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amari_zTitle: Dangerous Games
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, Myths, Legends and Lies, Lessons in Deportment, Ties to Bind, The Shopping Expedition and this one.
Notes: Um, “gallus” is Latin for rooster. Why am I telling you this? No reason, but Lancelot wanted you to know. He thinks he is funny.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b and darklyscarlett for typo squashing and pre-reading. As always, any feedback welcome—whatever you want to say.
God is not averse to deceit in a holy cause. —Aeschylus
We are never deceived, we deceive ourselves. —Goethe
Arthur ran his fingers through damp curls, his hand sliding downward to cup the fragile base of Lancelot's skull. Lancelot's head was a drowsy weight on Arthur's thigh. He had woken Arthur with long, slow kisses this morning, and since, for once, Arthur had no appointments until afternoon, Arthur had let him have his way.
Arthur finally roused himself a bit from his haze of mindless satisfaction and twined his fingers into dark hair, pulling a little. "I thought you were angry with me."
He felt Lancelot smile against his skin. "I think we're even. For now. Unless you're actually asking for some punishment." He lifted his head, so that his chin rested on Arthur's hipbone, and gave Arthur a wicked smile.
Arthur chuckled. "Heaven forefend." Arthur had fallen asleep before Lancelot had come to bed last night, so Arthur had not been sure what sort of reception awaited him after their trip to London. But Lancelot seemed to think that laughing at Arthur's struggle with automotive repairs was revenge enough for Arthur's trickery about the shopping.
As he stared into Lancelot's eyes, Arthur could not help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. Lancelot looked back, the edge of his own smile softening. Despite the languid peace he had been feeling just a moment before, the sight still made Arthur's stomach tighten. Lancelot's smile widened.
After a moment in which Lancelot made no move, but simply continued to watch him, Arthur demanded, "What are you doing down there still?"
Lancelot, eyes alight, deliberately misunderstood. "Did you forget already? It has do with proximity to your co—"
Arthur got a hand over Lancelot's mouth before he could finish. "Vulgar," he chided.
Looking not the least bit repentant, Lancelot rolled his eyes and then gave a wet lick to the palm of Arthur's hand. Arthur was startled enough to jerk his hand away, which released Lancelot's snickering laughter.
Such a child. "Come here," Arthur elaborated.
Obligingly, Lancelot crawled up Arthur's body, pausing only to brush his lips over Arthur's heart. Arthur used the hand still in Lancelot's hair to pull him down into a kiss.
"This is nice," Arthur murmured after a few minutes. He could still taste himself in the depths of Lancelot's mouth. He had always liked that.
Lancelot brushed his lips along Arthur's jaw. "You're the one who's always in a hurry." Lancelot had spent the morning lazily exploring Arthur's body with hands, lips and tongue, something that Arthur rarely had the fortitude to endure for long. It was a strange thing that, between them, Arthur was the far more impatient in bed. Lancelot, who seemed to have no degree of patience in any other part of his life, occasionally delighted in slow, languid love play. Arthur had long ago realized that Lancelot was a sensualist at heart, and he seemed to enjoy giving pleasure nearly as much as receiving it.
Lancelot's mouth had moved down to Arthur's neck, and Arthur shivered. "You still smell strange," Lancelot murmured into his skin.
"I told you," Arthur said, voice taking on a husky edge, his hands stoking slowly over the silky skin of Lancelot's back. "It's men's perfume. Some worker at the shop sprayed it on me." He had confessed the whole thing to Lancelot earlier this morning, under the pressure of a torturously skilled mouth.
"I don't like it," Lancelot said, tone imperious.
Arthur chuckled. "Shall I get up right now and take a bath, sir?"
"Don't you dare." Lancelot raised his head and glared. "You said you were free until noon."
"Another hour," Arthur said as he automatically turned his head to look at the clock on the nightstand. "I have to get ready— Ow! Lancelot!"
Lancelot did not look the least remorseful, although he did kiss the place he had bitten after he muttered something about "bloody clocks."
It seemed a good a moment as any. "I won't be back until late tonight," Arthur said, striving for a casual tone. Lancelot made an inquiring noise as his mouth did something that made Arthur gasp. After a moment, Arthur continued, "A late morning means a late night. I have a dinner meeting." And this indulgent morning spent in bed had absolutely nothing to do with guilt over where he was going tonight.
Lancelot raised himself up on an elbow and looked down at Arthur with heavy lidded eyes. For a moment, Arthur was afraid he would read something in Arthur's expression. But then Lancelot's eyes flickered down to study Arthur's neck. Arthur relaxed, but he reminded himself to check in the mirror for marks before he went out. He knew that self-satisfied look.
"When will you be back?" Lancelot asked, barely even sounding interested.
"I'm not sure, but fairly late."
"Well, I guess I'll just have to find something to amuse myself with, then." Lancelot looked up at him from beneath his lashes. "Or someone."
Knowing he was being deliberately provoked, Arthur still growled at the insufferable man. Lancelot laughed as Arthur knocked his elbow out from under him and, in a swift surge of motion, pinned Lancelot down on his back. Lancelot, unperturbed by this reversal, merely smirked up at Arthur.
"Unless, of course," Lancelot raised an eyebrow and then arched his hips into Arthur's, "you sufficiently wear me out."
Arthur took that as a challenge.
~
Gawain shut the door on the stiffly polite driver. He turned and caught sight of Tor coming down the stairs. "Go back up and tell Arthur his car is here, will you?" he asked.
Tor looked like he might protest, but evidently something made him think better of it—perhaps the memory of spending last night scrubbing at the kitchen floor until the small hours of the morning—and he turned around and stomped back up the stairs.
He reappeared after a few moments. "He said he's coming." He was chewing his lip as he came down the stairs. At Gawain's inquiring look, he shrugged. "He called through the door—but he sounded kind of . . . mad."
Gawain thought about that a moment and then smiled.
Tor gave him an odd look, but did not ask. "I'd better go out to the garage." He seemed in a hurry to get away before Arthur came down. It was easy to forget sometimes that, for the ones like Tor, Arthur remained rather stern and distant. Too bad that the boy had rushed off. He might have learned something.
Gawain sat himself down on the steps to enjoy it. He had to wait for Lancelot, anyway.
Sure enough, Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, and Gawain watched, amused at the uncommon sight of Arthur flustered and rushing. "Late are you?" he called. Arthur, wet hair still dripping into his collar, merely gave him a displeased look as he passed by while struggling to stick his arm into his coat sleeve and nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces.
Gawain tried to keep the smile off of his face. Arthur loathed tardiness. Only one person ever got Arthur in this state. Lancelot was notorious for the easy attitude he took toward time—at least when it came to other people's.
"The driver's waiting in the car," Gawain informed Arthur, helpfully. "He seems a friendly sort." Really, though, his manner had put Gawain in mind of one of those eyes-straight-ahead guards important Romans seemed to like having around. Unpleasantly self-important and utterly useless to boot. "You know, Arthur, one of us could have driven you. You didn't have to ask for a driver."
Arthur shook his head as he finally managed to get his coat straightened out. He knelt down to tie his shoelaces. "Thank you, but there's no need for any of you to spend hours waiting for me." Gawain raised his eyebrows at that, but kept silent. They had all spent hours waiting on Arthur as he attended some meeting or other—now as well as back in the past. But if Arthur did not want any of them to come, so much the better. The knights had plans and this way everyone could go.
Shoes dealt with, Arthur straightened and nodded a curt goodbye before flinging the front door open and striding out. He very nearly forgot to shut the door behind him, but then he jerked backward and swung around to grab at the handle. The sound of the door slamming was joined by the sound of Gawain's laughter.
