kay sat down in one of the armchairs beside the couch with a sigh of relief. He had spent most of the day wandering through dusty library stacks, and while in the last fifteen centuries humankind might have developed many marvelous inventions, it seemed it still had not discovered the secret of making new boots that did not pinch. He cast an envious look at Lancelot's long, elegant feet, which looked entirely too comfortable where they rested, naked, on the couch arm. Kay's own feet were still encased in the detestable boots. He had been sorely tempted to shed them at the door, but for Kay bare feet remained the province of children and beggars, and Kay was neither. Nor was he Lancelot to brazenly do whatever struck his fancy.
"Well?" Lancelot asked without looking up from the papers he was reading.
It had not helped Kay's disposition that today's wandering had been a last ditch hope for some new insight, which had frustratingly failed to materialize. He sighed again and reported, "It's not entirely clear. I know that's not what you want to hear, but there are several versions, and not one of them seems particularly reliable. All are accompanied by ridiculous stories that make placing confidence in any of them a dubious proposition. The earliest stories don't seem to mention any sort of prophecy at all. In fact," he began to warm to his topic, "the earliest surviving stories don't even tie Merlin to Arthur. These modern scholars seem to think that Merlin is the combination of two mythical archetypes—" He trailed off as Lancelot eyed him from around his papers, eyebrow raised.
Kay cleared his throat. "Well, yes, that's not really important. The first recorded reference to a prophecy only goes back to the twelfth century. But we know that can't be right. Another problem is that I haven't been able to find a single written version that specifically includes Arthur's knights. While there was an oral tradition of stories about farmers, herders, or the like stumbling over Arthur and his knights as they slumber in some cave, there is no mention in those story of any specific prophecy. And then the most famous version," he gestured with a fat book he was holding, "by this Thomas Malory character also fails to mention anything about knights."
He had learned from their prior conversations not to refer to Malory's book by its title. Lancelot had not liked hearing it. He had not particularly liked hearing it himself. He flipped open the book and read. " 'Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by he will of Our Lord Jesu,'" he ignored Lancelot's snort, "'into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.' Malory goes on to write that it is said to be written on Arthur's tombstone: 'Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quodam rexque futurus,' which is not exactly enlightening. And he's even rather cowardly about saying that much: 'I will not say that it shall be so.'"
"And what, pray tell, is the 'holy cross'?" Lancelot's voice was sarcastic. "Can't you pilfer one of them out of any of these Christian churches?"
Kay shrugged. He was not about to get into that discussion with Lancelot right now. "Maybe it's a reference to the original? Or maybe it's a metaphor." He quickly returned to the actual topic. "But anyway, no mention of knights."
"Arthur said that the prophecy specifically mentioned knights."
"Well, it is supposed to be one of Merlin's prophecies. Perhaps that’s what Merlin told Arthur. The texts I've been able to find are no help in figuring out the exact words." Kay frowned down at the book in his hand. "Why is it so important? We're already here, aren't we?" He supposed it was a careless attitude for a man descended from a long line of royal lore keepers to take, but his feet hurt and the dust in the stacks had given him a headache.
Lancelot made an annoyed sound, looking back at the papers in his hand. "We are. But who knows what else is 'prophesied.' If indeed there's really any prophecy at all," he added, his voice taking on a familiar, cynical tone.
Kay nodded, and scrubbed his hand through his pale hair. "I don't know that there is anywhere else to search." He had been eager to try to ferret out the truth when Lancelot had first asked him to look into the prophecy. Since his own awakening, he had read through several of the versions of the legends about Arthur out of curiosity, which had quickly turned into bemused bewilderment, but he had not realized how profitless and frustrating this project would be. He could see why today's scholars, at least those who were even willing to accept the idea that Arthur had existed in the first place, thought that the existence of the prophecy was a later fabrication. He would have been inclined to believe it himself if he did not have evidence to the contrary in his own presence here.
He had started out his search by speaking to the rather silly man who owned this house. At Lancelot's insistence, he had pretended general curiosity rather than asking straight out about the prophecy. Luckily, Professor D'Aubigny had been delighted to ramble on at length and had even gotten Kay open access to a nearby academic library. But none of it had proven useful.
"Short of demanding that Merlin himself tell us, I don't think we can be sure of anything," Kay concluded.
"Nothing he says can be trusted." Lancelot's voice had gained an edge.
Kay gave him a close look, but could not see much of his face behind the sheaf of papers he had resumed reading. Kay had died twelve years into their conscription, so he had known Merlin only as an enemy. Arthur did seem to trust the man now, but if Lancelot was suspicious of the Woad, then Kay had no quibble with that. While Lancelot occasionally liked to play stupid, Kay knew better than most what a sham that was.
Kay still had a dim recollection of the boy a few years his junior, with large, curious eyes, who upon learning that Kay had been in training to be the lore master of his tribe, had asked an endless stream of rambling questions as they had made their long trek to Britain. That boy had disappeared even before they had finished the journey, but Lancelot had not stopped coming to Kay for information.
Kay had been the only Sarmatian who had known how to read Latin when they were conscripted. When Arthur had become their commander, he had been pleased to lend Kay whatever books and scrolls he had. When Lancelot had found that out, he had frequently quizzed Kay about what he was reading. Kay had been puzzled at first—given the teenage Lancelot's frequent mocking comments and eye rolling, he did not think it was out of burning desire to learn philosophy or Roman history, but after a few occasions watching young Lancelot argue with Arthur using information that Kay had provided—but often with utterly novel interpretations that left Arthur sputtering and Kay hiding his grins—it had become obvious.
It had taken Arthur a bit longer to make the connection, as Lancelot was quite capable of biding his time for months before trotting out some merciless tidbit, but Arthur had eventually realized. Kay still remembered with acute embarrassment the bemused look on Arthur's face as Kay had exchanged the book he had just finished for a new one and Arthur had asked, with a mixture of dry humor and real concern, "He isn't making you read these, is he?" Flustered as he had taken in Arthur's meaning, Kay had eventually stammered out that, no, he enjoyed reading for its own sake. Arthur had never spoken of it again and had continued to generously loan out his precious books and scrolls. And Lancelot had continued to argue with Arthur, showing both a remarkable memory and a quick, if often unconventional mind. More than once, Kay had offered to teach Lancelot to read, but Lancelot had always refused, claiming it was "boring" and why would he want to read the long-winded, pompous ramblings of Romans, especially when what they were trying to say could usually be explained in a few sentences by Kay anyway?
Nor had finally being able to read for himself much changed Lancelot's habits. But Kay was fairly sure that these days Lancelot's inquires had little to do with providing fodder for his arguments with Arthur. But then again, with Lancelot, you never could know.
"What about—" Lancelot began to ask, when a ruckus in the hallway interrupted him. A gaggle of arguing knights burst into the room, with Tristan following in their wake. Kay could not help glaring a little. Tristan had accompanied him on today's trip to the library and had spent the entire time lurking about the stacks, distractingly just out of sight. Kay had been tempted to chuck a few books in his direction by the end of it out of sheer irritation. It didn't help that he was pretty sure that Tristan's feet, snug in well-worn boots, weren't aching the way Kay's were.
Picking through several loud discussions, Kay realized that the group of knights had been watching that sport on the large television in the other room again. Kay thought it quite silly that they had gotten so involved in sitting around watching grown men with bare legs running around after a colorful little ball. Really, it seemed quite idiotic.
"The back lawn is more than big enough—we could go into the city and get a ball, no problem. Me and Tor could go," Galahad was blathering.
Gaheris snorted. "Like we'd let the two of you go off on your own after last time."
"Come on!" Tor protested. "That wasn't even really our fault."
"And why," Gaheris asked Galahad, giving him a sly look, "would you want to risk ruining those fancy clothes of yours with grass stains?"
"I wouldn't wear them to play! I'd borrow some of Tor's clothes."
"What? No way! Although I guess you can wear the pink ones. Bastard."
The knights settled themselves around the room, but Galahad, the strutting peacock, was occupied with squabbling, and so was the last to look around for a place to sit. Finding no empty seats left, he went over to Lancelot's couch. "Shove your feet over," he demanded.
Lancelot peered over the file with raised eyebrows that spoke eloquently about what he thought of that idea.
Galahad grumbled a bit, but ended up flopping down on to the floor just as Gareth came in. Gareth walked over the couch, and Lancelot moved his feet without even looking up.
"Hey!" Galahad protested as Gareth sat down. Gareth only looked at him, puzzled, and the rest of the knights laughed.
"What are you reading?" Gawain asked Lancelot, cutting through Galahad's complaining.
"Background file. Apparently, I was born in Wales and went to school at someplace called Cambridge. Why I would want to be schooled until I was twenty-two, this thing," he shook the file, "does not bother to explain."
"We all had to learn our background information," Lamorak said. "Do they want you to pick a surname?"
"Yes. Although why these people seem to believe everyone needs two or even three names, I don't know. Smacks of Roman pretensions."
Kay opened his mouth to explain about how surnames worked in this century, but then shut it when Dagonet nudged him and shook his head.
"What are you going to pick?" Bedivere asked.
"They said I couldn't use my tribe or clan's name," Lancelot shrugged, quite a feat of elegance from his still sprawled position, "so what do I care?"
"Du Lac," Bors said, guffawing loudly. Kay groaned silently to himself. Bors had inevitably partaken liberally of what, in Kay's mind, was clearly the real draw of sports watching—beer.
"Duck?" Lancelot asked, still not looking up from his papers.
"No," Kay said, giving into the inevitable. "Du Lac, it means 'of the lake.'"
"And what lake would that be?"
Kay explained. "It's from the legends about Arthur. In some of them, you were supposed to be from an area of Gaul and your father was a king called Ban." He missed Lancelot's sharp look as he held up the book in his hand in illustration. "But your father was betrayed, and so you were raised by an enchantress who lived in a lake. All rubbish, of course."
Bors grinned slyly. "And did you hear the part about you being all godly and Christian?"
"What?" Lancelot said, horrified enough to finally look out again from behind his file. Kay sighed. He had come to regret the afternoon that he and Bors had been waiting for Arthur as he attended one of those interminable meetings. During the long, dull wait, Bors had quizzed him about Malory, which Kay had been reading at the time. It had been quite embarrassing to have passing people stare at them as Bors had, as Bors had put it, nearly pissed himself yellow laughing.
"Yeah, apparently they think you were some kind of Christian ideal, except your habit of shagging Guinevere." Bors was laughing so hard that it was hard to understand what he was saying. Kay wondered if he should worry about the fate of Bors's chair's upholstery.
Lancelot, who had been listening, looking rather bemused, narrowed his eyes at that, and Kay caught a flicker of anger before he smoothed his expression.
