Happy Birthday Ashley!
Jul. 18th, 2006 10:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zHappy Birthday to the lovely and fantastic ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b!!!
May you have an excellent day and a wonderful celebration of a year in which you have grown richer with experience, memories and knowledge.
In honor of your birthday, I wanted to write you a fabulous fic (or at least something happy and smutty), but my excuse is I've been utterly crushed by work, so all I managed is this:
Birthday Fic for Ashley:
Fates’ Weave
Lancelot barged into Arthur's room without bothering with such a mundane thing as knocking. Catching Arthur out, after all, was one of the few amusements that this dreary place provided.
No amusement was to be had, today, though. Arthur was only kneeling beside the chest that held his clothes with a few stacks of folded garments around him.
"If you're thinking of having your laundry done, think again," Lancelot said. It was pissing outside as though all the demon Briton gods had passed the night drinking. Which was one of the reasons why Lancelot was here. It was too nasty to go outside, the rest of the knights were hiding from him, and even his horse had given him a long, warning look when he had brushed its coat to a high gloss and then had actually begun to toy with braiding its mane.
Arthur started at the sound of Lancelot’s voice, which was surprising. Lancelot had not been particularly quiet in his entrance, only sudden. He went closer and peered into the chest. It was empty except for what looked like a folded sheet of unbleached wool. Lancelot quirked his brow. "Cloth? Going to have some new tunics made?"
Arthur shook his head. His hands reached for the chest lid, as though he were about to shut it, but then he sighed and answered curtly, “No." He hesitated a moment longer before he drew out the fabric with careful hands. His manner nearly reverent, he stood and shook it out, revealing voluminous meters of fine, expensive wool.
"A blanket?" Lancelot asked half-heartedly. The cloth was probably worth as much as Lancelot's yearly pay—if multiplied by five.
Arthur gave him a strange, almost diffident glance. It was a look that Lancelot had never quite seen before. "No,” he repeated. He paused before continuing. “It's my toga."
Lancelot blinked. It took him a moment to understand what Arthur was talking about. "You have one of those?" The question came out sharp with hostility.
"All Romans do, Lancelot." Arthur's hands smoothed over the cloth.
"I've never seen you wear it." Lancelot's voice was accusing now. The toga was the symbol of everything he hated. It was the official garment of the Roman state. The garment worn by those arrogant, corrupt men of wealth and power. He had never imagined Arthur having such a thing.
"It's only really worn on ceremonial or political occasions. I wore it in Rome, but it's not appropriate here."
"Why not?" Lancelot had seen plenty of strutting Romans wearing the thing.
"It's the garment of the civil state, it's not worn by soldiers. It's a garment of peace."
Lancelot snorted, ignoring the nearly wistful tone of Arthur's voice. "As if Romans know anything about peace. What that means is that it is only worn by those plotting conquests and destruction, not those who actually get their hands dirty."
Arthur's face closed over. Without a word, he began to refold the toga. The care he took in handling it made Lancelot pause. He studied the cloth, and tried to picture Arthur dressed in it. He could not; the only Arthur he knew was the Arthur who wore the red military cloak and armor, who sat astride a horse and held a sword.
"Put it on," Lancelot demanded abruptly. It suddenly seemed important.
"What?"
Lancelot perched on the window ledge, drawing his knees so he could rest his chin on them, and hugged his arms around his legs. He could hear the wild beating of the rain against the shutters. "Put it on."
"Why?" Arthur asked, voice wary.
Lancelot managed to keep his voice light. "I'm curious—I can't imagine you wearing such a thing."
Arthur frowned at him for a long moment, and seemed about to refuse, but then with a sigh, like that of a man indulging a child’s fancy, he put the cloth down and began to undress. Lancelot stared, unabashed, as Arthur stripped down to his plain, white undertunic. Arthur then began to wind the long cloth around himself. It was somewhat awkward, but Arthur clearly knew what he was dong.
"It's been folded away for a long time and not creased properly, so it won't fall quite right," Arthur warned. He straightened the last few folds and then stood still. And it was as though something flipped over. He went from being Arthur, half dressed and a little clumsy, to something else entirely.
Lancelot’s fingers dug into his legs. His first reaction was bristling hostility, and he very nearly opened his mouth and spat out something venomous. All you need are some leaves in your hair and you'll be a perfect statue of that cocksucking, whoreson of an emperor. But then he saw beyond the hated figure of a Roman to the look on Arthur's face. The words died in his throat, burning like bile. Instead, he forced himself to straighen and stand. He walked slowly around Arthur, staring.