It was about ten minutes before Lancelot appeared and descended the curving staircase. Unlike Arthur, he was neither flustered nor in the process of finishing dressing. He was even wearing his shoes, as Gawain learned when he nudged at Gawain's back with his foot. "What are you doing sitting here? Is everyone ready?"
"Yeah, everyone's ready to go. They're already outside in the garage. We were just waiting for Arthur to leave. And for you." Gawain stood up.
Lancelot clomped down the last of the stairs. "Are the cars sorted?"
"There were some disputes," Gawain acknowledged. "But Gareth straightened it out." He cast Lancelot a look as he followed the man toward the door. "You're not driving."
Lancelot turned his head to look at Gawain, one displeased eyebrow raised.
"Gareth said you didn't have a driver's license, so it would be too risky. You know, in case you got stopped by the police." And Gawain, who had been sitting in the car when Lancelot had learned to drive, thought that it was actually pretty likely that Lancelot would get pulled over, given the speeds he seemed to prefer and the enthusiasm with which he spun the steering wheel about. It was strange that a man who had such a light touch with horseflesh had such a heavy-handed (and heavy-footed) approach to automobiles.
But Gawain kept those thoughts to himself. Lancelot might be in a fairly mellow mood given what he had no doubt just been up to with Arthur, but Gawain was not one for taking unnecessary risks, especially given the other news he had to impart. Gawain cleared his throat and said causally, "You're riding with Kay, by the way."
Lancelot's eyes narrowed and he scowled. "He drives slower than Arthur." Kay was one of the only knights who was meticulous about observing the speed limit. He was also one of the few who could be guaranteed to not be tricked, intimidated, or otherwise wheedled by Lancelot into surrendering the driver's seat. Gareth was actually quite a devious bastard, come to think of it.
As Lancelot continued to scowl, Gawain thought a change in subject might be a good idea. "Speaking of Arthur, shame on you for sending the poor man out with wet hair. He'll catch a cold." He was not quite able to keep from grinning.
"He'll survive. It's not my fault if he can't keep track of time," Lancelot said. "Especially given his fondness for watches." Lancelot stuck a hand in a pocket as though checking for something. He was better than Gawain at keeping his face straight, although he did look quite smug.
That smugness only intensified when, on the way out the garage, Gawain asked, "And what was that mark on his neck? Looked like something bit him."
~
With a last heave of effort, Arthur swung Excalibur. The Saxon giant toppled, dead at last, but Arthur felt little satisfaction. His limbs were leaden, the wound to his side, where the Saxon's blade had pierced through his amour, was screaming even as it seemed to drain the strength from him.
But it was not over. The smoke billowed around him, carrying with it the shrieks of the triumphant and the screams of the dying. Forcing his body to obey him, Arthur turned to check the state of the battlefield, his eyes, even though he knew better, instinctively seeking out the familiar forms of his knights. As he turned, he staggering back and pain flared in his chest.
He blinked stupidly into the rage-contorted face of the young Saxon who had led the ill-fated expedition on the ice. The man was screaming at him, but Arthur could not hear the words over the roaring in his ears. He concentrated instead on bringing up his sword and watched with vague interest as the Saxon's head fell away from his body. But then Arthur too was falling and he found himself blinking up at the fire-darkened sky. Someone was frantically crying his name, but it was not the voice he wanted to hear, so he let the darkness wash through him.
Arthur woke with a violent start, heaving forward until something jerked him back. He was panting as his gaze swung around and it took him several moments to understand where he was. The car. He was sitting in the backseat of the car, the seatbelt fastened around him. He had fallen asleep.
God. Arthur had not had that dream since he had been resurrected. Once, it had been a recurring nightmare. Dying at Badon Hill. But worse than dying—being alone. In the dream, his knights had not come back to him, and it was Arthur alone who paid the price of his choice to stay behind and fight.
He took a deep breath. Why had he started to dream this again now, when he had not dreamed it once in the year since he had been brought back? He was not alone now. Far from it. At last, all of his knights were with him. Lancelot was here now.
But perhaps the reason was clear enough. He had always blamed Merlin for stirring up the thoughts in his head in the first place, and if he was not mistaken—he checked out the window—he was very nearly at Merlin's house for their scheduled afternoon meeting.
He glanced at his wrist to check the time and realized he had forgotten his watch in his hurry to get dressed. Damn that Lancelot, Arthur though, but despite the dread that the dream left coiling through his gut, his mouth still crooked slightly upwards.
~
Bruenor lowered the weapon from his shoulder and let out a triumphant war whoop as the target disappeared in a burst of flames.
"I want to try next," Yvain was demanding, barely beating Owein, whose voice echoed his, while Percival complained that it was his turn.
Lancelot whistled low in his throat. It was one thing to be told about what these modern weapons would do, another thing to see it. A child with that weapon in his hands could take out a fully armored knight—make that a whole company of knights.
Imperturbable as a rock amid the excitement, John Doe merely looked on, arms crossed over his narrow chest, expression—if he was capable of one—hidden by mirrored glasses. It was one of John Doe's lieutenants who spoke up, telling Gareth, "It will take out anything short of a tank. And, as you can see, it's easy to operate."
"It must be if Bruenor figured it out in one go," Urré called. Bruenor, who had surrendered the weapon into the hands of another of John Doe's men, began to protest vociferously at the slight against him.
The knights had spent the afternoon in this large area of fenced-off, empty land. They had entered through a gate on which all kinds of dire posting were featured. To Lancelot's surprise there seemed to be no personnel guarding this "Property of the British Army—Keep Out." Only John Doe and his five men had been waiting for them at the entrance, with the gate already unlocked.
They had found John Doe—the name seemed to have some sort of joke surrounding it, but Lancelot was not sure what it was—after many discrete inquiries when it had become clear that the knights did need training in the uses of the modern weapons they were busily acquiring. Their homemade firing range was all well and good for small arms target practice, but it was hardly a place to learn strategy or to try out the bigger things.
When Lancelot and Gareth had first met with John Doe, Lancelot had been a bit taken aback by his appearance. Short, stick thin and bespectacled, he had hardly been what Lancelot had expected. But times were different now and it seemed physical size and strength were no longer prerequisites for warfare—if they ever truly had been. Besides, after less than thirty seconds in the man's presence, Lancelot had recognized the cool killer that gazed out from behind the man's seemingly placid gaze.
John Doe, his flat American accent sounding odd to Lancelot's ears, had only asked why they wanted weapons training once. When Lancelot, much to Gareth's horror, had replied, "world domination," the man had not so much as blinked. His eyes had remained on Lancelot as Gareth had quickly jumped in with their story—they were the employees of an up and coming politician with some rather unconventional views, and, given today's climate, it seemed prudent for them to surround their candidate with men who knew the basics of how to handle weapons. It was even true—in its way.
Really, though, the man had not seemed to care. He had simply gone on to state his fee. His reputation was that he would provide his expertise to anyone who could pay his price and then keep his mouth shut. Lancelot could respect that—it was exactly what they needed, after all.
Today had only been the basics. Cleaning, loading and discharging weapons, ad nauseam. Tedious, but necessary. But if nothing else, it had brought home that a true soldier in this new world would be as familiar with his modern weapons as Lancelot had been with his swords—the intuitive knowledge developed over years of carrying the object and knowing that your life depended upon it. Just as Lancelot had known to a hair's breadth the length of his blades, a modern warrior would know the parameters of his own weapon.