Not noticing, Bors continued, "But that was alright, though, since you were faithful to her in your cheating, except of course when you were tricked out of it. Oh, and Galahad here is your bastard son from one of those tricks." Bors leaned forward and smacked Galahad on the back, practically knocking him over.
Lancelot snorted, eyeing Galahad. "No sane person would believe that."
"Yeah!" Galahad said. "No sane person."
"We don't look at all alike," Lancelot continued.
"We don't! I'm not a some skinny, pointy faced—"
"He's hardly good looking enough to be any get of mine."
"Yeah—what?" Galahad had apparently been imbibing freely as well.
"And far too stupid."
"You—" Galahad was about to leap to his feet, but Gawain and Gaheris casually reached forward, each grabbing a shoulder to keep him down.
"Where did they come up with stuff?" Bedivere asked, shaking his head and chuckling as he ignored Galahad's continued protests.
Bors was still snickering, occasionally letting out words like "Christian" and "faithful" between guffaws. He finally controlled himself long enough to add, "And you became some kind of monk before you died." Most of the knights were laughing at this point, and that caused some hoots and catcalls.
Lancelot gave him a flat look. "You're kidding."
"No, it's true. Hey, Kay, man, give that here." Surprisingly quick for such a big, inebriated man, Bors grabbed the book Kay had left resting on the arm of his chair. He thumbed to the end, and searched around and began to read, in a singsong voice: "'Thou were head of all Christian knights.'"
"I think that might be a misprint," Bruenor declared. "Shouldn't that say you were the knight at the throat of all Christians?"
Bors grandly ignored the interruption. "'Thou were never matched of earthly knight's hand. And thou were the courteoust knight that ever bare shield.'" He began to laugh again at the word "courteoust," and so Bedivere snatched the book from him.
"Apparently you were also 'the goodliest person,' 'meekest' and 'gentlest,'" Bedivere informed Lancelot, trying to keep a straight face, but failing.
"And don't forget 'most faithful,' Bors managed, having to bellow a bit over the sound of laughter. He seemed especially fixed on that particular idea. Kay thought, not for the first time, that whatever magic had given all the knights the ability to read, it should have been a lot more discerning.
"Slander," Lancelot declared; his tone was amused, but his eyes were not.
"Don't think you're the only one who got maligned," Kay said, trying to redirect the subject. "Apparently I'm quite a coward." This earned him a roar of laughter. "And I used to call Gareth 'Beaumains'—pretty hands."
Gareth, who had not missed the flare of irritation in Lancelot's eyes, quickly caught on. He held out his massive hands for consideration. "I don't think they're particularly pretty," he said, tone equable.
That resulted in Bors, Bruenor, Gaheris and Dagonet (at Bors's insistence) offering their hands for comparison. Most of the knights agreed that Bruenor's hands were the nicest, although Bors kept insisting that it was Dagonet's hands, and Galahad repeatedly asked if Kay hadn't gotten the meaning wrong—surely it must mean "big hands" not "pretty hands."
Kay, never reluctant to take a dig at Bors, and feeling especially irritated with him now, added, "Bors is suppose to be the second—or maybe it was the third—most holy of the knights. Although they managed to be correct enough to have him father one bastard at least."
"That's me," Bors declared, unoffended. It was hard to offend him unless you had Lancelot's sharp and shameless tongue. "As holy as a woman's sweet cunt. But the best is Dag, here, he's Arthur's court jester!"
That resulted in another roar of laughter, but Dagonet seemed quite unperturbed. Most likely because Bors had been teasing him incessantly about it for months.
Kay continued to offer some more bits of amusing stories, careful to keep clear of certain subjects. But he was well aware of Lancelot's dark gaze, and knew that he would not get out of answering the other knight's questions. He exchanged a look with Dagonet, who rolled his eyes in Bors' direction. Bors had never learned to keep his mouth shut. Kay should hardly have expected that even death would change that.
~
Tor had wandered out of the sitting room toward the kitchen in search of something to quiet his complaining stomach. He smiled to himself as Galahad's offended voice drifted out behind him. Galahad really had not changed much at all.
It still felt odd to Tor to think that many of the knights had lived for years after he had died. He had been killed five years after being conscripted, so the others, like Bors, Gareth, Lancelot and even Galahad, had lived what seemed like a whole lifetime that Tor had not been a part of. When the knights had first woken, many stories had been told, but it was hardly the same as having lived those years—and there always seemed to some things no one would speak of or explain. Sometimes, it was hard not to feel left out when the "older" knights, those who had lived the longest, seem to know things that Tor could not share.
And then there were the difficulties arose from the shifts in relationships that had occurred over the years. Galahad, Gaheris and Gawain seemed to have reached an accommodation, despite Tor's initial speculation about who would kill whom first (he wasn't the only one who wondered, bets had been placed). He had been sure that either Gaheris or Galahad would kill the other out of jealousy (mixed with pure exasperation on Gaheris's part—Gaheris had at first seemed unable to view Galahad as other than the pesky little boy that had followed him and Gawain everywhere), or Gawain would kill both the other two out of sheer annoyance at their constant bickering. But some of the other relationships had not been so easily dealt with. Tor did not begin to even try to understand what Tristan's issues were. And then there was Galehaut—
Preoccupied by his thoughts, he did not realize that there were voices coming from the kitchen until he reached the doorway. He paused, seeing that Kay and Lancelot stood inside, engaged in what looked like an intense, low-voiced conversation. Tor liked Kay, who was generally kind (unless you were stupid enough to get him angry) and who gathered obscure bits of knowledge with the fascination of a bird hoarding shiny objects. Lancelot was another matter.
Tor had always been intimidated by Lancelot. Even as a boy several years Tor's junior, he had been terrifying. Tongue that could flay off your skin in strips, a very demon's skill with his weapons, and a fury in him that verged on madness. In those days, he had not so much led them as kicked clear a path—and anyone who was not a fool would hasten to follow in his wake. Not to say that the knights were not perfectly capable of being fools. When Lancelot had finally been awakened, Tor had at first thought that the years had mellowed some of the intensity, but he had come to realize, no, that wildness still blazed out from the back of Lancelot's eyes, he had only come to rein it in better.
Tor caught the name "Guinevere" before Lancelot's eyes fixed on him, and Kay turned around. Both of them fell silent. Tor got the distinct impression that he had interrupted something, and cleared his throat nervously.
"I, er— " Tor gestured vaguely toward the refrigerator. Lancelot made a sweeping, rather mocking gesture for him to proceed. He rooted around until he found a carton of orange juice, something for which he had developed a fondness that bordered on addiction. When he turned around to find a bowl, Kay had left, and Lancelot was leaning against the counter, idly swirling a glass of water and not watching him.
Tor cursed to himself as he spilled some juice on the counter while pouring, and snatched up a sponge to wipe it up. If Tor recalled, Dinaden was in charge of the kitchen this week, and he certainly did not want that one chasing him down for making a mess.
"Have you seen Agravaine, Galleron or Galehaut?" Lancelot asked as Tor began to bang through the cabinets.
Tor shook his head. "I think they went out again. They left a few hours ago. Lovel, Meliagaunt and Mador, too." Ah hah! Tor grinned to himself as he triumphantly pulled out a box of cereal and shook it. He had been afraid that Percival, the pig, had beaten him to the last of it.
"You didn't want to go with them?" Lancelot asked. Tor had tended to hang out more with that group, who, with the exception of Agravaine, consisted of some of the "younger" (the earlier dead) knights, although not so much any more. Agravaine's complaining had started to get on his nerves, and it didn't help that Tor's shoulder was still sore from his "accidental" collision with the window.
"No." He grinned as he dumped some of the sugary cereal into the bowl of juice. "I wanted to watch the game." Lancelot rolled his eyes. They had not managed to convince Lancelot to watch football with them, so he had no proper appreciation. Yet. There was a pool going on that too. Tor had bet that after two games Lancelot would be hooked, but Gareth, who Tor generally thought of as being the knight who understood Lancelot as well as anyone could (except maybe Tristan, but that quiet bastard would hardly tell you anything), had bet they would not be able to get Lancelot to sit still to watch a game at all.
"Why?" Tor asked. "Did you need them for something?" That lot had been spending a lot of time outside the house. Tor had thought that maybe they were doing something for Lancelot, but evidently not.
"No." Lancelot took a sip from the glass of water he was playing with. "I was just wondering. Do you know, did Lavaine go with them?"
Tor smirked as he crunched into the cereal. "No. He doesn't usually, and besides, he and Agravaine got into a fight this morning." He tattled without qualm. It had been a good fight too, and surprising, since Lavaine was generally pretty quiet. Agravaine must have really pissed him off.
Lancelot did not react to the news, and Tor was a little disappointed. Agravaine needed to be smacked down regularly or he got really insufferable.
Lancelot straightened from his slouch against the counter and said, "If you're gong back in there," he jerked his head in the direction of the sitting room, "do me a favor and tell Tristan—quietly—that I want to talk to him. I'll be in the basement."
Tor frowned around his mouthful, but nodded. He watched as Lancelot casually tossed his glass into the sink. Miraculously, it did not break, but Lancelot made no move to wash it. The rule was you washed what you used between mealtimes, while one unfortunate knight got stuck with dishwashing duty after each meal. It was usually the case that a few earlier dishes snuck into that pile, but, most of the time, the knights well knew to do their own chores. Tor looked over at Lancelot in surprise, and got Lancelot's own smirk in return. "It's Agravaine's turn at dishwashing tonight. I'd leave your bowl in the sink if I were you. And any other dishes you're inclined to dirty."
Tor grinned in appreciation.
~
The work converting the basement was nearly finished.
One of the cavernous spaces had been converted into a huge practice room with polished wood floors and weapons racks across one wall. It was this room that Arthur had seen when he had come down to investigate shortly after Merlin's visit. It had satisfied him sufficiently that he had not looked beyond into the neighboring room. Lancelot walked into it now. This one was not quite done. It had taken longer, since the construction had been more far more complex, and they had ended up having to hire some workers with expertise. (Meliot had been quite offended by that decision—until he had to admit that the cement and metal partitions were beyond him, much less creating the proper ventilation.) Still, the room would probably be ready within a week, just in time for the first shipment of firearms.
Lancelot doubted he would be able to keep it a secret from Arthur much longer, but he would enjoy it while it lasted. Arthur would no doubt be furious, but Lancelot would deal with that when he had to. If nothing else, the knights had always made it a point to be better armed than any opponent they fought. That would not change just because the weapons—and the millennia—had.
Deceiving Arthur in this way did not particularly trouble him either. He had been plotting things behind Arthur's back from the first moment they had met. That had not changed, even if Lancelot had moved from being quite willing to slit the new commander's throat to being Arthur's friend and lover. A little deception was often the easiest, or the only, way to get necessary things done when Arthur's idealism or his plain stubbornness got in the way of what was necessary or practical. And Lancelot never directly lied to Arthur about anything he thought of as truly important.