Arthur was looking straight ahead, unmoving, as Lancelot prowled around him. His face was stoic, like that of a condemned man awaiting his punishment.
At last, Lancelot only said, "How can you move in that thing?"
"Carefully and slowly," Arthur said, his tense posture relaxing somewhat and his mouth crooking slightly.
Lancelot let out a small, dark laugh. "No wonder you Romans can't ride for shit, if your grandfathers wore clothes like this. There’s no way to sit astride a horse in that thing."
Arthur raised his eyebrows at the "you Romans," but let that pass for the moment. "I told you, it's only worn for official occasions."
Lancelot circled Arthur again. "You look—"
"Ridiculous?" Arthur supplied, his tone a mix of warning and something that was very nearly defensiveness.
"I was going to say, different." And he did look different. Graceful and stately, with the long, unblemished garment falling in folds past his bare feet. Although Lancelot would never admit it out loud, Arthur looked . . . distinguished. Regal. And like a stranger who was no one Lancelot would know.
The thought made him feel faintly sick. Arthur would wear this garment again when he returned to Rome and lived that life he longed for. His life in a city that Lancelot would sooner die than set foot in—unless he was there to raze it to the ground.
To distract himself, Lancelot fingered some of the heavy cloth and then pulled it up a bit, so he could see Arthur's feet and calves. "Doesn't it feel strange to have bare legs under there?"
"The Romans and Greeks used to think you easterners effeminate for wearing trousers, you know."
"Effeminate?" Lancelot raised a disdainful eyebrow. "I'm not the one wearing a dress."
Arthur rolled his eyes but did not deign to respond to that.
Lancelot played a bit more with the cloth. Arthur even smelled different wearing it. "Seems a bit drafty."
"The weather in Rome is a lot milder than in Britain." Arthur's eyes took on that far away, longing look that they always had when the man spoke of Rome. "It's a warm place and full of light." Arthur looked down at himself, and sighed. "It's exactly twenty years since I first wore this, you know. Pelagius gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday."
Lancelot vaguely remembered Arthur once mentioning that he had been born at this time of year, but he had paid it no mind. In Sarmatia, only mothers remembered when their children were born, and here in Britain only the puffed up Roman officials made a point of celebrating their birth days--as though it were some type of occasion that the world should rejoice at. Lancelot had always found the practice worthy of mockery, but he had not known that the date of Arthur's birth had any significance to the man.
"He gave it to you? Why?"
"It's a custom. When a boy is deemed mature and ready to take his place as a citizen, his father will present him with his man's toga. Since my father was dead, it was Pelagius who gave me the toga and took me to get my name enrolled on the voting lists." Arthur’s eyes went unfocused with memories.
Lancelot watched Arthur and bit his tongue several times to keep himself from making an acid comment. Arthur had apparently dug out this blanket-like garment from the bottom of his clothes chest today for a reason. Well, if Arthur was feeling the need to mark his birth day this year, then Lancelot would give him a celebration far more interesting than mooning over this unwieldy mass of fabric. And he would give Arthur something other than Rome to think on when he wore it again—someday when Lancelot could be there only in memory.
He gave a testing twitch to the handful of cloth he was still holding, which snapped Arthur's eyes into focus. "Hmm," Lancelot murmured. He stepped closer so that the folds of the toga brushed against his own clothes and gave Arthur a long, heated look. "I had thought that this thing might have at least one practical quality, but I guess not."
"What are you talking about?" To Lancelot's satisfaction, Arthur's response was distracted, and he was staring back into Lancelot's eyes.
Lancelot pretended to consider. His eyes flickered down and then back up to meet Arthur’s. "I wondered if the thing might provide easier access than trousers, but, on second thought, I think I'd just get myself entangled in all this cloth."
Arthur continued to stare at him for a moment, but then he actually gave a bright, flashing grin, his green eyes crinkling with laughter. "Do you want to try and see?"
Lancelot was not one to turn down such an offer.
But it was only a few minutes later when Lancelot's voice, muffled by fabric, was demanding, "Get this fucking thing off me, Arthur!"
Then there was the sound of laughter and then a thump as two bodies, bound together by the cloth, hit the ground.
