King Arthur Fic: Ties to Bind (Resurrection AU), continued

[amari_z]

Continued from here



Bors was recovering from his hangover nicely with a few bottles of beer, a comfortable armchair and the television. He was barely feeling any after affects at all, and he was particularly pleased with himself since he had managed to swipe the last of the beer in the house. Tonight, he was definitely going out. There was no fun to be had in a house that had no drink. And no women.

He took a swig from the bottle in his hand and then looked up to see Lancelot walking by.

"Hey Lancelot," he bellowed, earning himself an annoyed look from Kay, which he happily ignored. Dagonet only rolled his eyes.

Lancelot looked around, eyebrow raised. "I see you're not too much the worse for wear." He smirked, although his heart did not seem to be in it. "How's your neck?"

Bors rubbed at it. He was enjoying being young enough again that passing out in odd positions did not really bother him. "As fine as the rest of me." Something was not right with the pissy bastard. Thinking to cheer him up, he asked, "Want to lay a wager?"

Lancelot came into the room, and cast a look at Kay's booted feet, which were propped up on the ottoman. "Found them, I see."

"Yes," Kay said. "Both pairs. Galahad turned out to be quiet helpful." His eyes glinted strangely for a moment.

"How badly did you damage him?" Lancelot asked, curious.

Kay smiled blandly. "Not at all. We only had a discussion. But he was kind enough to volunteer to clean the bathrooms."

"Which ones?" Bors asked, self interest piqued. His own was in quite a state.

"All of them, I believe. He's feeling quite industrious."

"You're evil," Lancelot said. He sounded admiring. Bors shuddered. He had gotten Kay angry at him no few times, and they were not experiences he liked to think about. He was never quite sure why Dag put up with the strange bastard.

"So, bet?" Bors demanded, wanting to get the conversation back on track. Literally. He gestured at the TV with his beer bottle.

"Horses?" Lancelot sounded almost wistful as he finally looked. His eyes fixed on the screen, watching as the horses were led to the starting gate.

"Yeah. Don't like to ride them, but still like to see 'em race. Odd folks, these modern people. So who do you like?" Bors pressed, scratching at his stomach. "Gareth there put money down on the grey."

Gareth shrugged from the depths of his armchair. "Felt lucky."

"They're gorgeous. But they're too finely bred. Their legs look too fragile," Lancelot said absently.

"They're only used for racing. And I'm not asking you to pick one for your charger, just bet on one," Bors said.

"The black. In the green and white colors," Lancelot said after another moment.

"You would pick a black one," Bors chortled. "How much?"

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, although his eyes did not stray from the TV. "What makes you think I have any money?" With a last lingering look at the horses on the screen, he left the room, but not before returning in kind the rude gesture Bors made at him.

Bors considered. Lancelot had always been a good judge of horseflesh. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for the bookies. It was not too late to change his bet. He did love some of these modern gadgets. Bloody damn convenient.

~

Arthur had spent the evening with the thought of the phone call he needed to make nagging at the back of his head. He had intended to make the call in the morning, while Lancelot was still asleep, but it had taken him longer than he had expected to speak to Kay. Kay had been rooting under his bed and highly distracted. He kept muttering something about boots. By the time Arthur had left Kay's room, the car that had been sent for him had already arrived, and there had been no time to make the call.

Right now, he had no idea where Lancelot was and when he might, in his usual fashion, barge in without warning. Given how late it was getting, he had nearly decided that he should go ahead and lock the door and make the call (and try to find an explanation if Lancelot should happen by), when the door clicked open.

Lancelot stuck his head in. "Are you still working?" he demanded.

Arthur had to laugh at the disgust in that tone. "Yes, I've a bit more to do."

Lancelot came inside. "Uh huh. Well, I suppose no matter where or when you go, you take yourself with you."

Arthur felt a chill. "What does that mean?"

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "It means that you're a workaholic wherever you go. You and your issue platforms." He perched on the edge of Arthur's desk, his bare feet balancing on the arm of Arthur's chair. It should have been a precarious position, but Lancelot looked utterly at ease. "I guess it's hard work to take over the world."

Arthur ignored that and merely said, "It would be helpful if you started learning about these things as well, Lancelot."

Lancelot snorted, "The only power I've ever wanted is the power to govern myself." Arthur wanted to argue—Lancelot needed to start learning about the political issues—but Lancelot's tone told him that trying to talk about this right now would get him nowhere.

"Anything I should know about the goings on out there in the house?" Arthur asked after a moment.