Lancelot found that idea both reassuring and not. It was reassuring to know that, as much as things seemed to have changed, they really had not, but it had been annoying to realize that after a lifetime of learning every weapon that had come to hand, they were now greener than the most stupid of infantry recruits. Thankfully, while Lancelot was inclined to feel sour about the whole thing, the others seemed to have taken to the training with excitement and enthusiasm. They seemed to like the noise the weapons made, if nothing else. Lancelot really did wonder just how bored they had been the last six months.
Now, there was only an hour or so of daylight left, and the formal training had come to an end. The knights were having some fun with the grenade launcher while Gareth and John Doe discussed the training rotation. While they had managed to get everyone out of the house today at the same time, it seemed a good idea to do the rest of the training in shifts—otherwise Arthur might eventually get suspicious at the way the house was regularly emptying out at hours when the local taverns were not open for business.
Lancelot listened to Gareth and John Doe with half his attention, his eyes wandering over the knights.
John Doe's assistant was explaining something about the RPG (which stood for rocket-propelled grenade, he informed them) launcher to Yvain and Owein. Lancelot idly wondered why these people seemed so obsessed with rendering everything into a series of incomprehensible letters and why he was supposed to care what the letters stood for.
Tor and Galahad were squabbling—they had gotten the parts of their weapons mixed up when trying to reassemble them after cleaning and had been bickering since.
Bors was regaling a group of knights with one or another of his stories—it became clear what the unsurprising gist of it was when all the knights within earshot of him suddenly chorused, "A baby's arm holding an apple," most of the others joining in after the first few words. Amid the laughter that followed, Bors voice could be heard, protesting, "Well it is."
"And for the sniper training? We discussed training five of you," John Doe was saying.
Lancelot's eyes strayed to the far side of the main grouping of knights, where Agravaine stood with a few other knights. Galehaut had his back toward Lancelot.
"Well, Tristan, Dinaden, Lucan and Palomides. As for the fifth—" Gareth paused, thinking.
"Agravaine," Lancelot supplied, still watching the small group of knights broken off from the whole. Tristan, who was standing nearby, but by appearance too far to be listening, cast Lancelot a sharp look. "He is the best at laying ambushes."
Gareth nodded. "That's true. Then Agravaine it is. Now, about tomorrow—"
Lancelot let most of his attention stray again, and he continued to watch Agravaine. As though sensing the scrutiny, Agravaine looked over and met Lancelot's eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, and it was Agravaine who looked away first.
Dagonet’s discussion with another of John Doe’s men about the differences between the M4 carbines and the larger M16 rifles, snagged Lancelot’s attention. “Y’all made the right choice,” the man was telling Dagonet—his drawling accent one that Lancelot had never heard before. “Regular army will tell you that the M4 lacks power, but they don’t know what they’re talking about it. The M4 is light and excellent for close combat. Either weapon, though, is better than the piece of shit SA80 they use here.”
Lucan, who was standing nearby, asked, “Regular army? Is there a non-regular one?”
The man gave Lucan a withering look, but Dagonet asked something in a low, rumbling voice, and the man turned back to him, pointedly ignoring Lucan, who looked torn between bewilderment and affront.
"We need to set aside a few sessions for hand to hand training," John Doe was saying.
"That's not necessary," Lancelot interrupted.
John Doe seemed unsurprised. Another of his lieutenants, a beefy, red-faced man whose name Lancelot had not bothered to remember, responded instead. "A weapon is useless if someone can take it from you." He sounded rather pompous and condescending. Well, given how the knights had looked about as experienced with their new weapons as a Roman lady with a poleax, perhaps one could not blame the man for his attitude. Perhaps.
"It's really not a worry," Gareth said amiably. "We have some training in that area."
Gallus, as Lancelot decided to call him—it was no doubt more suitable than any name his mother might have given him—snorted. "What? Some pansy-assed self-defense classes? Let me tell you—"
"What do you mean by hand to hand? No weapon?" Lancelot interrupted, just in case. You never knew what sorts of things these modern people might have come up with.
"Barehanded. Or a knife."
"Ah. Not a problem then." Lancelot dismissed him and turned his attention back to the firing range where Yvain and Owein were still arguing over who got to use the grenade launcher next. Lancelot was about to holler something insulting at them to shut them up, but Kay approached, and the two of them instantly fell silent. Kay gave them both a pleasant smile and they both took a step back from him. When Kay just kept smiling, Yvain quickly offered the weapon to him.
". . . not a problem—" was that man still talking?—"then you won't mind demonstrating that."
Lancelot looked back at Gallus and raised an eyebrow. "Is that really necessary?" He glanced over at John Doe. The man was merely watching, arms still crossed over his skinny chest.
Gallus's chest, on the other hand, was puffed out like, well, a rooster's. Lancelot was quite experienced with his type. Well, then, there was no way around it. It might be fun, after all.
"Very well. I presume it will be you conducting the 'demonstration?'"
The man grinned. He seemed a bit too pleased at the prospect. "Yeah." Lancelot gave John Doe another speculative look. Perhaps the man was expecting them to do his dirty work? This one was clearly too stupid to live. Lancelot shrugged to himself. It hardly mattered.
"Then pick someone." Lancelot gave Gallus a bland smile. "Personally, I think the fellow over there," he nodded in Tristan's direction, "looks like he could use a demonstration."
He ignored the exasperated look Gareth gave him. Tristan would not actually kill the man. Probably.
But the man did not seem interested in Tristan. "How about you?" His eyes were positively gleaming. Lancelot was rather amused. He was not actually sure what he had done to provoke the man into such enmity. Ah, well.
"Me?" Lancelot gave a dubious glance at the dusty, machine oil smeared jeans he was wearing. "I don't know. These are new trousers." There was a snicker from somewhere behind him, and Lancelot could sense, more than see, the other knights eagerly turning their attention to this little scene. "Well, I suppose—if you won't do anything to tear them."
Gallus gave him a disbelieving look, but then he grinned toothily. "Don't worry about that, boy. Now what do you want? Knives or barehanded?"
Boy? Lancelot gave the man a considering look. He was about Dagonet's height, but built thicker. It was all meaty muscle, though. Not for the first time, Lancelot noticed the tattoo on the man’s thick forearm, depicting two crossed arrows.
Lancelot shrugged. "It really doesn't matter to me."
Out of the corner of his eye Lancelot could see Bors sidling up to one of John Doe's other men, with that certain look on his face. It was Bors’ attempt to look casual, but instead it just made him look constipated. Lancelot hoped Bors realized that Lancelot would be expecting a hefty cut.
"Knives it is then," Gallus said. The man actually seemed pleased. Perhaps the massive muscles interfered with brain function. To pick knives with someone you thought unskilled? The poor inexperienced fool would likely end up slashing himself open.
"Lancelot—" Gareth said warningly.
Well, luckily Lancelot was not exactly inexperienced. "Don't worry, Gareth." Lancelot gave Gallus another smile, this one a little less bland than the last. "I'm sure the nice man will promise not to hurt me."
~
"And that was a truly stupid stunt—" Gareth was trying to chide.
"What stunt was that?" They had just gotten back to the house—Kay's car last, as usual, but Gareth had been waiting in the entryway.
"They are going to wonder why we can fight like that—"
"Would you rather have spent a few days being 'taught' how to use a knife by such stellar experts?" John Doe's people might know how to handle their modern weapons, but Lancelot rather doubted that they had much experience with fighting for their lives "hand to hand." Or at least not fifteen years worth of daily experience.
"No—but did you have to—?" Gareth was floundering a bit. He actually was not very good at lecturing. Not like Arthur. Lancelot thought that was because Gareth's heart was never really in it—but he had tried to take on the task because he had been one of the oldest of the Sarmatian boys and had never really lost the habit.