"Romanos, rerum dominos, gentemque togatam" ("Romans, lords of the world, the race that wears the toga") –Virgil
sasha_b!!! May you have an excellent day and a wonderful celebration of a year in which you have grown richer with experience, memories and knowledge.
In honor of your birthday, I wanted to write you a fabulous fic (or at least something happy and smutty), but my excuse is I've been utterly crushed by work, so all I managed is this:
Birthday Fic for Ashley:
Fates’ Weave
Lancelot barged into Arthur's room without bothering with such a mundane thing as knocking. Catching Arthur out, after all, was one of the few amusements that this dreary place provided.
No amusement was to be had, today, though. Arthur was only kneeling beside the chest that held his clothes with a few stacks of folded garments around him.
"If you're thinking of having your laundry done, think again," Lancelot said. It was pissing outside as though all the demon Briton gods had passed the night drinking. Which was one of the reasons why Lancelot was here. It was too nasty to go outside, the rest of the knights were hiding from him, and even his horse had given him a long, warning look when he had brushed its coat to a high gloss and then had actually begun to toy with braiding its mane.
Arthur started at the sound of Lancelot’s voice, which was surprising. Lancelot had not been particularly quiet in his entrance, only sudden. He went closer and peered into the chest. It was empty except for what looked like a folded sheet of unbleached wool. Lancelot quirked his brow. "Cloth? Going to have some new tunics made?"
Arthur shook his head. His hands reached for the chest lid, as though he were about to shut it, but then he sighed and answered curtly, “No." He hesitated a moment longer before he drew out the fabric with careful hands. His manner nearly reverent, he stood and shook it out, revealing voluminous meters of fine, expensive wool.
"A blanket?" Lancelot asked half-heartedly. The cloth was probably worth as much as Lancelot's yearly pay—if multiplied by five.
Arthur gave him a strange, almost diffident glance. It was a look that Lancelot had never quite seen before. "No,” he repeated. He paused before continuing. “It's my toga."
Lancelot blinked. It took him a moment to understand what Arthur was talking about. "You have one of those?" The question came out sharp with hostility.
"All Romans do, Lancelot." Arthur's hands smoothed over the cloth.
"I've never seen you wear it." Lancelot's voice was accusing now. The toga was the symbol of everything he hated. It was the official garment of the Roman state. The garment worn by those arrogant, corrupt men of wealth and power. He had never imagined Arthur having such a thing.
"It's only really worn on ceremonial or political occasions. I wore it in Rome, but it's not appropriate here."
"Why not?" Lancelot had seen plenty of strutting Romans wearing the thing.
"It's the garment of the civil state, it's not worn by soldiers. It's a garment of peace."
Lancelot snorted, ignoring the nearly wistful tone of Arthur's voice. "As if Romans know anything about peace. What that means is that it is only worn by those plotting conquests and destruction, not those who actually get their hands dirty."
Arthur's face closed over. Without a word, he began to refold the toga. The care he took in handling it made Lancelot pause. He studied the cloth, and tried to picture Arthur dressed in it. He could not; the only Arthur he knew was the Arthur who wore the red military cloak and armor, who sat astride a horse and held a sword.
"Put it on," Lancelot demanded abruptly. It suddenly seemed important.
"What?"
Lancelot perched on the window ledge, drawing his knees so he could rest his chin on them, and hugged his arms around his legs. He could hear the wild beating of the rain against the shutters. "Put it on."
"Why?" Arthur asked, voice wary.
Lancelot managed to keep his voice light. "I'm curious—I can't imagine you wearing such a thing."
Arthur frowned at him for a long moment, and seemed about to refuse, but then with a sigh, like that of a man indulging a child’s fancy, he put the cloth down and began to undress. Lancelot stared, unabashed, as Arthur stripped down to his plain, white undertunic. Arthur then began to wind the long cloth around himself. It was somewhat awkward, but Arthur clearly knew what he was dong.
"It's been folded away for a long time and not creased properly, so it won't fall quite right," Arthur warned. He straightened the last few folds and then stood still. And it was as though something flipped over. He went from being Arthur, half dressed and a little clumsy, to something else entirely.
Lancelot’s fingers dug into his legs. His first reaction was bristling hostility, and he very nearly opened his mouth and spat out something venomous. All you need are some leaves in your hair and you'll be a perfect statue of that cocksucking, whoreson of an emperor. But then he saw beyond the hated figure of a Roman to the look on Arthur's face. The words died in his throat, burning like bile. Instead, he forced himself to straighen and stand. He walked slowly around Arthur, staring.