Walking back into the practice room, Lancelot went over to the rack of weapons that lined one wall. That had been Arthur's order, once he had given into the inevitable. No weapons upstairs, and no weapons to be taken out of the house. Lancelot snorted to himself. He was as likely to obey that as he was to sprout wings and fly, but thus far, the swords at least had stayed in the basement. Lancelot had a pair of knives tucked under his side of the mattress though, and others secreted about. He was fairly sure that Arthur at least knew about the ones under the mattress, but he had said nothing. Which he had better not. Lancelot would never be able to sleep without a weapon close to hand, and if Arthur thought Lancelot would suffer insomnia alone, the man was sorely mistaken.
He picked up his swords and twirled them, loosening his wrists. The swords were nearly perfect replicas of the ones he had once wielded, down to the black leather covered hilts, but the weight and balance was just slightly off. Nothing really to detract from their workmanship, but enough that Lancelot never quite forgot that these were not his real swords.
For a moment he contemplated gloves and he reflexively cursed both Merlin and Arthur's God for their damn interference. He certainly hadn't asked to be brought back to life, but if they were gong to bother, he would have appreciated being put back in exactly the state he had left himself (but maybe without the arrow to chest). He was fairly sure that whoever was responsible had done this just to vex him. Damn fucking nuisance. He could just see it now, Excuse me a moment, villain, while I pull on my gloves so I can kill you without hurting my magically soft hands. He snickered. No gloves.
He began to warm up, his bare feet silent on the smooth floor. He needed this, he realized, as he felt some of his lingering irritation begin to ease. The very mention of Guinevere's name was enough to raise his hackles, but there was no reason for him to have let himself get as angry as he had at Bors' teasing. You can dish it out, but you can't take it, he sneered at himself.
He let his swords move into a series of intricate passes that it had taken him years to be able to do without tangling the blades. If he was honest with himself, it was the harping on faithfulness that had galled. It was ridiculously ironic, and no doubt somewhere some god was laughing his ass off, if gods even existed these days. But while Lancelot had had wild days in his youth, and despite the flirting and the teasing, he was not the one who had proven faithless.
Lancelot thrust the thought away with a vicious slash of his blades. The past was the past. Still, he had hoped the past might yield some insight into this whole insane enterprise. Kay coming up with nothing had been a disappointment. Although it had not been his only—or even his main—reason for having Kay look into the supposed prophecy, Lancelot had been hoping for some clue as to whether he should be looking over his shoulder for Guinevere, that bitch, to show up.
It did not help at all to realize that while he had been with Arthur for twelve years, she had been Arthur's wife for fifteen.
Lancelot spat a curse as one of his swords spun out of his hands and skidded across the floor in a loud, echoing clatter. He took a few deep breaths before shaking out his wrist and picking it up. He had not come down here to think on that. He could do nothing about it now. He had other, more immediate, problems to think through.
He had been practicing for a while when he became aware that he was no longer alone in the large room. He whirled around to find Tristan sliding through the door. The man silently gestured at the weapons rack and Lancelot nodded. Tristan retrieved the replica of his own curved sword. He then glanced over the racks holding the practice padding and tilted his head in inquiry.
Lancelot snorted. "I don't see Arthur here. Do you?"
Watching as Tristan engaged in a few warm up swings, Lancelot was struck by an impulse and went over to the weapons rack himself. Under Tristan's curious gaze, he replaced his own swords and, after a moment of consideration, he pulled out Lavaine's. It was longer than Lancelot's pair, but not as heavy as the broadswords some of the knights used. It was certainly no where near as heavy as Excalibur. Remembering Excalibur made Lancelot frown, but he dismissed the thought for now. He had borrowed Lavaine's sword a number of times; it was closest in balance and length to Lancelot's favorite spare sword—now, no doubt, long lost—and it was familiar enough in his hands.
"Felt like a change?" Tristan asked.
Lancelot shrugged. "It's not good to get too comfortable." He attacked then, and the two of them passed an enjoyable time trying to cut each other open.
After a few minutes, Lancelot asked, "No trouble at the library?"
"No." Tristan made a swift strike at Lancelot's seemingly exposed right side—the sword was in his left hand—and seemed almost to smile in approval as Lancelot casually tossed the sword from one hand to the other and parried. It was a move that had surprised no few people—to death—before Lancelot had started fighting exclusively with his pair of black swords (and mostly stopped throwing one during a fight). "No one took any interest in the book reader's sore-footed wanderings. Paranoid?" Tristan teased, although his tone remained flat.
Lancelot barked a laugh and made a swipe that might have taken off Tristan's head if Tristan had not ducked, quickly. Tristan was one to talk. "You'd better believe it. Especially since we don't even know the game that Merlin is playing, much less the rules."
A few minutes passed where the only sound was the clash of steel before Lancelot spoke again. "And the arms dealer?"
Tristan feinted left before striking right. "Under control. He's not going to try anything. But once we're done with him—" He very nearly smiled again, but it was an entirely different type of almost-smile. "He's not a nice man."
They exchanged a lightening flurry of blows. "If you think you can manage it without causing trouble," Lancelot said.
Tristan's expression did not shift, but he somehow looked affronted nevertheless. Lancelot well knew that Tristan had made it his business to look into this modern forensic science. It would not trip him up.
Lancelot grinned as he ducked a particularly vicious blow, and was given a blank look as Tristan realized that it was his turn to be teased. "Just let me know when you decide," Lancelot said. "In case we need to break you out of jail."
By mutual consent they came to a stop some time later. Usually, though not every time, Lancelot would win these matches, but not when he was fighting with one blade. As Tristan wiped down his sword and checked it over for any nicks, Lancelot said, "There's something else."
Tristan only raised an eyebrow.
Lancelot pushed back the damp curls on his forehead and he must have betrayed something of his uneasiness, because Tristan stared hard at him. "I may need you and Dinaden to keep an eye on what some of the knights are getting up to."
~
Arthur hung up the telephone and looked at it for a long while. He had known this was coming, but he had expected more time. He needed more time.
He let out a slow sigh and scrubbed his hand over his face. It would have to work out. Surely it would; he would not allow otherwise. Despite everything, since Lancelot had awoken, Arthur had been happier than he could ever remember being. His whole life he felt like he had been trying to gain a hold on peace, but that it had evaded his grasp. But now he had it. A bloodless struggle, a war of ideas, that he could embrace. He could strive to make the world better and not at the cost of the lives of any of his knights.
His knights. He smiled to himself. He had been able to get a lot more work done since Lancelot had returned. Before, he would have been distracted by worrying over what the knights were up to, and would have, over the course of the evening, had to make at least one round of the house, if only to make sure nothing was on fire—which had actually been a distinct possibility in the early days, since it had taken the knights a while to figure out the intricacies of a modern kitchen.
Now, though, he could leave the knights to Lancelot's caustic tongue—although, that meant Arthur had to worry about what Lancelot might be up to, which should have been entirely more frightening. The rest of the knights were quite capable of spreading destruction without even trying, but Lancelot's brand of havoc was on an all together different scale--and all too often it was specifically directed in Arthur's direction.
Arthur laughed at himself. The thought should have filled him with terror, but, at the moment, it only pleased him.
Sometime later, his study door opened. Arthur did not bother to look. Even in this house full of unruly knights, there was only one person who would barge in without knocking. He glanced up only when a stack of papers hit his desk. Lancelot was already peering over his shoulder at what Arthur was reading. "What is that?"
Lancelot looked like he had just come from a bath; his hair was still damp. He was dressed in a loose pair of sweatpants and a soft cotton, collarless shirt that Arthur realized was his. After their initial outing had not proved disastrous, Arthur had thought about offering to take Lancelot shopping, but, in truth, his courage was not quite up to it. "The speech I'm giving next week," Arthur answered him.
Lancelot immediately lost interest. Without warning, he spun Arthur's desk chair around, and straddled Arthur's lap. Rather than getting annoyed at the mannerless interruption, Arthur had to chuckle. As different as things were now, some things did not change.
Lancelot was apparently thinking along the same lines as he made himself comfortable. "I like this desk chair better than your old one," he told Arthur. "It's far more convenient. It spins." To demonstrate, he pushed off against Arthur's desk so that the chair twirled around. Arthur obligingly lifted his feet to allow it. Lancelot looked as delighted as a child.
At the pleased look on Lancelot's face, a sudden suspicious, if rather ridiculous, thought occurred to Arthur. Ridiculous—but then this was Lancelot he was dealing with. "Those skid marks in the hallway and the dents in the walls—Lancelot! I couldn't figure out what had caused them—but you've been playing with the desk chairs!"
Lancelot blinked at him innocently, but his eyes laughed at Arthur. "Playing? I'll have you know that Agravaine now has to do my kitchen duty for the next four months. You should thank me, since I break a lot of plates."
Arthur was torn between exasperation and laughter. "He breaks more dishes than you do. You lot were actually betting on chair racing?" He tried to imagine the knights engaged in such an activity, and it was actually all too easy to picture.
"Well in the absence of horses—" Arthur braced himself for a cutting remark, but it never came.
The pause gave Arthur time to realize—"Agravaine? However did you get him involved? I wouldn't have thought his dignity would allow it."
Lancelot's breath was warm against Arthur's throat, which he had taken to mouthing. He stilled, though, at Arthur's question. "He's easy enough to provoke."
Something in Lancelot's voice made Arthur wonder, but Lancelot had resumed his activity, and he did not want to risk another halt by asking. Lancelot was exceedingly good with his mouth.
Instead, Arthur turned his full attention to the matter at hand and let his fingers slide beneath Lancelot's shirt to run over his back. The sweep of Lancelot's warm skin under his palms, the play of the lean muscles, was sheer, sensual pleasure. He could not say that he missed the scars that had once littered this smooth landscape, although his fingers remembered the secrets of each invisible mark.
Lancelot lifted his head and wound his arms around Arthur's neck. He pressed closer and murmured in Arthur's ear, his hips shifting suggestively, "I do like this chair, but with the wheels, it's not quite stable enough for a good fuck." His tongue flickered out to trace the arch of Arthur's ear and his voice was a throaty purr when he added, "But you always did like having me over your desk better anyway."
Arthur shuddered at the feel of Lancelot against him and at the memories his words invoked. At the garrison, Lancelot's frequent interruptions of his paperwork had invariably ended first on the desk then in bed. His desk had been scarred with the marks left by Lancelot's nails scoring into the wood. Years after Lancelot had died, Arthur's fingers had continued to trace over those marks, and he had refused any attempt by Guinevere to replace the old, battered desk. She had managed it eventually. Eight years into their marriage, he had returned after a month in the field to find the desk gone. She had claimed that she had thought the larger, finer desk would please him. He had never been able to find out what had happened to the old one.