"I was trying to avoid wasting everyone's time," Lancelot said and gave Gareth an innocent look.
The "demonstration" had lasted all of about five heartbeats and started with Lancelot kicking Gallus's knife out of his hand and had ended with Lancelot's boot on Gallus's neck.
"Showy bastard," Bors said approvingly. He clapped Lancelot on the back hard enough to make Lancelot stagger, as he passed by on his way up the stairs. "Just like old times, eh?" It had been a favored pastime of the knights until their reputation began to be too widely known—skinny looking Sarmatian boys against full grown legionaries. It had been easy money.
"I'm expecting my share," Lancelot yelled after him.
Bors made a rude gesture over his shoulder.
Bruenor trailed after Bors, laughing. "Did you see that puffed up cock's face when he actually realized he was on his back in the dirt? I've never seen a man look that surprised. I don't think he had even the slightest idea how he got there."
"He looked like a fish," Tor threw in.
"Fish?" Galahad scoffed. "No, he looked as stupid as a sheep the moment after you cut its throat."
Tor and Galahad continued to argue as they followed Bors up the stairs. Lancelot wondered how he had gotten stuck riding with them. There had only been about five minutes of quiet the whole trip back, and that only because Lancelot had threatened to stuff his shoe down the throat of the next one of the pair who opened his mouth. To their credit, they started silently shoving at each other after that, but the silence had not lasted long.
"Lancelot," Gareth began again.
"I didn't actually hurt him," Lancelot appealed. Well, not very much, anyway. "Can I go? I want a bath. And my money before Bors disappears with it."
Gareth gave up and merely waved him on his way.
~
Arthur sat across from Merlin and watched as the man fussed about pouring tea.
He took the teacup Merlin handed him. He sipped and savored the aroma. If nothing else, Merlin was an alchemist with tea leaves.
Merlin sat back with his own tea, but he watched Arthur over the rim of his cup. Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had lived in this house for the first few months after he had been called back to the world, yet he found himself feeling ill at ease here
"So how are things working out with young Lancelot?" Merlin asked just before the silence grew strained.
Arthur fought not to betray any reaction. "Is that why you asked me to come here?" he asked coolly. He picked up a biscuit from the plate on the center table and chomped hard into it. He had thought he had made his wishes clear on this subject. He would not discuss it.
Merlin gave him a benign smile. "I was merely inquiring. It must be odd for him—playing catch up with the rest of you."
"He's doing fine."
Merlin continued to smile at him. "He must be. I hear that you're planning to bring him to the dinner tomorrow night."
Was that what this was about? "I assure you, I would not be taking him unless he was ready. He has been working with Robert's people, so I believe it will go well." Arthur stuffed the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. It damn well better go well, or a certain Sarmatian was not going to be able to sit for a week. Maybe two.
"Oh, I have no doubt about it." Merlin took another sip of tea. Arthur picked up another biscuit. He was hungry. He had missed breakfast and lunch. Merlin continued after a moment. "I have no doubt he can be quite—charming, when he chooses. I just wonder at your motivation."
Arthur forgot about the biscuit he was holding. "My what?" he growled.
"Your motivation," Merlin repeated, helpfully. "You know our plans—they are after all, essentially your plans. What role, really, are you attempting to thrust him into? He is hardly suited for politics.”
“You know nothing about him,” Arthur said, keeping his voice level. He had learned over the years that losing control with Merlin was never a good strategy. The problem was that there was a large gap between knowing something and practicing it.
“I know far more than you think, Arthur. Are you trying to train the knight up to be what—your second in command again? Your right-hand?”
“If I am, that’s my business, not yours.” Without realizing it, he smashed the biscuit in his hand.
“But you are my business, Arthur. It may have worked well for you in the past—it might have even earned you some respect—a Roman officer who had managed to subdue a wild Sarmatian horseman into being his catamite—”
“You—”
But Merlin merely continued on smoothly as though Arthur was not speaking, “—but these are different times, and, even back then, what was suitable for an army commander was not suitable for a ruler.”
Arthur put down his teacup before he broke it and the biscuit crumbs fell onto the floor, unnoticed. “Be careful. You go too far,” he hissed, eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Do I? I speak only out of concern, as your advisor, Arthur. You know very well that your knight was never supposed to be here. Don’t let your lust blind you. He has a role to play, but not the one you are trying to fit him into.”
Arthur’s hands clenched on his knees until they creaked, but he took a few slow breathes before answering. "Maybe I see more clearly than you. You were wrong from the start. You claimed he could not be brought back at all."
“And I will admit that I had not expected his resurrection to be successful.” Merlin calmly took another sip of tea, seeming not to notice that Arthur was nearly shaking in fury. “But on consideration, it makes sense. Like the rest of us, he has his role to fulfill once more.”
“Superstition,” Arthur spat the word like a curse. “You and your so-called magic are not in control here—”
"And so who is? Your God? How many times do I have to tell you, Arthur, that your God has nothing to do with this?"
"I won't believe that." Arthur bit out the words. “My prayers were answered—”
Merlin actually chuckled. “Do you really think your God brought back your knight for you merely because you were pinning after him? No. This is the Land's magic, Arthur. Nothing more, nothing less. You were the first true King of the Land, and the Land called you back." Merlin put his own cup down and folded his hands. "You will become the ruler again, but you are not yet King. The sacrifice needs to be played out first."
Lancelot lying dead on the battlefield, his face more peaceful than Arthur had ever seen it.
Arthur was on his feet. "I will not permit—!"
Merlin's eyes flared, and there, behind the mild demeanor of the elderly professor, was the ageless druid. "Permit? The King is the Land's servant, Arthur. Never forget that."
Arthur snorted. His hands remained clenched in tight fists at his sides, although he badly wanted to reach for the old man’s throat. "I am a servant of no one but God. Don’t you forget that, Merlin. I never believed any of your talk of magic. It was harmless enough back then, it could not hurt the dead, but if I find out that you've so much as—"
"I?" Merlin cut in. "I too am merely a servant, Arthur. These things are not in my hands. But I warn you to remember that if the magic permitted me to bring your knight back to life, it was done not because you prayed to your God for it," and this time Merlin's tone hinted at his distaste, "but because he is here to fulfill his purpose. The pattern has been set—you set it all those years ago. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."
"It's not going to be like that," Arthur said, turning away to gather up his coat. He was done here. "You believe what you like, Merlin, but it's not like before. No one is going to die. There are no wars here, and certainly no magic. I'm going to be elected because the people will see that I will work for their welfare, and they will choose the path for themselves, using the free will that is their gift from God."
Merlin picked up his cup, his eyes mild once more. "There is no point in arguing about this again. But tell me, Arthur, does your knight know where you're going tonight?" Arthur could only glare at him. "No? Well I can't imagine he'll be pleased."
"Stop acting like you know him! I don't need any advice from you about him!" He knew Lancelot best. How dare Merlin presume— He forced himself to relax. After a moment, he said, "Excuse me, I'm late."
Merlin waved him on his way with every appearance of casualness. "Give her my regards. Oh, but Arthur?"
"What?" Arthur growled, already at the doorway.
"You might want to adjust your collar before you see her. I don't think she will appreciate seeing that."
Arthur stalked out of the room. The old man was actually smirking at him.
Arthur did not realize what Merlin was referring to until he got a look at his neck in the side view mirror of the car. He yanked at his collar, making sure the purple mark was covered. He cursed himself then, for forgetting to check, and then Lancelot too, on simple principle. The cardboard man of a driver pretended not to hear.
Continued here.
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, Myths, Legends and Lies, Lessons in Deportment, Ties to Bind, The Shopping Expedition and this one.