Arthur was looking straight ahead, unmoving, as Lancelot prowled around him. His face was stoic, like that of a condemned man awaiting his punishment.
At last, Lancelot only said, "How can you move in that thing?"
"Carefully and slowly," Arthur said, his tense posture relaxing somewhat and his mouth crooking slightly.
Lancelot let out a small, dark laugh. "No wonder you Romans can't ride for shit, if your grandfathers wore clothes like this. There’s no way to sit astride a horse in that thing."
Arthur raised his eyebrows at the "you Romans," but let that pass for the moment. "I told you, it's only worn for official occasions."
Lancelot circled Arthur again. "You look—"
"Ridiculous?" Arthur supplied, his tone a mix of warning and something that was very nearly defensiveness.
"I was going to say, different." And he did look different. Graceful and stately, with the long, unblemished garment falling in folds past his bare feet. Although Lancelot would never admit it out loud, Arthur looked . . . distinguished. Regal. And like a stranger who was no one Lancelot would know.
The thought made him feel faintly sick. Arthur would wear this garment again when he returned to Rome and lived that life he longed for. His life in a city that Lancelot would sooner die than set foot in—unless he was there to raze it to the ground.
To distract himself, Lancelot fingered some of the heavy cloth and then pulled it up a bit, so he could see Arthur's feet and calves. "Doesn't it feel strange to have bare legs under there?"
"The Romans and Greeks used to think you easterners effeminate for wearing trousers, you know."
"Effeminate?" Lancelot raised a disdainful eyebrow. "I'm not the one wearing a dress."
Arthur rolled his eyes but did not deign to respond to that.
Lancelot played a bit more with the cloth. Arthur even smelled different wearing it. "Seems a bit drafty."
"The weather in Rome is a lot milder than in Britain." Arthur's eyes took on that far away, longing look that they always had when the man spoke of Rome. "It's a warm place and full of light." Arthur looked down at himself, and sighed. "It's exactly twenty years since I first wore this, you know. Pelagius gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday."
Lancelot vaguely remembered Arthur once mentioning that he had been born at this time of year, but he had paid it no mind. In Sarmatia, only mothers remembered when their children were born, and here in Britain only the puffed up Roman officials made a point of celebrating their birth days--as though it were some type of occasion that the world should rejoice at. Lancelot had always found the practice worthy of mockery, but he had not known that the date of Arthur's birth had any significance to the man.
"He gave it to you? Why?"
"It's a custom. When a boy is deemed mature and ready to take his place as a citizen, his father will present him with his man's toga. Since my father was dead, it was Pelagius who gave me the toga and took me to get my name enrolled on the voting lists." Arthur’s eyes went unfocused with memories.
Lancelot watched Arthur and bit his tongue several times to keep himself from making an acid comment. Arthur had apparently dug out this blanket-like garment from the bottom of his clothes chest today for a reason. Well, if Arthur was feeling the need to mark his birth day this year, then Lancelot would give him a celebration far more interesting than mooning over this unwieldy mass of fabric. And he would give Arthur something other than Rome to think on when he wore it again—someday when Lancelot could be there only in memory.
He gave a testing twitch to the handful of cloth he was still holding, which snapped Arthur's eyes into focus. "Hmm," Lancelot murmured. He stepped closer so that the folds of the toga brushed against his own clothes and gave Arthur a long, heated look. "I had thought that this thing might have at least one practical quality, but I guess not."
"What are you talking about?" To Lancelot's satisfaction, Arthur's response was distracted, and he was staring back into Lancelot's eyes.
Lancelot pretended to consider. His eyes flickered down and then back up to meet Arthur’s. "I wondered if the thing might provide easier access than trousers, but, on second thought, I think I'd just get myself entangled in all this cloth."
Arthur continued to stare at him for a moment, but then he actually gave a bright, flashing grin, his green eyes crinkling with laughter. "Do you want to try and see?"
Lancelot was not one to turn down such an offer.
But it was only a few minutes later when Lancelot's voice, muffled by fabric, was demanding, "Get this fucking thing off me, Arthur!"
Then there was the sound of laughter and then a thump as two bodies, bound together by the cloth, hit the ground.
"Romanos, rerum dominos, gentemque togatam" ("Romans, lords of the world, the race that wears the toga") –Virgil
