King Arthur Fic: Haunted

[amari_z]

Title: Haunted
Warnings: None
Notes: A strange little story that somehow wanted to get out.



To the people of Britain, their king is a solitary man. There are those who surround him, of course. First, and never to be dismissed, is his queen, and there are also his knights and loyal followers, servants and officials. But it is a fitting image for a king to appear alone—for only one man can lead a charge, only one man can stand on the highest point, only one man can wear the crown.

But what they never guess is that the stern man who stands so straight and solitary before them is never alone. He is accompanied wherever he goes by a ghost.

And not a silent, wispy thing, content with sending forth cold chills and soft moans. Not this ghost.

~

You shouldn’t trust him. He’s lying. The ghost is pacing around the back of Arthur’s chair, restless and irritated with this activity, but unable to keep from commenting. Just look at the way his eyes shift about. Like a snake.

Arthur pays the ghost no heed, even when it comes and sits insolently on the arm of his chair, something no one else, corporeal or otherwise, would dare. The easiest thing would be to simply lop his head off before he slithers away. But you won’t. You’ve always been a fool.

Arthur does not acknowledge the voice, but he studies the official before him with a little more care. Rather than simply dismissing the man and accepting his report, Arthur asks a few more questions, and watches as the man’s eyes do shift about. He is not really surprised when he learns two months later that the man has been lining his own pockets with the funds meant for road repair.

The ghost is not gracious enough to refrain from saying that it told Arthur so.

~

Despite the fact that the ghost hardly ever seems to shut up, Arthur never talks back to it. This does not seem to deter the ghost, which appears to know what Arthur is thinking merely by watching him. This ability might have disconcerted Arthur, if he had even noticed it. But he is used to having a companion who can read his thoughts merely with a look.

~


Arthur first noticed the ghost a few days after the battle, although he is not sure how long it might have been around before that. He had been so focused on moving forward, on not thinking of all he had lost, that he had not looked back long enough to realize that he was being followed. Not until the ghost had spoken.

It had happened when Arthur had been readying Lancelot’s horse for a ride. Not many people could ride Lancelot’s stallion, and while both Gawain and Galahad had offered, Arthur had decided to take the horse out himself.

One might think that the first words heard from a ghost would be significant—telling in someway. And perhaps there is some significance to be gleaned from the fact that the first words Arthur heard the ghost say were, Who said you could ride my horse?

Or perhaps not.

Arthur, who had been about to swing into the saddle, actually lost his balance and fell, landing on his arse in the mud.

He had looked up to find both the horse and the ghost looking down at him, wearing what looked to Arthur like identical smirks.

~

It was too bad, then, that Arthur did not actually believe in ghosts. But the first few weeks after the ghost had begun following him about, Arthur had given up and gone to the cemetery, thinking that, if indeed it was a ghost he seemed to be seeing, this would—not banish the ghost, he did not like that idea—but allow it to go to its rest. And leave Arthur be.

It had not worked out.

Why bother burning my body if you were just going to leave my swords in this pathetic cemetery anyway? The ghost seemed both amused and irritated. Stupid waste of perfectly good steel. It squatted by the swords that were stuck in the ground beside where they had burned Lancelot’s body a few weeks ago. It touched one of the hilts, but then sighed. You always miss the point, don’t you?

After a few moments of silence, the ghost looked at him, dark eyes glaring. If you’re here to pray, you are really going to piss me off.

Arthur did not answer, but remained kneeling by the swords. The ghost got bored watching him after awhile and wandered off around the cemetery, pausing here and there. Arthur found himself watching it, and noticed that it followed the exact path that the man who once wielded the twin swords used to walk when he came to visit his fallen brothers, except it made two extra stops, by the two newest graves.

Arthur found watching this disturbing.

~

The only time that the ghost is silent is when Arthur is with Guinevere. Then it disappears altogether. Sometimes, Arthur wonders where it goes, but then he quickly dismisses the thought.

The ghost, who infallibly has a comment to make about everything Arthur does, seems to have nothing to say about Guinevere.

~

Bors, Gawain and Galahad cannot see the ghost. When the four of them are alone, Arthur sometimes hopes that they will see the fifth presence, sitting with indolent ease among them, as though it belongs there. But they never do.

That does not seem to matter to the ghost, which includes itself in the conversation anyway.

“And do you remember how Lamerok mistook that wild boar for an enemy?” Bors reminisces.

“It chased him half way back to the garrison,” Gawain says.

He screamed the whole way like a little girl.