Notes: Um, “gallus” is Latin for rooster. Why am I telling you this? No reason, but Lancelot wanted you to know. He thinks he is funny.
Thanks to
sasha_b and darklyscarlett for typo squashing and pre-reading. As always, any feedback welcome—whatever you want to say.God is not averse to deceit in a holy cause. —Aeschylus
We are never deceived, we deceive ourselves. —Goethe
Arthur ran his fingers through damp curls, his hand sliding downward to cup the fragile base of Lancelot's skull. Lancelot's head was a drowsy weight on Arthur's thigh. He had woken Arthur with long, slow kisses this morning, and since, for once, Arthur had no appointments until afternoon, Arthur had let him have his way.
Arthur finally roused himself a bit from his haze of mindless satisfaction and twined his fingers into dark hair, pulling a little. "I thought you were angry with me."
He felt Lancelot smile against his skin. "I think we're even. For now. Unless you're actually asking for some punishment." He lifted his head, so that his chin rested on Arthur's hipbone, and gave Arthur a wicked smile.
Arthur chuckled. "Heaven forefend." Arthur had fallen asleep before Lancelot had come to bed last night, so Arthur had not been sure what sort of reception awaited him after their trip to London. But Lancelot seemed to think that laughing at Arthur's struggle with automotive repairs was revenge enough for Arthur's trickery about the shopping.
As he stared into Lancelot's eyes, Arthur could not help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. Lancelot looked back, the edge of his own smile softening. Despite the languid peace he had been feeling just a moment before, the sight still made Arthur's stomach tighten. Lancelot's smile widened.
After a moment in which Lancelot made no move, but simply continued to watch him, Arthur demanded, "What are you doing down there still?"
Lancelot, eyes alight, deliberately misunderstood. "Did you forget already? It has do with proximity to your co—"
Arthur got a hand over Lancelot's mouth before he could finish. "Vulgar," he chided.
Looking not the least bit repentant, Lancelot rolled his eyes and then gave a wet lick to the palm of Arthur's hand. Arthur was startled enough to jerk his hand away, which released Lancelot's snickering laughter.
Such a child. "Come here," Arthur elaborated.
Obligingly, Lancelot crawled up Arthur's body, pausing only to brush his lips over Arthur's heart. Arthur used the hand still in Lancelot's hair to pull him down into a kiss.
"This is nice," Arthur murmured after a few minutes. He could still taste himself in the depths of Lancelot's mouth. He had always liked that.
Lancelot brushed his lips along Arthur's jaw. "You're the one who's always in a hurry." Lancelot had spent the morning lazily exploring Arthur's body with hands, lips and tongue, something that Arthur rarely had the fortitude to endure for long. It was a strange thing that, between them, Arthur was the far more impatient in bed. Lancelot, who seemed to have no degree of patience in any other part of his life, occasionally delighted in slow, languid love play. Arthur had long ago realized that Lancelot was a sensualist at heart, and he seemed to enjoy giving pleasure nearly as much as receiving it.
Lancelot's mouth had moved down to Arthur's neck, and Arthur shivered. "You still smell strange," Lancelot murmured into his skin.
"I told you," Arthur said, voice taking on a husky edge, his hands stoking slowly over the silky skin of Lancelot's back. "It's men's perfume. Some worker at the shop sprayed it on me." He had confessed the whole thing to Lancelot earlier this morning, under the pressure of a torturously skilled mouth.
"I don't like it," Lancelot said, tone imperious.
Arthur chuckled. "Shall I get up right now and take a bath, sir?"
"Don't you dare." Lancelot raised his head and glared. "You said you were free until noon."
"Another hour," Arthur said as he automatically turned his head to look at the clock on the nightstand. "I have to get ready— Ow! Lancelot!"
Lancelot did not look the least remorseful, although he did kiss the place he had bitten after he muttered something about "bloody clocks."
It seemed a good a moment as any. "I won't be back until late tonight," Arthur said, striving for a casual tone. Lancelot made an inquiring noise as his mouth did something that made Arthur gasp. After a moment, Arthur continued, "A late morning means a late night. I have a dinner meeting." And this indulgent morning spent in bed had absolutely nothing to do with guilt over where he was going tonight.
Lancelot raised himself up on an elbow and looked down at Arthur with heavy lidded eyes. For a moment, Arthur was afraid he would read something in Arthur's expression. But then Lancelot's eyes flickered down to study Arthur's neck. Arthur relaxed, but he reminded himself to check in the mirror for marks before he went out. He knew that self-satisfied look.
"When will you be back?" Lancelot asked, barely even sounding interested.
"I'm not sure, but fairly late."
"Well, I guess I'll just have to find something to amuse myself with, then." Lancelot looked up at him from beneath his lashes. "Or someone."
Knowing he was being deliberately provoked, Arthur still growled at the insufferable man. Lancelot laughed as Arthur knocked his elbow out from under him and, in a swift surge of motion, pinned Lancelot down on his back. Lancelot, unperturbed by this reversal, merely smirked up at Arthur.
"Unless, of course," Lancelot raised an eyebrow and then arched his hips into Arthur's, "you sufficiently wear me out."
Arthur took that as a challenge.
Gawain shut the door on the stiffly polite driver. He turned and caught sight of Tor coming down the stairs. "Go back up and tell Arthur his car is here, will you?" he asked.
Tor looked like he might protest, but evidently something made him think better of it—perhaps the memory of spending last night scrubbing at the kitchen floor until the small hours of the morning—and he turned around and stomped back up the stairs.
He reappeared after a few moments. "He said he's coming." He was chewing his lip as he came down the stairs. At Gawain's inquiring look, he shrugged. "He called through the door—but he sounded kind of . . . mad."
Gawain thought about that a moment and then smiled.
Tor gave him an odd look, but did not ask. "I'd better go out to the garage." He seemed in a hurry to get away before Arthur came down. It was easy to forget sometimes that, for the ones like Tor, Arthur remained rather stern and distant. Too bad that the boy had rushed off. He might have learned something.
Gawain sat himself down on the steps to enjoy it. He had to wait for Lancelot, anyway.
Sure enough, Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, and Gawain watched, amused at the uncommon sight of Arthur flustered and rushing. "Late are you?" he called. Arthur, wet hair still dripping into his collar, merely gave him a displeased look as he passed by while struggling to stick his arm into his coat sleeve and nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces.
Gawain tried to keep the smile off of his face. Arthur loathed tardiness. Only one person ever got Arthur in this state. Lancelot was notorious for the easy attitude he took toward time—at least when it came to other people's.
"The driver's waiting in the car," Gawain informed Arthur, helpfully. "He seems a friendly sort." Really, though, his manner had put Gawain in mind of one of those eyes-straight-ahead guards important Romans seemed to like having around. Unpleasantly self-important and utterly useless to boot. "You know, Arthur, one of us could have driven you. You didn't have to ask for a driver."
Arthur shook his head as he finally managed to get his coat straightened out. He knelt down to tie his shoelaces. "Thank you, but there's no need for any of you to spend hours waiting for me." Gawain raised his eyebrows at that, but kept silent. They had all spent hours waiting on Arthur as he attended some meeting or other—now as well as back in the past. But if Arthur did not want any of them to come, so much the better. The knights had plans and this way everyone could go.
Shoes dealt with, Arthur straightened and nodded a curt goodbye before flinging the front door open and striding out. He very nearly forgot to shut the door behind him, but then he jerked backward and swung around to grab at the handle. The sound of the door slamming was joined by the sound of Gawain's laughter.