Lancelot snorted. "Most of them have gone off to get drunk. Don't worry, though, I told them not to do anything I wouldn't do." Lancelot slanted him a coy look from under his lashes.

Arthur grinned. "Well, that's reassuring."

"I'm sure. I'm going to bed. There's no entertainment in this house. There are only so many times I can listen to Galahad expound on the horror that is Bors's bathroom, I'm afraid."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not. Listening to him whine, though, you'd forget that he used to get latrine duty as punishment. These modern times have made you all soft."

Arthur sputtered at the "you all," but before he could speak, Lancelot prodded at Arthur's stomach muscles with his foot. "And speaking of soft." He grinned as Arthur batted at him. "When are you going to come down and go a few rounds with me?" His voice lost its mocking edge and he looked at Arthur seriously when he added, "We didn't have a copy of Excalibur made, but you can use one of the other swords."

Arthur swallowed hard and abruptly stood from his chair. The violence of the motion sent the chair jerking back. Lancelot came close to losing his balance, but he recovered gracefully, even though his eyes remained fixed on Arthur.

"I'm done with swords, Lancelot," Arthur said, voice harsher than he intended. "I won't stop you knights from practicing with them—I understand that now—but I'm never picking up one again." After his initial visit to check out the practice room, he had not ventured down there again. He was too afraid of the temptation.

Lancelot was watching him with eyes that had gone unreadable. They had discussed this before, but never so seriously, and Arthur had never put his position so starkly. Arthur withstood that scrutiny with difficulty, but he managed it.

Finally, Lancelot slipped off the desk and said, "If that's what you want." He went to the door, and said, "Don't work too much longer. After all, tomorrow's yet another day for it." And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Arthur scrubbed at his face and sat down again. He had expected an argument, and he was a little disturbed that he had not gotten one. What was it Lancelot had said: "Well, I suppose no matter where or when you go, you take yourself with you." But the truth of it was that there were certain parts of himself that Arthur would happily have left in the past.

He sat still for a long time, trying to calm his thoughts and remember that he was doing the right thing. The necessary thing. When he felt as calm as he was likely to get, he reached for the telephone and dialed the number from memory.

"Hello? Yes it's me. I'm sorry to call so late, but I wanted to let you know that Robert is sending you a copy of the plans he had drawn up. I've looked them over and they seem fine to me."

He listened for moment to the familiar voice, and said, "Yes, I'm sorry. I've been a bit preoccupied."

He winced internally at the quality of the silence on the other end of the phone—he could picture the expression that would be accompanying it—and added quickly "We should meet soon, though, to discuss the next few weeks. Dinner? I'm not sure of my calendar, but that should be fine."

~

Despite his weariness, Lancelot only skimmed the surface of sleep until Arthur came in sometime later. He was only vaguely aware of Arthur's entrance and quiet preparations for bed, but when Arthur banged into something in the dark and yelped, Lancelot managed a sleepy query.

Arthur slid into bed behind him. "Shhh. Nothing. I just hit my foot on the edge of the dresser. Go to back to sleep." He wrapped his arms around Lancelot, pressing up against Lancelot's back, his mouth against Lancelot's hair. Lancelot let himself be enveloped in the delicious warmth, and tried to sink closer to sleep. Although weariness seemed to be pushing on him like a crushing weight, sleep was proving elusive.

After a few moments, he rolled over, sprawling over Arthur. His head rested in the crook of Arthur's neck, so he could smell the scent of Arthur's skin now. He felt more than heard Arthur chuckle and the feel of Arthur breathing beneath him lulled him slowly as Arthur's hands moved soothingly over his skin. He never felt more at peace than when he was in Arthur's arms. He had long ago stopped agonizing over that, and he would not start again now.

He had drifted closer to sleep, when he became aware that one of Arthur's hands was slowly tracing over a place on his side, over and over. It took Lancelot a sleep mazed moment to realize that Arthur was tracing a scar that had once been there. It had been the ugliest of the many scars on Lancelot's body: thick, twisted and rigid. The wound had nearly killed him when he had been sixteen. He had spent weeks in feverish delirium, but the worst part of it was that he had been alone. He had been left behind as Arthur and the knights had gone off to perform whatever stupid mission they had been assigned. Those six weeks had been the longest that Lancelot had ever been parted from Arthur. Until he died.