Pushing away the old ache, Arthur yanked Lancelot's head around for a hard kiss. Those days were over; he was here now, and Lancelot was with him. Nothing would take him away now. Arthur would not allow it.
He was abruptly too inflamed to wait any longer, and he stood, taking Lancelot with him. But rather than dumping Lancelot down onto the desk, he strode the few steps over to the couch. He tumbled them down on to the cool leather and yanked at Lancelot's clothes. Luckily, Lancelot had taken to wandering around barefoot, and the loose sweatpants were easy to strip off, despite the impatient fumbling of Arthur's hands. He did not bother trying to get the shirt off.
Lancelot was laughing breathlessly at him, but he obligingly fished out the tube from between the couch cushions as Arthur unfastened his own trousers. Arthur snatched at it. He did not like this modern stuff as much as the simple oil they had once used, but it was convenient. This particular tube had somehow taken up residence in the couch cushions shortly after Lancelot had woken.
With a growl, Arthur tried to turn Lancelot on to his stomach. The knight resisted at first—Lancelot preferred face to face, even if Arthur did not always, but he gave in after he got a look at Arthur's eyes.
There was much to be said for modern convenience; a few seconds later and Arthur was pushing into burning, clenching flesh. He had no care for finesse, as he grasped at Lancelot's hips, yanking them back as he shoved himself forward. Lancelot writhed underneath him, his long fingers clenching into the couch cushions. Arthur found a rhythm after a moment, a hard and unrelenting one. Lancelot was gasping out his name with each thrust, and Arthur managed to slide one of his hands around so he could grasp at Lancelot's arousal.
His whole being was focused on possessing the body beneath him. But however hard or deep he thrust, it wasn't enough, and even as the blinding ecstasy of his orgasm approached—too soon, too soon—he only wanted more.
"Mine," he hissed out before he bit hard into Lancelot's shoulder, which made Lancelot cry out and then convulse.
He collapsed on top of Lancelot, panting hard into the damp neck. It took him a while, but he finally forced himself up on arms that seemed to have turned to soft wax, and allowed Lancelot to turn over. He managed to pull off his shirt, which was clinging to him uncomfortably, before he collapsed back down. He was annoyed to then realize that Lancelot was still wearing his own shirt, but he could not move again, and at least now he could feel Lancelot's hands on his bare back. And even through Lancelot's shirt, he could feel the quickened beat of Lancelot's heart against his own.
He must have dozed off, because he awoke with a jolt, still on top of Lancelot, whose hand was now slowly stroking through his hair. Guilt stabbed through the haziness of his mind, waking him fully. He had been rough and hasty, but Lancelot would only get irritated if he tried to apologize for that. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry, I must be crushing you—you should have just pushed me off." He would have sat up, but Lancelot's arms did not release him.
"No, s'alright. Stay." Lancelot said drowsily. But Arthur had become aware of what a mess they were. His trousers were half on. He was still, he realized, a bit abashed, wearing his shoes. His skin was beginning to itch from the drying residue of sweat and their release, and he had little doubt they had stained the couch cushions.
He felt Lancelot sigh, and the constraining arms fell away. "You might as well get up before you start fidgeting."
Arthur gave the side of his face a clumsy, apologetic kiss before sitting up and tidying himself as best he could. Lancelot watched him with heavy lidded, lazy eyes.
Arthur glanced at his watch—a device he had developed a fondness for, much to Lancelot's disgust. "We might as well go to bed; it's late." He ran a coaxing palm down the long muscle of Lancelot's thigh.
Lancelot stretched a little, in cat-like contentedness. "I'm comfortable here."
Arthur smiled, enjoying what he could see of the lean muscles flexing under pale skin. "I remember now why I used to prefer the desk. It wasn't comfortable enough for you to get lazy. Up." He grasped one of Lancelot's hands and tugged.
With a dramatic, long suffering sigh, Lancelot allowed himself to be pulled to a sitting position and took his sweatpants from Arthur after Arthur had straightened them out. He was pulling them on when Arthur walked over to his desk and caught sight of the papers tossed untidily across his otherwise very tidy desk. He gathered them up and then furrowed his brows as he saw what Lancelot had scrawled in the blank left for him.
"Banson?" He looked over at Lancelot, a little irritated. "Is that a joke?"
Lancelot only looked back at him, unblinking. "No."
"You've looked at the Malory, obviously—"
Lancelot's expression had closed off. "I must never have mentioned it to you. My father's name was Ban. Though he was no king of anywhere, much less Gaul." He glanced aside, running his hand through his unruly hair. "Strange, isn't it? It makes you wonder what other bits are true amid all the lies."
Since Lancelot was not looking at him, he missed the change in Arthur's expression. Arthur turned away toward his desk and busied himself for a moment with his papers. "Bed?" he asked when he felt his face would give nothing away.
"You go. There's something I have to do first," Lancelot said.
Arthur nodded, and was still disturbed enough not to ask what it was Lancelot was up to. "Don't take too long," was all he said, managing a smile before he left the room. "Remember we're going to that meeting in the morning."
~
Lancelot used one of the downstairs bathrooms to wash and changed into some clothes he pilfered from the laundry room. Normally, he would not have cared, but he did not want to have this confrontation smelling of sex.
Lancelot was waiting in the room just off the back entrance when voices finally announced the return of the group of missing knights. Waiting never improved Lancelot's disposition.
"Agravaine," Lancelot said quietly, and had the brief pleasure of watching Agravaine start. He moved into the doorway. "There are quite a number of dishes in the kitchen wanting your attention."
The handful of knights with Agravaine greeted Lancelot without quite meeting his gaze before hurrying away, and Lancelot restrained a snarl of irritation. But one of them lingered, and he stared directly into Lancelot's eyes. Lancelot was startled by what he saw in that look. Fuck it! Lancelot cursed to himself as Galehaut finally turned away.
Which left him and Agravaine, who looked back at him belligerently.
"I had thought about simply dragging you down to the practice room and seeing if I could beat any sense into you," Lancelot said, almost conversationally, although his voice had taken on a smooth quality, like silk over a razor. Agravaine opened his mouth to retort, but Lancelot cut him off. The silk fell away, leaving only the deadly edge. "But then I realized you were far too stupid for that to work. So now you're going to explain to me what it is that you think you're doing."
~~~
Endnotes: The quotations used come from Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur. The section that Bors enjoys so much is from the speech that Lancelot's brother Ector gives when he arrives at the monastery to which Lancelot has retired to find that he has died. The full speech, which appears at the very end of the book (and which makes me giggle inappropriately), is:
Warnings: Slash.
Series: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town, Weapons of Choice and this one.
Feeback: Anything you're inclined to say.
Notes: Thanks to
sasha_b for the read through. Wild rage followed hard on the heels of reeling shock when the arrow punched through his chest. He struck back in sheer reflexive fury; there was no room for fear, nor regret, nor sorrow as he clawed himself forward, his whole self narrowed on a furious need to obliterate the life from the pissant of a Saxon dog who already wore one of Lancelot's swords through his chest.
It was only when, an eternity later, he had forced his second blade through the Saxon's neck that the rage fled. Agony rushed in, greedy to fill the space.
His strength poured out of him, along with his blood. He could feel it flowing from his body in pulsing waves, to fall on the unnurturing soil of this angry, devouring land. It had tasted his blood many, many times before, but now this was his very heart's blood at last. Would this finally be enough?
Let it be enough, he had no more left to give. He was empty now; the land itself seeming to suck out the last of him, although he knew a dim satisfaction that it would not have his flesh to devour, because he had promised. That would belong to the fire.
The sounds of the battle around him faded into silence as the sky dimmed with approaching night. It was over, he realized. But had he not long wished to fly away from this place? Might he at last see the wide plains of his dreams? Except that would mean leaving behind—
"Arthur," he mouthed the name. "Arthur." But he had no breath left.
. . . for Arthur.
Lancelot woke, a gasp tearing out of him. He clutched at his chest, and, for a moment, he could feel it, that iron agony, before he realized where he was. Arthur made a noise, half querulous, half inquiry, and Lancelot automatically tried to soothe him. His hand shook a little as it stroked through Arthur's hair, although he managed to keep his voice steady as he murmured a reassurance.
Arthur, however, stirred into wakefulness despite Lancelot's attempt to calm him back to sleep. He could no doubt feel Lancelot's heart racing, and Lancelot's breaths were still coming too quickly. But Arthur said nothing; he only wrapped his arms more securely around Lancelot. Arthur knew better than to ask questions.
Lancelot took a deep breath, blessedly free of pain, and closed his eyes. Yet it was not the too vivid memory of pain that kept him awake until he finally fell asleep just as dawn began to light the sky, but that of the sweeping relief that had cast him free when he had known that he was dying.
Lancelot was sprawled across the length of a couch in one of the large downstairs sitting rooms when Kay found him. Thankfully for Kay's aching feet, locating Lancelot had not been difficult. This particular couch had become one of Lancelot's favorite spots. It was exactly the right length for him to prop his feet up on the opposite arm from his head.
Kay sat down in one of the armchairs beside the couch with a sigh of relief. He had spent most of the day wandering through dusty library stacks, and while in the last fifteen centuries humankind might have developed many marvelous inventions, it seemed it still had not discovered the secret of making new boots that did not pinch. He cast an envious look at Lancelot's long, elegant feet, which looked entirely too comfortable where they rested, naked, on the couch arm. Kay's own feet were still encased in the detestable boots. He had been sorely tempted to shed them at the door, but for Kay bare feet remained the province of children and beggars, and Kay was neither. Nor was he Lancelot to brazenly do whatever struck his fancy.
"Well?" Lancelot asked without looking up from the papers he was reading.
It had not helped Kay's disposition that today's wandering had been a last ditch hope for some new insight, which had frustratingly failed to materialize. He sighed again and reported, "It's not entirely clear. I know that's not what you want to hear, but there are several versions, and not one of them seems particularly reliable. All are accompanied by ridiculous stories that make placing confidence in any of them a dubious proposition. The earliest stories don't seem to mention any sort of prophecy at all. In fact," he began to warm to his topic, "the earliest surviving stories don't even tie Merlin to Arthur. These modern scholars seem to think that Merlin is the combination of two mythical archetypes—" He trailed off as Lancelot eyed him from around his papers, eyebrow raised.
Kay cleared his throat. "Well, yes, that's not really important. The first recorded reference to a prophecy only goes back to the twelfth century. But we know that can't be right. Another problem is that I haven't been able to find a single written version that specifically includes Arthur's knights. While there was an oral tradition of stories about farmers, herders, or the like stumbling over Arthur and his knights as they slumber in some cave, there is no mention in those story of any specific prophecy. And then the most famous version," he gestured with a fat book he was holding, "by this Thomas Malory character also fails to mention anything about knights."