It was about ten minutes before Lancelot appeared and descended the curving staircase. Unlike Arthur, he was neither flustered nor in the process of finishing dressing. He was even wearing his shoes, as Gawain learned when he nudged at Gawain's back with his foot. "What are you doing sitting here? Is everyone ready?"
"Yeah, everyone's ready to go. They're already outside in the garage. We were just waiting for Arthur to leave. And for you." Gawain stood up.
Lancelot clomped down the last of the stairs. "Are the cars sorted?"
"There were some disputes," Gawain acknowledged. "But Gareth straightened it out." He cast Lancelot a look as he followed the man toward the door. "You're not driving."
Lancelot turned his head to look at Gawain, one displeased eyebrow raised.
"Gareth said you didn't have a driver's license, so it would be too risky. You know, in case you got stopped by the police." And Gawain, who had been sitting in the car when Lancelot had learned to drive, thought that it was actually pretty likely that Lancelot would get pulled over, given the speeds he seemed to prefer and the enthusiasm with which he spun the steering wheel about. It was strange that a man who had such a light touch with horseflesh had such a heavy-handed (and heavy-footed) approach to automobiles.
But Gawain kept those thoughts to himself. Lancelot might be in a fairly mellow mood given what he had no doubt just been up to with Arthur, but Gawain was not one for taking unnecessary risks, especially given the other news he had to impart. Gawain cleared his throat and said causally, "You're riding with Kay, by the way."
Lancelot's eyes narrowed and he scowled. "He drives slower than Arthur." Kay was one of the only knights who was meticulous about observing the speed limit. He was also one of the few who could be guaranteed to not be tricked, intimidated, or otherwise wheedled by Lancelot into surrendering the driver's seat. Gareth was actually quite a devious bastard, come to think of it.
As Lancelot continued to scowl, Gawain thought a change in subject might be a good idea. "Speaking of Arthur, shame on you for sending the poor man out with wet hair. He'll catch a cold." He was not quite able to keep from grinning.
"He'll survive. It's not my fault if he can't keep track of time," Lancelot said. "Especially given his fondness for watches." Lancelot stuck a hand in a pocket as though checking for something. He was better than Gawain at keeping his face straight, although he did look quite smug.
That smugness only intensified when, on the way out the garage, Gawain asked, "And what was that mark on his neck? Looked like something bit him."
With a last heave of effort, Arthur swung Excalibur. The Saxon giant toppled, dead at last, but Arthur felt little satisfaction. His limbs were leaden, the wound to his side, where the Saxon's blade had pierced through his amour, was screaming even as it seemed to drain the strength from him.
But it was not over. The smoke billowed around him, carrying with it the shrieks of the triumphant and the screams of the dying. Forcing his body to obey him, Arthur turned to check the state of the battlefield, his eyes, even though he knew better, instinctively seeking out the familiar forms of his knights. As he turned, he staggering back and pain flared in his chest.
He blinked stupidly into the rage-contorted face of the young Saxon who had led the ill-fated expedition on the ice. The man was screaming at him, but Arthur could not hear the words over the roaring in his ears. He concentrated instead on bringing up his sword and watched with vague interest as the Saxon's head fell away from his body. But then Arthur too was falling and he found himself blinking up at the fire-darkened sky. Someone was frantically crying his name, but it was not the voice he wanted to hear, so he let the darkness wash through him.
Arthur woke with a violent start, heaving forward until something jerked him back. He was panting as his gaze swung around and it took him several moments to understand where he was. The car. He was sitting in the backseat of the car, the seatbelt fastened around him. He had fallen asleep.
God. Arthur had not had that dream since he had been resurrected. Once, it had been a recurring nightmare. Dying at Badon Hill. But worse than dying—being alone. In the dream, his knights had not come back to him, and it was Arthur alone who paid the price of his choice to stay behind and fight.
He took a deep breath. Why had he started to dream this again now, when he had not dreamed it once in the year since he had been brought back? He was not alone now. Far from it. At last, all of his knights were with him. Lancelot was here now.
But perhaps the reason was clear enough. He had always blamed Merlin for stirring up the thoughts in his head in the first place, and if he was not mistaken—he checked out the window—he was very nearly at Merlin's house for their scheduled afternoon meeting.
He glanced at his wrist to check the time and realized he had forgotten his watch in his hurry to get dressed. Damn that Lancelot, Arthur though, but despite the dread that the dream left coiling through his gut, his mouth still crooked slightly upwards.
Bruenor lowered the weapon from his shoulder and let out a triumphant war whoop as the target disappeared in a burst of flames.
"I want to try next," Yvain was demanding, barely beating Owein, whose voice echoed his, while Percival complained that it was his turn.
Lancelot whistled low in his throat. It was one thing to be told about what these modern weapons would do, another thing to see it. A child with that weapon in his hands could take out a fully armored knight—make that a whole company of knights.
Imperturbable as a rock amid the excitement, John Doe merely looked on, arms crossed over his narrow chest, expression—if he was capable of one—hidden by mirrored glasses. It was one of John Doe's lieutenants who spoke up, telling Gareth, "It will take out anything short of a tank. And, as you can see, it's easy to operate."
"It must be if Bruenor figured it out in one go," Urré called. Bruenor, who had surrendered the weapon into the hands of another of John Doe's men, began to protest vociferously at the slight against him.
The knights had spent the afternoon in this large area of fenced-off, empty land. They had entered through a gate on which all kinds of dire posting were featured. To Lancelot's surprise there seemed to be no personnel guarding this "Property of the British Army—Keep Out." Only John Doe and his five men had been waiting for them at the entrance, with the gate already unlocked.
They had found John Doe—the name seemed to have some sort of joke surrounding it, but Lancelot was not sure what it was—after many discrete inquiries when it had become clear that the knights did need training in the uses of the modern weapons they were busily acquiring. Their homemade firing range was all well and good for small arms target practice, but it was hardly a place to learn strategy or to try out the bigger things.
When Lancelot and Gareth had first met with John Doe, Lancelot had been a bit taken aback by his appearance. Short, stick thin and bespectacled, he had hardly been what Lancelot had expected. But times were different now and it seemed physical size and strength were no longer prerequisites for warfare—if they ever truly had been. Besides, after less than thirty seconds in the man's presence, Lancelot had recognized the cool killer that gazed out from behind the man's seemingly placid gaze.
John Doe, his flat American accent sounding odd to Lancelot's ears, had only asked why they wanted weapons training once. When Lancelot, much to Gareth's horror, had replied, "world domination," the man had not so much as blinked. His eyes had remained on Lancelot as Gareth had quickly jumped in with their story—they were the employees of an up and coming politician with some rather unconventional views, and, given today's climate, it seemed prudent for them to surround their candidate with men who knew the basics of how to handle weapons. It was even true—in its way.
Really, though, the man had not seemed to care. He had simply gone on to state his fee. His reputation was that he would provide his expertise to anyone who could pay his price and then keep his mouth shut. Lancelot could respect that—it was exactly what they needed, after all.
Today had only been the basics. Cleaning, loading and discharging weapons, ad nauseam. Tedious, but necessary. But if nothing else, it had brought home that a true soldier in this new world would be as familiar with his modern weapons as Lancelot had been with his swords—the intuitive knowledge developed over years of carrying the object and knowing that your life depended upon it. Just as Lancelot had known to a hair's breadth the length of his blades, a modern warrior would know the parameters of his own weapon.
Lancelot found that idea both reassuring and not. It was reassuring to know that, as much as things seemed to have changed, they really had not, but it had been annoying to realize that after a lifetime of learning every weapon that had come to hand, they were now greener than the most stupid of infantry recruits. Thankfully, while Lancelot was inclined to feel sour about the whole thing, the others seemed to have taken to the training with excitement and enthusiasm. They seemed to like the noise the weapons made, if nothing else. Lancelot really did wonder just how bored they had been the last six months.