Although his limbs felt heavy as stone, Lancelot caught Arthur's hand and twined his fingers around it. He pressed his lips to Arthur's neck, and murmured, "Go to sleep." He finally fell into sleep himself before he could see if Arthur had obeyed.

~

He turned and was slammed backwards by the force of the blow. He looked down at his chest to find the arrow protruding and, enraged, looked up to confront his killer.

No Saxon stood there, smug look to be wiped away as Lancelot's sword struck through his chest.

No. He squinted through the growing darkness at the tall man holding the crossbow. No, it could not be. Disbelieving, Lancelot collapsed to the ground with both his swords still in his hands just as his gaze met his killer's green eyes.

Godsdamnfuck! Lancelot woke with a gasp, and lay still for a moment, hand to his chest and trying to get control of his breathing. What in the name of all the gods that Lancelot did not believe in had that been?

After a moment, he realized, thankfully, that Arthur was still sleeping. Deciding he had had enough for the night, Lancelot slipped out of bed.

What he really needed was a drink. Or ten.

~

Gareth hummed softly to himself as let himself into the house. His evening had been very pleasant. A nice supper in the company of a lovely woman. What had come after dinner had been even better.

It was only a few hours before dawn, so Gareth was not surprised to find the downstairs completely dark. He headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, but a movement outside on the terrace caught his eye. Scooping up one of the larger knives from a drawer, he silently eased open the glass door, but then relaxed as he got a better look. There was no mistaking that silhouette. He left the knife on the counter.

"Did you know," Lancelot demanded, not pausing in his pacing, "that there's not a drop of alcohol anywhere in this house?"

Gareth took in the agitated movements, and answered with a calm, casual voice. "Well, it doesn't surprise me. Bors did get awfully drunk yesterday night. And you know how much he can drink. No wonder everyone took off in the evening. Tomorrow—or today, rather—is market day, so we're running low on a lot of things. Did you somehow miss Tor and Percival fighting over the last of the cereal?" Lancelot waved a dismissive hand. Rather than his usual smooth movements, it was a jerky gesture. Gareth rambled on. "I didn't get a good look at the kitchen. I hope you didn't make too much of a mess looking for something to drink. Dinaden's last day on kitchen duty is tomorrow. And he won't appreciate it if you ransacked the place."

Lancelot snorted, but as Gareth intended, as he listened, some of the hectic quality left his movements. Worked up like a high-stung horse, Gareth thought, not without affection. It had been sometime since Gareth had seen Lancelot in this state. Not angry—Lancelot was angry more often than he was not—but upset. But then again, usually there was alcohol ready to hand. Or Lancelot would simply saddle his horse and gallop off alone, uncaring of the consequences or dangers, giving Arthur fits.

He kept talking, keeping his voice matter of fact. "I think it's Gaheris's turn next to be the kitchen supervisor. What do you want to bet that Galahad ends up doing a lot of kitchen chores?"

"That's a loser's bet," Lancelot retorted. His pacing had slowed.

Gareth sat down against the house wall and tilted his head to look up at the stars. They were meek things here in this new world, not the fiery jewels he remembered. It was a few more minutes before Lancelot settled beside him. He fidgeted a bit, but eventually even that stilled. Gareth waited patiently.

"What the fuck are we doing here, Gareth?"

"Hell if I know," Gareth said calmly.

Lancelot drew up his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms about them. "We should be dead. We earned our deaths."

Gareth shrugged. "Maybe. But we're here, anyway. So we have to make the best of it."

Lancelot snorted. "If I had a coin for each time I heard you say that, I'd have been able to bribe my way out of the cavalry half way through our term."

Gareth smiled slightly. "Well, that was in slightly different circumstances, although the same principle applies. We just have to do the best we can. It's not so bad, is it?"

"I feel like I've been dropped into the middle of a strange forest with my hands tied and my eyes blindfolded and wolves howling somewhere in the distance," Lancelot retorted.

Gareth chuckled. "You always liked a challenge."

Lancelot's teeth flashed in the moonlight. "Is that what you call it?" His voice grew quiet again. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I don't even understand what the hell is going on. Is Arthur right, that there's no enemy to fight here? Then what the fuck are we doing here?"

"What do your instincts tell you?"

"Not to take either hand from my swords. I'll be damned if we're caught flat footed."

"And there you go."

"And if I'm wrong? If we're approaching this from the wrong angle and we're missing the real threat?"

"Then you're wrong. And we'll deal with the consequences."

There was a long silence, and Gareth kept waiting. This was just the test shot. Lancelot was really worried about these things, but they were not what had him pacing out here in the dark.