He had learned from their prior conversations not to refer to Malory's book by its title. Lancelot had not liked hearing it. He had not particularly liked hearing it himself. He flipped open the book and read. " 'Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by he will of Our Lord Jesu,'" he ignored Lancelot's snort, "'into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.' Malory goes on to write that it is said to be written on Arthur's tombstone: 'Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quodam rexque futurus,' which is not exactly enlightening. And he's even rather cowardly about saying that much: 'I will not say that it shall be so.'"
"And what, pray tell, is the 'holy cross'?" Lancelot's voice was sarcastic. "Can't you pilfer one of them out of any of these Christian churches?"
Kay shrugged. He was not about to get into that discussion with Lancelot right now. "Maybe it's a reference to the original? Or maybe it's a metaphor." He quickly returned to the actual topic. "But anyway, no mention of knights."
"Arthur said that the prophecy specifically mentioned knights."
"Well, it is supposed to be one of Merlin's prophecies. Perhaps that’s what Merlin told Arthur. The texts I've been able to find are no help in figuring out the exact words." Kay frowned down at the book in his hand. "Why is it so important? We're already here, aren't we?" He supposed it was a careless attitude for a man descended from a long line of royal lore keepers to take, but his feet hurt and the dust in the stacks had given him a headache.
Lancelot made an annoyed sound, looking back at the papers in his hand. "We are. But who knows what else is 'prophesied.' If indeed there's really any prophecy at all," he added, his voice taking on a familiar, cynical tone.
Kay nodded, and scrubbed his hand through his pale hair. "I don't know that there is anywhere else to search." He had been eager to try to ferret out the truth when Lancelot had first asked him to look into the prophecy. Since his own awakening, he had read through several of the versions of the legends about Arthur out of curiosity, which had quickly turned into bemused bewilderment, but he had not realized how profitless and frustrating this project would be. He could see why today's scholars, at least those who were even willing to accept the idea that Arthur had existed in the first place, thought that the existence of the prophecy was a later fabrication. He would have been inclined to believe it himself if he did not have evidence to the contrary in his own presence here.
He had started out his search by speaking to the rather silly man who owned this house. At Lancelot's insistence, he had pretended general curiosity rather than asking straight out about the prophecy. Luckily, Professor D'Aubigny had been delighted to ramble on at length and had even gotten Kay open access to a nearby academic library. But none of it had proven useful.
"Short of demanding that Merlin himself tell us, I don't think we can be sure of anything," Kay concluded.
"Nothing he says can be trusted." Lancelot's voice had gained an edge.
Kay gave him a close look, but could not see much of his face behind the sheaf of papers he had resumed reading. Kay had died twelve years into their conscription, so he had known Merlin only as an enemy. Arthur did seem to trust the man now, but if Lancelot was suspicious of the Woad, then Kay had no quibble with that. While Lancelot occasionally liked to play stupid, Kay knew better than most what a sham that was.
Kay still had a dim recollection of the boy a few years his junior, with large, curious eyes, who upon learning that Kay had been in training to be the lore master of his tribe, had asked an endless stream of rambling questions as they had made their long trek to Britain. That boy had disappeared even before they had finished the journey, but Lancelot had not stopped coming to Kay for information.
Kay had been the only Sarmatian who had known how to read Latin when they were conscripted. When Arthur had become their commander, he had been pleased to lend Kay whatever books and scrolls he had. When Lancelot had found that out, he had frequently quizzed Kay about what he was reading. Kay had been puzzled at first—given the teenage Lancelot's frequent mocking comments and eye rolling, he did not think it was out of burning desire to learn philosophy or Roman history, but after a few occasions watching young Lancelot argue with Arthur using information that Kay had provided—but often with utterly novel interpretations that left Arthur sputtering and Kay hiding his grins—it had become obvious.
It had taken Arthur a bit longer to make the connection, as Lancelot was quite capable of biding his time for months before trotting out some merciless tidbit, but Arthur had eventually realized. Kay still remembered with acute embarrassment the bemused look on Arthur's face as Kay had exchanged the book he had just finished for a new one and Arthur had asked, with a mixture of dry humor and real concern, "He isn't making you read these, is he?" Flustered as he had taken in Arthur's meaning, Kay had eventually stammered out that, no, he enjoyed reading for its own sake. Arthur had never spoken of it again and had continued to generously loan out his precious books and scrolls. And Lancelot had continued to argue with Arthur, showing both a remarkable memory and a quick, if often unconventional mind. More than once, Kay had offered to teach Lancelot to read, but Lancelot had always refused, claiming it was "boring" and why would he want to read the long-winded, pompous ramblings of Romans, especially when what they were trying to say could usually be explained in a few sentences by Kay anyway?
Nor had finally being able to read for himself much changed Lancelot's habits. But Kay was fairly sure that these days Lancelot's inquires had little to do with providing fodder for his arguments with Arthur. But then again, with Lancelot, you never could know.
"What about—" Lancelot began to ask, when a ruckus in the hallway interrupted him. A gaggle of arguing knights burst into the room, with Tristan following in their wake. Kay could not help glaring a little. Tristan had accompanied him on today's trip to the library and had spent the entire time lurking about the stacks, distractingly just out of sight. Kay had been tempted to chuck a few books in his direction by the end of it out of sheer irritation. It didn't help that he was pretty sure that Tristan's feet, snug in well-worn boots, weren't aching the way Kay's were.
Picking through several loud discussions, Kay realized that the group of knights had been watching that sport on the large television in the other room again. Kay thought it quite silly that they had gotten so involved in sitting around watching grown men with bare legs running around after a colorful little ball. Really, it seemed quite idiotic.
"The back lawn is more than big enough—we could go into the city and get a ball, no problem. Me and Tor could go," Galahad was blathering.
Gaheris snorted. "Like we'd let the two of you go off on your own after last time."
"Come on!" Tor protested. "That wasn't even really our fault."
"And why," Gaheris asked Galahad, giving him a sly look, "would you want to risk ruining those fancy clothes of yours with grass stains?"
"I wouldn't wear them to play! I'd borrow some of Tor's clothes."
"What? No way! Although I guess you can wear the pink ones. Bastard."
The knights settled themselves around the room, but Galahad, the strutting peacock, was occupied with squabbling, and so was the last to look around for a place to sit. Finding no empty seats left, he went over to Lancelot's couch. "Shove your feet over," he demanded.
Lancelot peered over the file with raised eyebrows that spoke eloquently about what he thought of that idea.
Galahad grumbled a bit, but ended up flopping down on to the floor just as Gareth came in. Gareth walked over the couch, and Lancelot moved his feet without even looking up.
"Hey!" Galahad protested as Gareth sat down. Gareth only looked at him, puzzled, and the rest of the knights laughed.
"What are you reading?" Gawain asked Lancelot, cutting through Galahad's complaining.
"Background file. Apparently, I was born in Wales and went to school at someplace called Cambridge. Why I would want to be schooled until I was twenty-two, this thing," he shook the file, "does not bother to explain."
"We all had to learn our background information," Lamorak said. "Do they want you to pick a surname?"
"Yes. Although why these people seem to believe everyone needs two or even three names, I don't know. Smacks of Roman pretensions."
Kay opened his mouth to explain about how surnames worked in this century, but then shut it when Dagonet nudged him and shook his head.
"What are you going to pick?" Bedivere asked.
"They said I couldn't use my tribe or clan's name," Lancelot shrugged, quite a feat of elegance from his still sprawled position, "so what do I care?"
"Du Lac," Bors said, guffawing loudly. Kay groaned silently to himself. Bors had inevitably partaken liberally of what, in Kay's mind, was clearly the real draw of sports watching—beer.
"Duck?" Lancelot asked, still not looking up from his papers.
"No," Kay said, giving into the inevitable. "Du Lac, it means 'of the lake.'"
"And what lake would that be?"
Kay explained. "It's from the legends about Arthur. In some of them, you were supposed to be from an area of Gaul and your father was a king called Ban." He missed Lancelot's sharp look as he held up the book in his hand in illustration. "But your father was betrayed, and so you were raised by an enchantress who lived in a lake. All rubbish, of course."
Bors grinned slyly. "And did you hear the part about you being all godly and Christian?"
"What?" Lancelot said, horrified enough to finally look out again from behind his file. Kay sighed. He had come to regret the afternoon that he and Bors had been waiting for Arthur as he attended one of those interminable meetings. During the long, dull wait, Bors had quizzed him about Malory, which Kay had been reading at the time. It had been quite embarrassing to have passing people stare at them as Bors had, as Bors had put it, nearly pissed himself yellow laughing.
"Yeah, apparently they think you were some kind of Christian ideal, except your habit of shagging Guinevere." Bors was laughing so hard that it was hard to understand what he was saying. Kay wondered if he should worry about the fate of Bors's chair's upholstery.
Lancelot, who had been listening, looking rather bemused, narrowed his eyes at that, and Kay caught a flicker of anger before he smoothed his expression.
Not noticing, Bors continued, "But that was alright, though, since you were faithful to her in your cheating, except of course when you were tricked out of it. Oh, and Galahad here is your bastard son from one of those tricks." Bors leaned forward and smacked Galahad on the back, practically knocking him over.
Lancelot snorted, eyeing Galahad. "No sane person would believe that."
"Yeah!" Galahad said. "No sane person."
"We don't look at all alike," Lancelot continued.
"We don't! I'm not a some skinny, pointy faced—"
"He's hardly good looking enough to be any get of mine."
"Yeah—what?" Galahad had apparently been imbibing freely as well.
"And far too stupid."
"You—" Galahad was about to leap to his feet, but Gawain and Gaheris casually reached forward, each grabbing a shoulder to keep him down.
"Where did they come up with stuff?" Bedivere asked, shaking his head and chuckling as he ignored Galahad's continued protests.
Bors was still snickering, occasionally letting out words like "Christian" and "faithful" between guffaws. He finally controlled himself long enough to add, "And you became some kind of monk before you died." Most of the knights were laughing at this point, and that caused some hoots and catcalls.
Lancelot gave him a flat look. "You're kidding."
"No, it's true. Hey, Kay, man, give that here." Surprisingly quick for such a big, inebriated man, Bors grabbed the book Kay had left resting on the arm of his chair. He thumbed to the end, and searched around and began to read, in a singsong voice: "'Thou were head of all Christian knights.'"
"I think that might be a misprint," Bruenor declared. "Shouldn't that say you were the knight at the throat of all Christians?"
Bors grandly ignored the interruption. "'Thou were never matched of earthly knight's hand. And thou were the courteoust knight that ever bare shield.'" He began to laugh again at the word "courteoust," and so Bedivere snatched the book from him.
"Apparently you were also 'the goodliest person,' 'meekest' and 'gentlest,'" Bedivere informed Lancelot, trying to keep a straight face, but failing.