Now, there was only an hour or so of daylight left, and the formal training had come to an end. The knights were having some fun with the grenade launcher while Gareth and John Doe discussed the training rotation. While they had managed to get everyone out of the house today at the same time, it seemed a good idea to do the rest of the training in shifts—otherwise Arthur might eventually get suspicious at the way the house was regularly emptying out at hours when the local taverns were not open for business.
Lancelot listened to Gareth and John Doe with half his attention, his eyes wandering over the knights.
John Doe's assistant was explaining something about the RPG (which stood for rocket-propelled grenade, he informed them) launcher to Yvain and Owein. Lancelot idly wondered why these people seemed so obsessed with rendering everything into a series of incomprehensible letters and why he was supposed to care what the letters stood for.
Tor and Galahad were squabbling—they had gotten the parts of their weapons mixed up when trying to reassemble them after cleaning and had been bickering since.
Bors was regaling a group of knights with one or another of his stories—it became clear what the unsurprising gist of it was when all the knights within earshot of him suddenly chorused, "A baby's arm holding an apple," most of the others joining in after the first few words. Amid the laughter that followed, Bors voice could be heard, protesting, "Well it is."
"And for the sniper training? We discussed training five of you," John Doe was saying.
Lancelot's eyes strayed to the far side of the main grouping of knights, where Agravaine stood with a few other knights. Galehaut had his back toward Lancelot.
"Well, Tristan, Dinaden, Lucan and Palomides. As for the fifth—" Gareth paused, thinking.
"Agravaine," Lancelot supplied, still watching the small group of knights broken off from the whole. Tristan, who was standing nearby, but by appearance too far to be listening, cast Lancelot a sharp look. "He is the best at laying ambushes."
Gareth nodded. "That's true. Then Agravaine it is. Now, about tomorrow—"
Lancelot let most of his attention stray again, and he continued to watch Agravaine. As though sensing the scrutiny, Agravaine looked over and met Lancelot's eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, and it was Agravaine who looked away first.
Dagonet’s discussion with another of John Doe’s men about the differences between the M4 carbines and the larger M16 rifles, snagged Lancelot’s attention. “Y’all made the right choice,” the man was telling Dagonet—his drawling accent one that Lancelot had never heard before. “Regular army will tell you that the M4 lacks power, but they don’t know what they’re talking about it. The M4 is light and excellent for close combat. Either weapon, though, is better than the piece of shit SA80 they use here.”
Lucan, who was standing nearby, asked, “Regular army? Is there a non-regular one?”
The man gave Lucan a withering look, but Dagonet asked something in a low, rumbling voice, and the man turned back to him, pointedly ignoring Lucan, who looked torn between bewilderment and affront.
"We need to set aside a few sessions for hand to hand training," John Doe was saying.
"That's not necessary," Lancelot interrupted.
John Doe seemed unsurprised. Another of his lieutenants, a beefy, red-faced man whose name Lancelot had not bothered to remember, responded instead. "A weapon is useless if someone can take it from you." He sounded rather pompous and condescending. Well, given how the knights had looked about as experienced with their new weapons as a Roman lady with a poleax, perhaps one could not blame the man for his attitude. Perhaps.
"It's really not a worry," Gareth said amiably. "We have some training in that area."
Gallus, as Lancelot decided to call him—it was no doubt more suitable than any name his mother might have given him—snorted. "What? Some pansy-assed self-defense classes? Let me tell you—"
"What do you mean by hand to hand? No weapon?" Lancelot interrupted, just in case. You never knew what sorts of things these modern people might have come up with.
"Barehanded. Or a knife."
"Ah. Not a problem then." Lancelot dismissed him and turned his attention back to the firing range where Yvain and Owein were still arguing over who got to use the grenade launcher next. Lancelot was about to holler something insulting at them to shut them up, but Kay approached, and the two of them instantly fell silent. Kay gave them both a pleasant smile and they both took a step back from him. When Kay just kept smiling, Yvain quickly offered the weapon to him.
". . . not a problem—" was that man still talking?—"then you won't mind demonstrating that."
Lancelot looked back at Gallus and raised an eyebrow. "Is that really necessary?" He glanced over at John Doe. The man was merely watching, arms still crossed over his skinny chest.
Gallus's chest, on the other hand, was puffed out like, well, a rooster's. Lancelot was quite experienced with his type. Well, then, there was no way around it. It might be fun, after all.
"Very well. I presume it will be you conducting the 'demonstration?'"
The man grinned. He seemed a bit too pleased at the prospect. "Yeah." Lancelot gave John Doe another speculative look. Perhaps the man was expecting them to do his dirty work? This one was clearly too stupid to live. Lancelot shrugged to himself. It hardly mattered.
"Then pick someone." Lancelot gave Gallus a bland smile. "Personally, I think the fellow over there," he nodded in Tristan's direction, "looks like he could use a demonstration."
He ignored the exasperated look Gareth gave him. Tristan would not actually kill the man. Probably.
But the man did not seem interested in Tristan. "How about you?" His eyes were positively gleaming. Lancelot was rather amused. He was not actually sure what he had done to provoke the man into such enmity. Ah, well.
"Me?" Lancelot gave a dubious glance at the dusty, machine oil smeared jeans he was wearing. "I don't know. These are new trousers." There was a snicker from somewhere behind him, and Lancelot could sense, more than see, the other knights eagerly turning their attention to this little scene. "Well, I suppose—if you won't do anything to tear them."
Gallus gave him a disbelieving look, but then he grinned toothily. "Don't worry about that, boy. Now what do you want? Knives or barehanded?"
Boy? Lancelot gave the man a considering look. He was about Dagonet's height, but built thicker. It was all meaty muscle, though. Not for the first time, Lancelot noticed the tattoo on the man’s thick forearm, depicting two crossed arrows.
Lancelot shrugged. "It really doesn't matter to me."
Out of the corner of his eye Lancelot could see Bors sidling up to one of John Doe's other men, with that certain look on his face. It was Bors’ attempt to look casual, but instead it just made him look constipated. Lancelot hoped Bors realized that Lancelot would be expecting a hefty cut.
"Knives it is then," Gallus said. The man actually seemed pleased. Perhaps the massive muscles interfered with brain function. To pick knives with someone you thought unskilled? The poor inexperienced fool would likely end up slashing himself open.
"Lancelot—" Gareth said warningly.
Well, luckily Lancelot was not exactly inexperienced. "Don't worry, Gareth." Lancelot gave Gallus another smile, this one a little less bland than the last. "I'm sure the nice man will promise not to hurt me."
"And that was a truly stupid stunt—" Gareth was trying to chide.
"What stunt was that?" They had just gotten back to the house—Kay's car last, as usual, but Gareth had been waiting in the entryway.
"They are going to wonder why we can fight like that—"
"Would you rather have spent a few days being 'taught' how to use a knife by such stellar experts?" John Doe's people might know how to handle their modern weapons, but Lancelot rather doubted that they had much experience with fighting for their lives "hand to hand." Or at least not fifteen years worth of daily experience.
"No—but did you have to—?" Gareth was floundering a bit. He actually was not very good at lecturing. Not like Arthur. Lancelot thought that was because Gareth's heart was never really in it—but he had tried to take on the task because he had been one of the oldest of the Sarmatian boys and had never really lost the habit.
"I was trying to avoid wasting everyone's time," Lancelot said and gave Gareth an innocent look.