"Do you—?"

"Hmm?" Gareth responded mildly, not pressing.

"Do you remember your death?"

Gareth hid his surprise, and considered. "Yes, of course. It's what came after that which I can't quite recapture."

Lancelot was silent, so Gareth asked without any particular inflection. "Why?"

He felt Lancelot's shoulders shift in a shrug. "I wondered. It doesn't bother you—remembering?"

Gareth chewed at his lip. He had thought he had known where this was going, but they seemed to have taken a sudden left turn. Well, this was Lancelot. "No, not really. I mean, while I do remember, it's not really that vivid." He laughed softly, although the sound was not really one of amusement. "There's not that much emotion attached, oddly. My memories of being taken from home are actually a lot clearer. Strange, considering that they're far older."

He could feel Lancelot's gaze in the dark. "Is it like that for the others?"

"I think so. From those I've talked to. It makes sense, I guess. If you're going to go through the trouble of resurrecting a bunch of warriors, you would hardly want them traumatized by their violent deaths, would you?"

Lancelot did not answer, and his fingers began to drum on his leg again.

Gareth judged that the time for patience was over. "What's really bothering you?" he asked bluntly.

Lancelot's fingers continued to fidget. "Bothering me? What could bother me? I'm a selfish, self-centered bastard, haven't you heard?"

Gareth turned to look at him, completely startled. "What?"

Lancelot shook his head, dismissing the brittle words. "Dreams," he said at last. "I can't seem to clear my head of them."

Gareth settled back and considered. "Well, drinking is hardly likely to help that."

"But it's fun."

Gareth laughed and stood up. He should have thought of this before. "Get some real clothes on." He glanced at Lancelot's bare feet. "And boots."

"Why?"

"Just do as you're told, pup." Gareth reached down and provokingly ruffled curly hair, earning himself a whacked hand as Lancelot jerked away. "Meet me in the garage in fifteen minutes. We're going somewhere." He went back inside, expecting to be obeyed.

Heading to his own room to change, Gareth considered who to wake up and take along. Going on instinct, he banged on the door two down from his own.

Grumbling voices and then a crash sounded from inside. "Well, if you're out of bed anyway," a muffled voice said, "you get the door."

A few moments later, the door opened and a sulky looking Galahad appeared. He scowled at Gareth. "What?" he demanded.

"The house better be on fire," came from inside the room. That was Gaheris.

"You lot, get up and get dressed," Gareth commanded.

"Why?" Galahad demanded. Gawain's head popped out from under the bed covers, his hair standing up crazily.

"Because I said so," Gareth reprimanded him, but then relented. "We're going for a ride." Galahad blinked at him in sleepy irritation for a moment before his eyes lit up.

~

Gawain glanced behind him into the back seat. Galahad and Gaheris were still bickering, as they had been since before they had gotten into the car. When Gareth had said he was the one who was going to drive—in that tone of voice they all listened to, although he rarely used it—Gawain had expected Lancelot to win the front seat, but Lancelot had not entered the fray. So while Gaheris and Galahad argued, Gawain had calmly slipped past them into the car. The sound of the door slamming had startled them into quiet, but that had not lasted long.

In truth, Gawain pretty much tuned them both out most of the time.

Gawain's eyes shifted over to Lancelot, who was sitting behind the driver's seat. To his surprise, Lancelot's head was leaning against the window, his eyes closed. Gawain narrowed his eyes. He was asleep? It was unlikely. But then Gawain took in the looseness of the long limbs and the hand that lay on his lap, palm upturned and fingers limp.

Gawain had known Lancelot very well for a long time. He was actually asleep, and in an utterly relaxed attitude that Gawain had rarely seen.

It's because he feels safe,Gawain realized. He's in this enclosed place and he trusts us completely. He can even sleep through all the noise those two fools are making. He felt a stab of guilt.

He looked over at Gareth and caught his eyes flickering back to Lancelot as well. Although Gareth had not explained, it was easy to figure out what had prompted their outing. Lancelot looked worn and fit to snap and Gareth was worried.

"Does he know something?" Gawain murmured quietly to Gareth.

Gareth was one of the few that had been told. Gawain, Galahad and Bors had known all along, of course, but they had only told the full truth to a few of the others—Dag, Kay, Gaheris and Gareth. They had not even told Tristan, because they had all known that one word and Tristan would have gone straight to Lancelot. Tristan would never keep a secret from Lancelot. Lies breeding more lies, Gawain thought uneasily to himself. He dreaded the day that he might have to look Lancelot in the eye and lie to him outright. He was not sure he could do it. Galahad was not the only one who did not like the idea of lying.