"And don't forget 'most faithful,' Bors managed, having to bellow a bit over the sound of laughter. He seemed especially fixed on that particular idea. Kay thought, not for the first time, that whatever magic had given all the knights the ability to read, it should have been a lot more discerning.
"Slander," Lancelot declared; his tone was amused, but his eyes were not.
"Don't think you're the only one who got maligned," Kay said, trying to redirect the subject. "Apparently I'm quite a coward." This earned him a roar of laughter. "And I used to call Gareth 'Beaumains'—pretty hands."
Gareth, who had not missed the flare of irritation in Lancelot's eyes, quickly caught on. He held out his massive hands for consideration. "I don't think they're particularly pretty," he said, tone equable.
That resulted in Bors, Bruenor, Gaheris and Dagonet (at Bors's insistence) offering their hands for comparison. Most of the knights agreed that Bruenor's hands were the nicest, although Bors kept insisting that it was Dagonet's hands, and Galahad repeatedly asked if Kay hadn't gotten the meaning wrong—surely it must mean "big hands" not "pretty hands."
Kay, never reluctant to take a dig at Bors, and feeling especially irritated with him now, added, "Bors is suppose to be the second—or maybe it was the third—most holy of the knights. Although they managed to be correct enough to have him father one bastard at least."
"That's me," Bors declared, unoffended. It was hard to offend him unless you had Lancelot's sharp and shameless tongue. "As holy as a woman's sweet cunt. But the best is Dag, here, he's Arthur's court jester!"
That resulted in another roar of laughter, but Dagonet seemed quite unperturbed. Most likely because Bors had been teasing him incessantly about it for months.
Kay continued to offer some more bits of amusing stories, careful to keep clear of certain subjects. But he was well aware of Lancelot's dark gaze, and knew that he would not get out of answering the other knight's questions. He exchanged a look with Dagonet, who rolled his eyes in Bors' direction. Bors had never learned to keep his mouth shut. Kay should hardly have expected that even death would change that.
Tor had wandered out of the sitting room toward the kitchen in search of something to quiet his complaining stomach. He smiled to himself as Galahad's offended voice drifted out behind him. Galahad really had not changed much at all.
It still felt odd to Tor to think that many of the knights had lived for years after he had died. He had been killed five years after being conscripted, so the others, like Bors, Gareth, Lancelot and even Galahad, had lived what seemed like a whole lifetime that Tor had not been a part of. When the knights had first woken, many stories had been told, but it was hardly the same as having lived those years—and there always seemed to some things no one would speak of or explain. Sometimes, it was hard not to feel left out when the "older" knights, those who had lived the longest, seem to know things that Tor could not share.
And then there were the difficulties arose from the shifts in relationships that had occurred over the years. Galahad, Gaheris and Gawain seemed to have reached an accommodation, despite Tor's initial speculation about who would kill whom first (he wasn't the only one who wondered, bets had been placed). He had been sure that either Gaheris or Galahad would kill the other out of jealousy (mixed with pure exasperation on Gaheris's part—Gaheris had at first seemed unable to view Galahad as other than the pesky little boy that had followed him and Gawain everywhere), or Gawain would kill both the other two out of sheer annoyance at their constant bickering. But some of the other relationships had not been so easily dealt with. Tor did not begin to even try to understand what Tristan's issues were. And then there was Galehaut—
Preoccupied by his thoughts, he did not realize that there were voices coming from the kitchen until he reached the doorway. He paused, seeing that Kay and Lancelot stood inside, engaged in what looked like an intense, low-voiced conversation. Tor liked Kay, who was generally kind (unless you were stupid enough to get him angry) and who gathered obscure bits of knowledge with the fascination of a bird hoarding shiny objects. Lancelot was another matter.
Tor had always been intimidated by Lancelot. Even as a boy several years Tor's junior, he had been terrifying. Tongue that could flay off your skin in strips, a very demon's skill with his weapons, and a fury in him that verged on madness. In those days, he had not so much led them as kicked clear a path—and anyone who was not a fool would hasten to follow in his wake. Not to say that the knights were not perfectly capable of being fools. When Lancelot had finally been awakened, Tor had at first thought that the years had mellowed some of the intensity, but he had come to realize, no, that wildness still blazed out from the back of Lancelot's eyes, he had only come to rein it in better.
Tor caught the name "Guinevere" before Lancelot's eyes fixed on him, and Kay turned around. Both of them fell silent. Tor got the distinct impression that he had interrupted something, and cleared his throat nervously.
"I, er— " Tor gestured vaguely toward the refrigerator. Lancelot made a sweeping, rather mocking gesture for him to proceed. He rooted around until he found a carton of orange juice, something for which he had developed a fondness that bordered on addiction. When he turned around to find a bowl, Kay had left, and Lancelot was leaning against the counter, idly swirling a glass of water and not watching him.
Tor cursed to himself as he spilled some juice on the counter while pouring, and snatched up a sponge to wipe it up. If Tor recalled, Dinaden was in charge of the kitchen this week, and he certainly did not want that one chasing him down for making a mess.
"Have you seen Agravaine, Galleron or Galehaut?" Lancelot asked as Tor began to bang through the cabinets.
Tor shook his head. "I think they went out again. They left a few hours ago. Lovel, Meliagaunt and Mador, too." Ah hah! Tor grinned to himself as he triumphantly pulled out a box of cereal and shook it. He had been afraid that Percival, the pig, had beaten him to the last of it.
"You didn't want to go with them?" Lancelot asked. Tor had tended to hang out more with that group, who, with the exception of Agravaine, consisted of some of the "younger" (the earlier dead) knights, although not so much any more. Agravaine's complaining had started to get on his nerves, and it didn't help that Tor's shoulder was still sore from his "accidental" collision with the window.
"No." He grinned as he dumped some of the sugary cereal into the bowl of juice. "I wanted to watch the game." Lancelot rolled his eyes. They had not managed to convince Lancelot to watch football with them, so he had no proper appreciation. Yet. There was a pool going on that too. Tor had bet that after two games Lancelot would be hooked, but Gareth, who Tor generally thought of as being the knight who understood Lancelot as well as anyone could (except maybe Tristan, but that quiet bastard would hardly tell you anything), had bet they would not be able to get Lancelot to sit still to watch a game at all.
"Why?" Tor asked. "Did you need them for something?" That lot had been spending a lot of time outside the house. Tor had thought that maybe they were doing something for Lancelot, but evidently not.
"No." Lancelot took a sip from the glass of water he was playing with. "I was just wondering. Do you know, did Lavaine go with them?"
Tor smirked as he crunched into the cereal. "No. He doesn't usually, and besides, he and Agravaine got into a fight this morning." He tattled without qualm. It had been a good fight too, and surprising, since Lavaine was generally pretty quiet. Agravaine must have really pissed him off.
Lancelot did not react to the news, and Tor was a little disappointed. Agravaine needed to be smacked down regularly or he got really insufferable.
Lancelot straightened from his slouch against the counter and said, "If you're gong back in there," he jerked his head in the direction of the sitting room, "do me a favor and tell Tristan—quietly—that I want to talk to him. I'll be in the basement."
Tor frowned around his mouthful, but nodded. He watched as Lancelot casually tossed his glass into the sink. Miraculously, it did not break, but Lancelot made no move to wash it. The rule was you washed what you used between mealtimes, while one unfortunate knight got stuck with dishwashing duty after each meal. It was usually the case that a few earlier dishes snuck into that pile, but, most of the time, the knights well knew to do their own chores. Tor looked over at Lancelot in surprise, and got Lancelot's own smirk in return. "It's Agravaine's turn at dishwashing tonight. I'd leave your bowl in the sink if I were you. And any other dishes you're inclined to dirty."
Tor grinned in appreciation.
The work converting the basement was nearly finished.
One of the cavernous spaces had been converted into a huge practice room with polished wood floors and weapons racks across one wall. It was this room that Arthur had seen when he had come down to investigate shortly after Merlin's visit. It had satisfied him sufficiently that he had not looked beyond into the neighboring room. Lancelot walked into it now. This one was not quite done. It had taken longer, since the construction had been more far more complex, and they had ended up having to hire some workers with expertise. (Meliot had been quite offended by that decision—until he had to admit that the cement and metal partitions were beyond him, much less creating the proper ventilation.) Still, the room would probably be ready within a week, just in time for the first shipment of firearms.
Lancelot doubted he would be able to keep it a secret from Arthur much longer, but he would enjoy it while it lasted. Arthur would no doubt be furious, but Lancelot would deal with that when he had to. If nothing else, the knights had always made it a point to be better armed than any opponent they fought. That would not change just because the weapons—and the millennia—had.
Deceiving Arthur in this way did not particularly trouble him either. He had been plotting things behind Arthur's back from the first moment they had met. That had not changed, even if Lancelot had moved from being quite willing to slit the new commander's throat to being Arthur's friend and lover. A little deception was often the easiest, or the only, way to get necessary things done when Arthur's idealism or his plain stubbornness got in the way of what was necessary or practical. And Lancelot never directly lied to Arthur about anything he thought of as truly important.
Walking back into the practice room, Lancelot went over to the rack of weapons that lined one wall. That had been Arthur's order, once he had given into the inevitable. No weapons upstairs, and no weapons to be taken out of the house. Lancelot snorted to himself. He was as likely to obey that as he was to sprout wings and fly, but thus far, the swords at least had stayed in the basement. Lancelot had a pair of knives tucked under his side of the mattress though, and others secreted about. He was fairly sure that Arthur at least knew about the ones under the mattress, but he had said nothing. Which he had better not. Lancelot would never be able to sleep without a weapon close to hand, and if Arthur thought Lancelot would suffer insomnia alone, the man was sorely mistaken.
He picked up his swords and twirled them, loosening his wrists. The swords were nearly perfect replicas of the ones he had once wielded, down to the black leather covered hilts, but the weight and balance was just slightly off. Nothing really to detract from their workmanship, but enough that Lancelot never quite forgot that these were not his real swords.
For a moment he contemplated gloves and he reflexively cursed both Merlin and Arthur's God for their damn interference. He certainly hadn't asked to be brought back to life, but if they were gong to bother, he would have appreciated being put back in exactly the state he had left himself (but maybe without the arrow to chest). He was fairly sure that whoever was responsible had done this just to vex him. Damn fucking nuisance. He could just see it now, Excuse me a moment, villain, while I pull on my gloves so I can kill you without hurting my magically soft hands. He snickered. No gloves.
He began to warm up, his bare feet silent on the smooth floor. He needed this, he realized, as he felt some of his lingering irritation begin to ease. The very mention of Guinevere's name was enough to raise his hackles, but there was no reason for him to have let himself get as angry as he had at Bors' teasing. You can dish it out, but you can't take it, he sneered at himself.