The "demonstration" had lasted all of about five heartbeats and started with Lancelot kicking Gallus's knife out of his hand and had ended with Lancelot's boot on Gallus's neck.
"Showy bastard," Bors said approvingly. He clapped Lancelot on the back hard enough to make Lancelot stagger, as he passed by on his way up the stairs. "Just like old times, eh?" It had been a favored pastime of the knights until their reputation began to be too widely known—skinny looking Sarmatian boys against full grown legionaries. It had been easy money.
"I'm expecting my share," Lancelot yelled after him.
Bors made a rude gesture over his shoulder.
Bruenor trailed after Bors, laughing. "Did you see that puffed up cock's face when he actually realized he was on his back in the dirt? I've never seen a man look that surprised. I don't think he had even the slightest idea how he got there."
"He looked like a fish," Tor threw in.
"Fish?" Galahad scoffed. "No, he looked as stupid as a sheep the moment after you cut its throat."
Tor and Galahad continued to argue as they followed Bors up the stairs. Lancelot wondered how he had gotten stuck riding with them. There had only been about five minutes of quiet the whole trip back, and that only because Lancelot had threatened to stuff his shoe down the throat of the next one of the pair who opened his mouth. To their credit, they started silently shoving at each other after that, but the silence had not lasted long.
"Lancelot," Gareth began again.
"I didn't actually hurt him," Lancelot appealed. Well, not very much, anyway. "Can I go? I want a bath. And my money before Bors disappears with it."
Gareth gave up and merely waved him on his way.
Arthur sat across from Merlin and watched as the man fussed about pouring tea.
He took the teacup Merlin handed him. He sipped and savored the aroma. If nothing else, Merlin was an alchemist with tea leaves.
Merlin sat back with his own tea, but he watched Arthur over the rim of his cup. Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had lived in this house for the first few months after he had been called back to the world, yet he found himself feeling ill at ease here
"So how are things working out with young Lancelot?" Merlin asked just before the silence grew strained.
Arthur fought not to betray any reaction. "Is that why you asked me to come here?" he asked coolly. He picked up a biscuit from the plate on the center table and chomped hard into it. He had thought he had made his wishes clear on this subject. He would not discuss it.
Merlin gave him a benign smile. "I was merely inquiring. It must be odd for him—playing catch up with the rest of you."
"He's doing fine."
Merlin continued to smile at him. "He must be. I hear that you're planning to bring him to the dinner tomorrow night."
Was that what this was about? "I assure you, I would not be taking him unless he was ready. He has been working with Robert's people, so I believe it will go well." Arthur stuffed the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. It damn well better go well, or a certain Sarmatian was not going to be able to sit for a week. Maybe two.
"Oh, I have no doubt about it." Merlin took another sip of tea. Arthur picked up another biscuit. He was hungry. He had missed breakfast and lunch. Merlin continued after a moment. "I have no doubt he can be quite—charming, when he chooses. I just wonder at your motivation."
Arthur forgot about the biscuit he was holding. "My what?" he growled.
"Your motivation," Merlin repeated, helpfully. "You know our plans—they are after all, essentially your plans. What role, really, are you attempting to thrust him into? He is hardly suited for politics.”
“You know nothing about him,” Arthur said, keeping his voice level. He had learned over the years that losing control with Merlin was never a good strategy. The problem was that there was a large gap between knowing something and practicing it.
“I know far more than you think, Arthur. Are you trying to train the knight up to be what—your second in command again? Your right-hand?”
“If I am, that’s my business, not yours.” Without realizing it, he smashed the biscuit in his hand.
“But you are my business, Arthur. It may have worked well for you in the past—it might have even earned you some respect—a Roman officer who had managed to subdue a wild Sarmatian horseman into being his catamite—”
“You—”
But Merlin merely continued on smoothly as though Arthur was not speaking, “—but these are different times, and, even back then, what was suitable for an army commander was not suitable for a ruler.”
Arthur put down his teacup before he broke it and the biscuit crumbs fell onto the floor, unnoticed. “Be careful. You go too far,” he hissed, eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Do I? I speak only out of concern, as your advisor, Arthur. You know very well that your knight was never supposed to be here. Don’t let your lust blind you. He has a role to play, but not the one you are trying to fit him into.”
Arthur’s hands clenched on his knees until they creaked, but he took a few slow breathes before answering. "Maybe I see more clearly than you. You were wrong from the start. You claimed he could not be brought back at all."
“And I will admit that I had not expected his resurrection to be successful.” Merlin calmly took another sip of tea, seeming not to notice that Arthur was nearly shaking in fury. “But on consideration, it makes sense. Like the rest of us, he has his role to fulfill once more.”
“Superstition,” Arthur spat the word like a curse. “You and your so-called magic are not in control here—”
"And so who is? Your God? How many times do I have to tell you, Arthur, that your God has nothing to do with this?"
"I won't believe that." Arthur bit out the words. “My prayers were answered—”
Merlin actually chuckled. “Do you really think your God brought back your knight for you merely because you were pinning after him? No. This is the Land's magic, Arthur. Nothing more, nothing less. You were the first true King of the Land, and the Land called you back." Merlin put his own cup down and folded his hands. "You will become the ruler again, but you are not yet King. The sacrifice needs to be played out first."
Lancelot lying dead on the battlefield, his face more peaceful than Arthur had ever seen it.
Arthur was on his feet. "I will not permit—!"
Merlin's eyes flared, and there, behind the mild demeanor of the elderly professor, was the ageless druid. "Permit? The King is the Land's servant, Arthur. Never forget that."
Arthur snorted. His hands remained clenched in tight fists at his sides, although he badly wanted to reach for the old man’s throat. "I am a servant of no one but God. Don’t you forget that, Merlin. I never believed any of your talk of magic. It was harmless enough back then, it could not hurt the dead, but if I find out that you've so much as—"
"I?" Merlin cut in. "I too am merely a servant, Arthur. These things are not in my hands. But I warn you to remember that if the magic permitted me to bring your knight back to life, it was done not because you prayed to your God for it," and this time Merlin's tone hinted at his distaste, "but because he is here to fulfill his purpose. The pattern has been set—you set it all those years ago. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."
"It's not going to be like that," Arthur said, turning away to gather up his coat. He was done here. "You believe what you like, Merlin, but it's not like before. No one is going to die. There are no wars here, and certainly no magic. I'm going to be elected because the people will see that I will work for their welfare, and they will choose the path for themselves, using the free will that is their gift from God."
Merlin picked up his cup, his eyes mild once more. "There is no point in arguing about this again. But tell me, Arthur, does your knight know where you're going tonight?" Arthur could only glare at him. "No? Well I can't imagine he'll be pleased."
"Stop acting like you know him! I don't need any advice from you about him!" He knew Lancelot best. How dare Merlin presume— He forced himself to relax. After a moment, he said, "Excuse me, I'm late."
Merlin waved him on his way with every appearance of casualness. "Give her my regards. Oh, but Arthur?"
"What?" Arthur growled, already at the doorway.
"You might want to adjust your collar before you see her. I don't think she will appreciate seeing that."
Arthur stalked out of the room. The old man was actually smirking at him.
Arthur did not realize what Merlin was referring to until he got a look at his neck in the side view mirror of the car. He yanked at his collar, making sure the purple mark was covered. He cursed himself then, for forgetting to check, and then Lancelot too, on simple principle. The cardboard man of a driver pretended not to hear.
Continued here.
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Date: 2006-09-30 06:11 pm (UTC)*Grins sheepishly* Its never healthy for me to read series fics, I tend to get a wee bit absorbed in them^_^
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Date: 2006-09-30 11:46 pm (UTC)