The talk continues, and, after awhile, as though unable to sit still, the ghost rises from its chair, and prowls around the room. Arthur is not distracted by this. He learned years ago to ignore such behavior.

The ghost comes to a stop by Bors’s chair and studies the knight. Bors is getting even fatter, the ghost observes, grinning slyly, eyes gleaming wickedly. Pretty soon you’re not gong to be able to find him a horse large enough to carry that girth. You’ll have to send East for one of those elephant creatures. Arthur hides his laugh as a cough.

Oddly, the knights, for all that they reminiscence, never mention Lancelot. Whenever one of them starts, the subject is quickly changed. Arthur is not sure why they do that.

~

Sometimes, the ghost just talks to him, as a friend might. It talks about all kinds of things, but what it always seems to return to is telling him about a wide plain, which spreads from horizon to horizon, and the freedom to wander like the wind.

~

That’s a stupid idea.

Arthur is peering blearily at the maps spread before him. There is a rebellion brewing in one of the northern tribes, and the rebel leader has been negotiating with the Saxons for aid. Arthur’s intelligence tells him that the Saxon force will be landing in three days, and Arthur is planning a surprise for the surprise invasion force.

Look, there and there. A long graceful hand gestures to the map. Arthur blinks and squints tiredly, trying to see it. The ghost throws up its hands in disgust and then throws itself dramatically into a chair. It would help, maybe, it tells him, tone caustic, if you slept once in a while.

Arthur continues to stare at the charts. The ghost sighs then and rises from its chair, and kneels by Arthur’s, hand going to Arthur’s face. The gesture, for all the acid tone of the ghost’s words, looks gentle, although Arthur cannot actually feel the touch of the hand that appears to rest against his face.

After a moment, the ghost rises and moves away, and its dark eyes seem almost sad. Arthur looks back at the map and then it strikes him, what a horrible mistake he almost made. The surge of fear that accompanies the realization brings him awake and he grabs for the orders he has drafted and begins to rewrite them.

Later, in his prayers, he remembers to thank God for His grace in letting Arthur realize he was making such a grievous mistake.

~

One year after Badon Hill, there is a celebration and a remembrance. There is feasting, dancing and music. The minstrels sing songs of the battle, the most popular of which is the tale about the noble, brave knight who saved the beautiful queen’s life at the cost of his own.

The ghost watches the proceedings, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in contempt. Later, when the feasting is over, and Arthur is alone, the ghost is strangely quiet, although Arthur has been expecting to be treated to a long, exacting exposition on why today’s events were utterly idiotic.

The silence lasts so long that he glances up from the papers he is reading to make sure the ghost is still there. It is. It is sitting in the windowsill, one long leg drawn up, staring out over the night. Arthur has long since grown used to the tightening in the back of his throat when the ghost adopts these familiar postures. If he had not, he would have long ago gone mad, for everything the ghost does is familiar to him.

The ghost does not notice his scrutiny. It makes him feel odd. The ghost has never ignored him before. “Why—” the word escapes his mouth before he realizes it.

The ghost’s head whips around, and it stares at Arthur with wide, astonished eyes. If Arthur has been telling himself that the ghost does not care that Arthur has not spoken to it once in the entire year of its presence, Arthur has been telling himself a lie.

The ghost opens its mouth and then shuts it before simply asking, Why what?

Arthur stares back. He has perhaps been telling himself that if he doesn’t acknowledge the ghost’s presence, it is not real. “Why,” he says slowly, “are you here?”

The ghost looks back at him, shocked, but then realization dawns in its eyes, which is quickly followed by a familiar, bitter, protective smirk. You haven’t let me leave.

“Me? I—”

The ghost’s smirk slides away, as do its eyes. I tried to give you what you wanted. But now you won’t let me go.

Arthur finds himself on his feet, rage tightening his fists. “I never wanted—!”

I tried to tell you, but you never listened. So I tried to give you what you seemed to want. And now I can only talk and talk, and you still don’t listen. Is it your God who has such a cruel sense of humor? The ghost lets out a brittle laugh. If it is, perhaps I like him better than I thought. But I wonder who is being taught the lesson—you or I?

“Lancelot—” the name breaks from his lips for the first time in a year.

Lancelot looks back at him with dark eyes full of longing. I’d go, Arthur, if only you’d let me.

Comments

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

Thanks, Ash. I'm glad you liked it. It was a little strange, and probably could use some rewriting ^^; but oh well. And I figured that Lancelot as a ghost (whether real or imagined) would be nothing less than utterly himself.

Thanks for reading!