He let his swords move into a series of intricate passes that it had taken him years to be able to do without tangling the blades. If he was honest with himself, it was the harping on faithfulness that had galled. It was ridiculously ironic, and no doubt somewhere some god was laughing his ass off, if gods even existed these days. But while Lancelot had had wild days in his youth, and despite the flirting and the teasing, he was not the one who had proven faithless.
Lancelot thrust the thought away with a vicious slash of his blades. The past was the past. Still, he had hoped the past might yield some insight into this whole insane enterprise. Kay coming up with nothing had been a disappointment. Although it had not been his only—or even his main—reason for having Kay look into the supposed prophecy, Lancelot had been hoping for some clue as to whether he should be looking over his shoulder for Guinevere, that bitch, to show up.
It did not help at all to realize that while he had been with Arthur for twelve years, she had been Arthur's wife for fifteen.
Lancelot spat a curse as one of his swords spun out of his hands and skidded across the floor in a loud, echoing clatter. He took a few deep breaths before shaking out his wrist and picking it up. He had not come down here to think on that. He could do nothing about it now. He had other, more immediate, problems to think through.
He had been practicing for a while when he became aware that he was no longer alone in the large room. He whirled around to find Tristan sliding through the door. The man silently gestured at the weapons rack and Lancelot nodded. Tristan retrieved the replica of his own curved sword. He then glanced over the racks holding the practice padding and tilted his head in inquiry.
Lancelot snorted. "I don't see Arthur here. Do you?"
Watching as Tristan engaged in a few warm up swings, Lancelot was struck by an impulse and went over to the weapons rack himself. Under Tristan's curious gaze, he replaced his own swords and, after a moment of consideration, he pulled out Lavaine's. It was longer than Lancelot's pair, but not as heavy as the broadswords some of the knights used. It was certainly no where near as heavy as Excalibur. Remembering Excalibur made Lancelot frown, but he dismissed the thought for now. He had borrowed Lavaine's sword a number of times; it was closest in balance and length to Lancelot's favorite spare sword—now, no doubt, long lost—and it was familiar enough in his hands.
"Felt like a change?" Tristan asked.
Lancelot shrugged. "It's not good to get too comfortable." He attacked then, and the two of them passed an enjoyable time trying to cut each other open.
After a few minutes, Lancelot asked, "No trouble at the library?"
"No." Tristan made a swift strike at Lancelot's seemingly exposed right side—the sword was in his left hand—and seemed almost to smile in approval as Lancelot casually tossed the sword from one hand to the other and parried. It was a move that had surprised no few people—to death—before Lancelot had started fighting exclusively with his pair of black swords (and mostly stopped throwing one during a fight). "No one took any interest in the book reader's sore-footed wanderings. Paranoid?" Tristan teased, although his tone remained flat.
Lancelot barked a laugh and made a swipe that might have taken off Tristan's head if Tristan had not ducked, quickly. Tristan was one to talk. "You'd better believe it. Especially since we don't even know the game that Merlin is playing, much less the rules."
A few minutes passed where the only sound was the clash of steel before Lancelot spoke again. "And the arms dealer?"
Tristan feinted left before striking right. "Under control. He's not going to try anything. But once we're done with him—" He very nearly smiled again, but it was an entirely different type of almost-smile. "He's not a nice man."
They exchanged a lightening flurry of blows. "If you think you can manage it without causing trouble," Lancelot said.
Tristan's expression did not shift, but he somehow looked affronted nevertheless. Lancelot well knew that Tristan had made it his business to look into this modern forensic science. It would not trip him up.
Lancelot grinned as he ducked a particularly vicious blow, and was given a blank look as Tristan realized that it was his turn to be teased. "Just let me know when you decide," Lancelot said. "In case we need to break you out of jail."
By mutual consent they came to a stop some time later. Usually, though not every time, Lancelot would win these matches, but not when he was fighting with one blade. As Tristan wiped down his sword and checked it over for any nicks, Lancelot said, "There's something else."
Tristan only raised an eyebrow.
Lancelot pushed back the damp curls on his forehead and he must have betrayed something of his uneasiness, because Tristan stared hard at him. "I may need you and Dinaden to keep an eye on what some of the knights are getting up to."
Arthur hung up the telephone and looked at it for a long while. He had known this was coming, but he had expected more time. He needed more time.
He let out a slow sigh and scrubbed his hand over his face. It would have to work out. Surely it would; he would not allow otherwise. Despite everything, since Lancelot had awoken, Arthur had been happier than he could ever remember being. His whole life he felt like he had been trying to gain a hold on peace, but that it had evaded his grasp. But now he had it. A bloodless struggle, a war of ideas, that he could embrace. He could strive to make the world better and not at the cost of the lives of any of his knights.
His knights. He smiled to himself. He had been able to get a lot more work done since Lancelot had returned. Before, he would have been distracted by worrying over what the knights were up to, and would have, over the course of the evening, had to make at least one round of the house, if only to make sure nothing was on fire—which had actually been a distinct possibility in the early days, since it had taken the knights a while to figure out the intricacies of a modern kitchen.
Now, though, he could leave the knights to Lancelot's caustic tongue—although, that meant Arthur had to worry about what Lancelot might be up to, which should have been entirely more frightening. The rest of the knights were quite capable of spreading destruction without even trying, but Lancelot's brand of havoc was on an all together different scale--and all too often it was specifically directed in Arthur's direction.
Arthur laughed at himself. The thought should have filled him with terror, but, at the moment, it only pleased him.
Sometime later, his study door opened. Arthur did not bother to look. Even in this house full of unruly knights, there was only one person who would barge in without knocking. He glanced up only when a stack of papers hit his desk. Lancelot was already peering over his shoulder at what Arthur was reading. "What is that?"
Lancelot looked like he had just come from a bath; his hair was still damp. He was dressed in a loose pair of sweatpants and a soft cotton, collarless shirt that Arthur realized was his. After their initial outing had not proved disastrous, Arthur had thought about offering to take Lancelot shopping, but, in truth, his courage was not quite up to it. "The speech I'm giving next week," Arthur answered him.
Lancelot immediately lost interest. Without warning, he spun Arthur's desk chair around, and straddled Arthur's lap. Rather than getting annoyed at the mannerless interruption, Arthur had to chuckle. As different as things were now, some things did not change.
Lancelot was apparently thinking along the same lines as he made himself comfortable. "I like this desk chair better than your old one," he told Arthur. "It's far more convenient. It spins." To demonstrate, he pushed off against Arthur's desk so that the chair twirled around. Arthur obligingly lifted his feet to allow it. Lancelot looked as delighted as a child.
At the pleased look on Lancelot's face, a sudden suspicious, if rather ridiculous, thought occurred to Arthur. Ridiculous—but then this was Lancelot he was dealing with. "Those skid marks in the hallway and the dents in the walls—Lancelot! I couldn't figure out what had caused them—but you've been playing with the desk chairs!"
Lancelot blinked at him innocently, but his eyes laughed at Arthur. "Playing? I'll have you know that Agravaine now has to do my kitchen duty for the next four months. You should thank me, since I break a lot of plates."
Arthur was torn between exasperation and laughter. "He breaks more dishes than you do. You lot were actually betting on chair racing?" He tried to imagine the knights engaged in such an activity, and it was actually all too easy to picture.
"Well in the absence of horses—" Arthur braced himself for a cutting remark, but it never came.
The pause gave Arthur time to realize—"Agravaine? However did you get him involved? I wouldn't have thought his dignity would allow it."
Lancelot's breath was warm against Arthur's throat, which he had taken to mouthing. He stilled, though, at Arthur's question. "He's easy enough to provoke."
Something in Lancelot's voice made Arthur wonder, but Lancelot had resumed his activity, and he did not want to risk another halt by asking. Lancelot was exceedingly good with his mouth.
Instead, Arthur turned his full attention to the matter at hand and let his fingers slide beneath Lancelot's shirt to run over his back. The sweep of Lancelot's warm skin under his palms, the play of the lean muscles, was sheer, sensual pleasure. He could not say that he missed the scars that had once littered this smooth landscape, although his fingers remembered the secrets of each invisible mark.
Lancelot lifted his head and wound his arms around Arthur's neck. He pressed closer and murmured in Arthur's ear, his hips shifting suggestively, "I do like this chair, but with the wheels, it's not quite stable enough for a good fuck." His tongue flickered out to trace the arch of Arthur's ear and his voice was a throaty purr when he added, "But you always did like having me over your desk better anyway."
Arthur shuddered at the feel of Lancelot against him and at the memories his words invoked. At the garrison, Lancelot's frequent interruptions of his paperwork had invariably ended first on the desk then in bed. His desk had been scarred with the marks left by Lancelot's nails scoring into the wood. Years after Lancelot had died, Arthur's fingers had continued to trace over those marks, and he had refused any attempt by Guinevere to replace the old, battered desk. She had managed it eventually. Eight years into their marriage, he had returned after a month in the field to find the desk gone. She had claimed that she had thought the larger, finer desk would please him. He had never been able to find out what had happened to the old one.
Pushing away the old ache, Arthur yanked Lancelot's head around for a hard kiss. Those days were over; he was here now, and Lancelot was with him. Nothing would take him away now. Arthur would not allow it.
He was abruptly too inflamed to wait any longer, and he stood, taking Lancelot with him. But rather than dumping Lancelot down onto the desk, he strode the few steps over to the couch. He tumbled them down on to the cool leather and yanked at Lancelot's clothes. Luckily, Lancelot had taken to wandering around barefoot, and the loose sweatpants were easy to strip off, despite the impatient fumbling of Arthur's hands. He did not bother trying to get the shirt off.
Lancelot was laughing breathlessly at him, but he obligingly fished out the tube from between the couch cushions as Arthur unfastened his own trousers. Arthur snatched at it. He did not like this modern stuff as much as the simple oil they had once used, but it was convenient. This particular tube had somehow taken up residence in the couch cushions shortly after Lancelot had woken.
With a growl, Arthur tried to turn Lancelot on to his stomach. The knight resisted at first—Lancelot preferred face to face, even if Arthur did not always, but he gave in after he got a look at Arthur's eyes.
There was much to be said for modern convenience; a few seconds later and Arthur was pushing into burning, clenching flesh. He had no care for finesse, as he grasped at Lancelot's hips, yanking them back as he shoved himself forward. Lancelot writhed underneath him, his long fingers clenching into the couch cushions. Arthur found a rhythm after a moment, a hard and unrelenting one. Lancelot was gasping out his name with each thrust, and Arthur managed to slide one of his hands around so he could grasp at Lancelot's arousal.
His whole being was focused on possessing the body beneath him. But however hard or deep he thrust, it wasn't enough, and even as the blinding ecstasy of his orgasm approached—too soon, too soon—he only wanted more.