Somehow, things seemed like they might have been easier in the old days. Even though they had been dying one by one, they had always been honest with one another.

Gareth's eyes flickered to the rear view mirror before he answered. "I don't think he suspects. It's something else."

"What?"

"I don't know. Or maybe he does sense that we're hiding something. He's no one's fool."

No, not usually. But Gawain did not even really understand why it was that they had to keep silent in the first place—only that Arthur had asked them to. What harm, really, would there be if Lancelot knew what had happened? Gawain did not know, but Arthur had seemed so serious about it.

Gawain glanced back again, and was alarmed to realize that the fingers of Lancelot's hand had tensed.

"If you two don't shut up," Lancelot said, speaking to Gaheris and Galahad without opening his eyes. "I'm going to tell Gareth to speed up and then I'm going to toss you both out of the car."

Gawain heaved a cautious sigh of relief. Even if Lancelot had been awake when they had been talking, Galahad and Gaheris's voices should have been loud enough to cover what they had been saying.

They reached their destination just as the sun was rising. Lancelot's eyes were opened and he was looking out of the window along with the rest of them. "How did you—?" he began to ask.

Gareth chuckled. "You're not the only one who can scheme." He pulled the car to a stop, and they all got out and moved eagerly to the rail. "I'm courting the owner of this place," Gareth added, sounding self-satisfied. He turned to wave to a tall woman who was striding toward them with a bright smile on her face. Gawain did not find her pretty—her face was too strong for it—but she had an air of competence about her, and Gareth did not much fix on that sort of thing anyway.

Lancelot did not seem to be listening. He was watching the horses. His interest seemed to focus on a tall, dark horse, who was alone in a separately fenced area. The horse had paused in his grazing and was watching Lancelot back. Without waiting, Lancelot slipped between the rails and slowly approached.

"I took you at your word," Gareth said to the woman, as she joined them at the fence.

"You're welcome anytime." She smiled at them. "These are your brothers, then?"

"Yes. Gawain, Gaheris, Galahad and the mannerless cur out there is Lancelot."

She seemed amused by their names, but then her eyes went over to the field and widened in alarm. "Your brother Lancelot's likely to get bitten. Or worse. That one, I just bought him. He's been ill-treated and he's vicious."

Gaheris laughed. "The horse won't bite him." The morning breeze carried back to them the low murmur of Lancelot's voice as he spoke to the horse in Sarmatian. The horse was listening, his ears cocked forward.

Lancelot stopped moving while still a few feet from the horse. The horse watched him, as though puzzled. It whinnied at him and then stamped a foot. It was the horse who closed the distance between them, taking the last few steps and then tentatively thrusting his muzzle at Lancelot's chest, wanting to be petted. Gareth's woman whistled low in surprise. "I've never seen anything like that. He tries to bite at me.

Gawain glanced at her, and gave her a kind, if somewhat condescending, smile. She might have sense enough to surround herself with horses even in this modern world, but she was not of their people. "Whatever shape is worn, kin recognizes kin. Some ties can never be broken." Even if you wished they could be, he thought, but then dismissed the dark thought.

Galahad, eyes bright, was pulling at Gareth's sleeve, like a child. Or a little brother. "Ask her," he demanded in Sarmatian. "Ask her if we can ride."

Comments

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

So sasha_b has been pushing the crack? Well, she should, since it's her fault it went from being this little amusing scenario to this huge, long thing. Really, I had another series I'm supposed to be writing. ; )

I'm flattered that you stayed up late to read it all--it's getting pretty long, so I hope you're not too sleep deprived. : )

I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the group dynamics. Once I went from pure silliness to having to come up with some kind of plot-like thing, it seemed obvious that this would be a huge factor.

Oops, sorry, I'm being called, so I'll finish replying later.

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

Okay, sorry. I have returned. : )
.
As I started to say, I’m glad to hear that the group dynamics issue seems realistic to you, and it was interesting to hear about your singing group. People are fascinating, but people interacting in a group--well that’s a whole other layer of amusement.

Stop teasing and tell? But that wouldn’t be any fun. ; ) I’d love to hear your theories if you’re inclined.

Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I’m glad you‘re enjoying the series. I noticed you friended me, and I’m happy to friend you back. : ) It’s always fun to meet someone new in this fandom.