"Mine," he hissed out before he bit hard into Lancelot's shoulder, which made Lancelot cry out and then convulse.
He collapsed on top of Lancelot, panting hard into the damp neck. It took him a while, but he finally forced himself up on arms that seemed to have turned to soft wax, and allowed Lancelot to turn over. He managed to pull off his shirt, which was clinging to him uncomfortably, before he collapsed back down. He was annoyed to then realize that Lancelot was still wearing his own shirt, but he could not move again, and at least now he could feel Lancelot's hands on his bare back. And even through Lancelot's shirt, he could feel the quickened beat of Lancelot's heart against his own.
He must have dozed off, because he awoke with a jolt, still on top of Lancelot, whose hand was now slowly stroking through his hair. Guilt stabbed through the haziness of his mind, waking him fully. He had been rough and hasty, but Lancelot would only get irritated if he tried to apologize for that. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry, I must be crushing you—you should have just pushed me off." He would have sat up, but Lancelot's arms did not release him.
"No, s'alright. Stay." Lancelot said drowsily. But Arthur had become aware of what a mess they were. His trousers were half on. He was still, he realized, a bit abashed, wearing his shoes. His skin was beginning to itch from the drying residue of sweat and their release, and he had little doubt they had stained the couch cushions.
He felt Lancelot sigh, and the constraining arms fell away. "You might as well get up before you start fidgeting."
Arthur gave the side of his face a clumsy, apologetic kiss before sitting up and tidying himself as best he could. Lancelot watched him with heavy lidded, lazy eyes.
Arthur glanced at his watch—a device he had developed a fondness for, much to Lancelot's disgust. "We might as well go to bed; it's late." He ran a coaxing palm down the long muscle of Lancelot's thigh.
Lancelot stretched a little, in cat-like contentedness. "I'm comfortable here."
Arthur smiled, enjoying what he could see of the lean muscles flexing under pale skin. "I remember now why I used to prefer the desk. It wasn't comfortable enough for you to get lazy. Up." He grasped one of Lancelot's hands and tugged.
With a dramatic, long suffering sigh, Lancelot allowed himself to be pulled to a sitting position and took his sweatpants from Arthur after Arthur had straightened them out. He was pulling them on when Arthur walked over to his desk and caught sight of the papers tossed untidily across his otherwise very tidy desk. He gathered them up and then furrowed his brows as he saw what Lancelot had scrawled in the blank left for him.
"Banson?" He looked over at Lancelot, a little irritated. "Is that a joke?"
Lancelot only looked back at him, unblinking. "No."
"You've looked at the Malory, obviously—"
Lancelot's expression had closed off. "I must never have mentioned it to you. My father's name was Ban. Though he was no king of anywhere, much less Gaul." He glanced aside, running his hand through his unruly hair. "Strange, isn't it? It makes you wonder what other bits are true amid all the lies."
Since Lancelot was not looking at him, he missed the change in Arthur's expression. Arthur turned away toward his desk and busied himself for a moment with his papers. "Bed?" he asked when he felt his face would give nothing away.
"You go. There's something I have to do first," Lancelot said.
Arthur nodded, and was still disturbed enough not to ask what it was Lancelot was up to. "Don't take too long," was all he said, managing a smile before he left the room. "Remember we're going to that meeting in the morning."
Lancelot used one of the downstairs bathrooms to wash and changed into some clothes he pilfered from the laundry room. Normally, he would not have cared, but he did not want to have this confrontation smelling of sex.
Lancelot was waiting in the room just off the back entrance when voices finally announced the return of the group of missing knights. Waiting never improved Lancelot's disposition.
"Agravaine," Lancelot said quietly, and had the brief pleasure of watching Agravaine start. He moved into the doorway. "There are quite a number of dishes in the kitchen wanting your attention."
The handful of knights with Agravaine greeted Lancelot without quite meeting his gaze before hurrying away, and Lancelot restrained a snarl of irritation. But one of them lingered, and he stared directly into Lancelot's eyes. Lancelot was startled by what he saw in that look. Fuck it! Lancelot cursed to himself as Galehaut finally turned away.
Which left him and Agravaine, who looked back at him belligerently.
"I had thought about simply dragging you down to the practice room and seeing if I could beat any sense into you," Lancelot said, almost conversationally, although his voice had taken on a smooth quality, like silk over a razor. Agravaine opened his mouth to retort, but Lancelot cut him off. The silk fell away, leaving only the deadly edge. "But then I realized you were far too stupid for that to work. So now you're going to explain to me what it is that you think you're doing."
Endnotes: The quotations used come from Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur. The section that Bors enjoys so much is from the speech that Lancelot's brother Ector gives when he arrives at the monastery to which Lancelot has retired to find that he has died. The full speech, which appears at the very end of the book (and which makes me giggle inappropriately), is:
"Ah Launcelot," he said, "thou were head of all Christian knights, and now I dare say," said Sir Ector, "thou Sir Lancelot, there thou liest, that thou were never matched of earthly knight's hand. And thou were the courteoust knight that ever bare shield. And though were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrad horse. And thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman. And thou were the kindest man that ever struck with sword. And thou were the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights. And thou was the meekest man and the gentlest that ever ate in hall among ladies. And thou were the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 06:45 pm (UTC)I can't read other KA fic now. Your Lancelot is just too perfect.
One little typo: Lancelot's breath was warm against Arthur's throat, which he head taken to mouthing. I'm assuming 'head' is supposed to be 'had'?
But that was so brilliant. Really :).
no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 07:16 pm (UTC)*kills evil typo* Pesky things. Thanks for pointing it out and thanks so much for reading and commenting!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 08:59 pm (UTC)Damn addicting AU's. :p
Still laughing at Kay and Lancelot's discussion.
And the fuck? Agravaine? *dies of anticipation*
*loves you*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 09:18 pm (UTC)I think I'm going to have a surprise for you a little later today (I need to see if I can get the next one done before I leave for The Production--just in case it ruins my glee).
no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 09:26 pm (UTC)A surprise? Yay!!!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 05:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 03:39 pm (UTC)I love the sex part so very hot. I could read pages of it.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-09 06:07 am (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-08 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-09 06:05 am (UTC)As for how Arthur died--I'm afraid we'll just have to wait and see. ; )
Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 02:54 am (UTC)Should I mention how mkuch I'm loving poor Tor? God, what it must feel to be reunited with one of your best friends (Gally) and realize that everything has changed, and that the world Tor remembers is one that Galahad and the others who lived longer think of as the fleeting past.
I do love how you've given credence to the fact that the knights would break up into cliques, depending on when they had died. The older group, in particular, would've barely known Arthur, and would've still had a tentative relationship with their, then, very young and stranger commander. I wonder how that group views his relationship with Lance, and whether a few of them feel usurped by him as Arthur's second, knowing that he wasn't always. And who was before him amongst them?
Thanks for the comic relief with Bors and all the Arthurian legend. I knew you would bring up Dag the jester AND Beaumains! Hey, you left out a certain Prince of Lyonesse and his back story (which no doubt would cause a few cautious/smothered guffaws)! :p
Oh, and the sex was hot. Fierce, rough and demanding, just perfect for the dynamic of these two. It reminded me of that one fic you did with them going at it after Badon Hill with Guin walking in. But this time, rutting on a leather couch, no less! **pant, gasp** I'm afraid I shan't recover.
Hmm, only a couple of things I would tweak. Surname, instead of last name. And as for the football scenes, well, they haven't played with a black and white ball professionally for quite some time now. The official ball of the Premiership is blue, white and black in the warmer months, and bright yellow, blue and black in the winter (for the World Cup, it's silver, white and black, I think).
Anyway, I know you're intentionally ambiguous about the exact location of D'Aubigny manor, but I do believe you should set it in East Anglia, with the prestigious University not too far away. I just thought about it when speaking to Riles (
Can't hardly wait! This is soooo good!
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 02:08 pm (UTC)Thanks for throwing in Dinaden in with Tris on the scouting mission. ;D
Strange, isn't it? It makes you wonder what other bits are true amid all the lies. Nice bit of foreshadowing there. Hmm, the plot thickens. Did I mention how much I'm loving this?
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 04:18 pm (UTC)It’s great to hear that you like Tor. Both by necessity and whim, I’ve been throwing in “original” knights all over the place, and I was a bit worried how it would work out.
Cliques do seem inevitable don’t they? I think there would be several interconnected layers even—the cliques that any large group would have left over from their prior lives (and these would be in flux as knights died), and the potential new ones that would develop now based on when they died. I think you might be reading my mind—or maybe I’m slightly better at setting things up than I thought :p—but yes, more on this subject will (hopefully) come into play.
Hehhe on the Malory stuff. I originally just wanted this fic to be a bit of fluff that featured L being teased about Malory (something that’s been pending since the opening chapter), but it morphed into this huge thing. And as for Tristan of Lyonesse, well perhaps Bors wasn’t so drunk as to actually tease Tristan about his harp? Perhaps we’ll see more on this later. And yes of course I couldn’t resist Dag the jester—and either can Bors, apparently.
I’m glad you liked the couch scene. : )
Thanks much for Britishism and soccer ball tip. Will fix those up. I guess I’ve completely given away that I don’t actually watch football at all. That part was inspired by you, btw. : )
East Anglia, huh? Wouldn’t that be ironic. Thanks for the suggestion, I’ll look into it and see how it might work out. Any idea how long it might take to get to London from there?
Oh, and Dinaden is probably going to making his entrance in the fic after next. I think you’ll be pleased--or maybe you’ll just want to chase after me with a mallet. It could go either way.
Thanks for reading and for all your lovely comments. It’s great to hear what you’re enjoying and it gives me ideas for later, since I'm so easily influenced, as you know. ; )
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 07:47 pm (UTC)I thought of East Anglia primarily because you had Lance attending Cambridge (which begs the question of which college: Kings, Queens, Christt's or Trinity College, amongst all of them). So you have both Cambridge and UEA. I know there's a big post-exam thing in June, called May (?!) Week, which is two weeks of public events and private parties and balls (perfect for a PR stunt). And there's the ferry depot in Harwich with access to Belgium, Holland, Germany, and Scandinavia, which is convenient for getting supplies in, and for sneaking out.
BTW, apparently Norwich used to be the largest trading town in the Anglo-Saxon days, if the information on the football club's website is correct.
Cambridgeshire/Cambridge proper would be the town the knights would be hanging around in. The main pub area is King Street.
I do believe that by rail, EA is about an hour and a half from London (which reminds me that my own commute is an hour door to door -- grr...)
no subject
Date: 2006-04-11 10:50 pm (UTC)Yes, those damn commutes--mine is verging on an hour now too, although it should only be taking about half that time. Stupid Lexington line has been getting progressively slower over the years.
Well, keep the mallet handy, just in case, although I don't promise not to run away.