amari_z | King Arthur Fic: Fifteen Years

Title: Fifteen Years
Warnings: Slash, violence
Summary: Fifteen moments across fifteen years.
Notes: Thanks to

sasha_b for the head patting.

One

It is not until the third week that it finally begins to sink in. Three weeks spent traveling with strangers, always hungry and exhausted, ordered about by rough men whose language Lancelot can barely understand, but whose quick fists do not allow for anytime to puzzle out the meaning of their shouted words.

It is in that third week, trying to sew up an ever-growing hole in his tunic by the dim moonlight, that it hits Lancelot that he is utterly alone. There is no mother here to tut over the tears he makes in his clothes and sew them up with deft magic, no father to look at his horse's left foreleg and to explain to him how to make his horse well, no sister to tease and tell stories to, no cousins to race around the camp and shout with, no uncles to ruffle his hair and take him off hunting with the men. No gentle hands, no kind voices, no one who would care if he is happy or hurt, cold or frightened, or if he is a good son or a bad one.

There is nothing safe any more, nothing secure, and he cannot go home for a time so long it might as well be forever.

The tears come, hot and unexpected, and he is so startled he barely manages to choke back the sob that rises in his throat. He shoves the cloth of his roughly mended tunic up against his mouth, and nearly chokes as he tries to stay quiet.

He thinks he has succeeded until he sees the boy who is sleeping in the place beside him stir. It is the silent one, Tristan, who will often ride next to Lancelot but almost never says a word.

Lancelot looks at the other boy in consternation, waiting for the mockery or contempt, but a hand is on his shoulder, and before he realizes how it has happened, his sobs are being muffled into the tunic of the other boy.

The next day, Tristan says not a word. Lancelot did not expect him to, but he does study those still eyes for some sign of derision. He finds none.

It is not the last time Lancelot will cry, but it is the first time that he realizes that maybe he is not quite as alone in this new life as he had thought.

Two

Lancelot's hands shake and his stomach churns. He keeps his face blank beneath the too big helm and hides the trembling of his fingers by clenching them on the lance he carries.

The signal to charge comes and then it is all speed and deafening noise. Later, when the straight Roman lines have fragmented into knots of writhing chaos, Lancelot feels hands dragging him from his horse. He falls to the ground, windless, his sword hand trapped under the weight of a full-grown man. Hands are a vise around his throat and a snarling blue face looms above him. His vision is already darkening, as his left hand gropes desperately in the mud in search of something—anything. He is hardly aware of his fingers closing around a hilt before he slams the sword into his attacker's side. Sobbing for air, he manages to push the dead weight off and to scramble to his feet, a sword in each hand.

When it is over, he stands amid the scattered dead, pulse raging in his ears, blood covering him as though he had bathed in it. He has survived. He has more than survived. He has killed those who would have killed him.

For a moment, Lancelot feels the terrible joy of it, the rush of power, the swell of triumph. For a moment, war is a heady, brilliant thing. But then he turns and sees amid the fallen, with their hacked limbs and strewn guts, faces that he knows.

He falls to his knees and is sick.

Three

Lancelot spends the evening in the stable. His horse took an arrow wound in the last skirmish, and he sits in its stall, telling it tales of Sarmatia, knowing it can understand every word.

It has grown late when he is startled out of a doze by the sound of loud Roman voices. Only the Sarmatian cavalry's horses are kept in these stables, so Romans have no business here.

Lancelot never learns what prompted the legionaries to enter the stables that night, but whatever their reasons, they are diverted by Lancelot's presence. And Lancelot finally learns why it is that Gareth keeps warning them not to be caught alone by the Romans.

He fights viciously, but he only has a knife, and they are bigger and stronger than he is. They drag him, already bruised and bleeding, out behind the stables. Each takes a turn, and then they leave him there in the dirt.

Their laughter is still ringing in Lancelot's ears when he finally manages to claw his way to his feet, and, holding on to the stable wall, to make his way back to his horse's stall. He collapses there, his blood soaking into the hay, curling away when his horse nuzzles at him in concern.

He tells no one.

Twelve days later, three legionaries are missing from the fort. No sign is found of them, and they are marked on the rolls as deserters.

Four

Lancelot’s natural skill as a swordsman has been honed. From the beginning, he was one of the better fighters among the knights, but his lack of bulk put him at a disadvantage. Although at sixteen he has grown taller, Lancelot still lacks bulk. But what he lacks in muscle he now makes up by means of vicious skill. These days, there are few among the knights who can stand up to him and his two swords.

These days, even the Romans give him a wide berth. His reputation has spread among them; it is known that crossing him will result in swift and ruthless retaliation, and no threat of punishment will give him pause.

One of Lancelot’s greatest pleasures in this life is seeing the way the Romans’ gazes slide away from his, unable to meet his eyes.

Five

The new commander is not like any of the others who came before him. Lancelot watches carefully from beneath his eyelashes as the man speaks.

No, this one is different. The others were greedy, ambitious Roman pigs. They had all mouthed the Roman platitudes while busily lining their pockets. They curried favor for their next posting, while throwing away the lives of the knights as if they were no more weighty than air. They had taught Lancelot to sneer at words like "honor" and "duty." For what are such words but pretty lies mouthed to convince the stupid and naive to die for Rome and be thankful for the opportunity?

Such words are chains. All that matters is survival.

But the new commander, he is different than the others. When he speaks the hateful platitudes, this one's voice throbs with passion. This one actually believes in what he is saying.

Lancelot continues to watch the new commander, and realizes that, for all they had suffered under their previous officers for their indifference and cruelty, this officer might prove to be the most dangerous of them all.

Six

Lancelot still watches Arthur, but not quite for the same reasons he once did. The man, for all his strange ideas and beliefs, is that rarest of creatures—a Roman trying to do good for good's sake. Lancelot should despise him as a hypocrite, but he cannot quite.

When Lancelot finds his double blades blocking the downswing of an ax that should have cleaved the commander's back in two, he tells himself it is because this man is the lesser of the evils that face them. He does not think about the way Arthur looks into his eyes when he talks, earnest and intent, as though he were speaking to a friend.

Seven

If Lancelot thought about it, he could never have done it, but Lancelot often acts on instinct, not thought. It is instinct that has him straddling Arthur in his chair and kissing him until there seems to be no air left anywhere in the world.

If he had thought about it, he would have remembered that Arthur is a Roman, and Lancelot hates Romans. If he had thought about it, he would have remembered that Arthur is a Roman, and that Lancelot would never, ever let a Roman fuck him.

But he does not think, he only acts, and so when Arthur tumbles him to the floor and pushes his thighs apart, Lancelot arches against him eagerly.

He does not think about it, so he is not troubled that afterwards, when Arthur holds him in his arms, murmuring to him words so sweet that Lancelot would not have believed that the ugly language of Rome could encompass them, Lancelot feels that old sense of safety that he believed lost with Sarmatia.

Eight

The whip bites into his back, and the scream of it through the air is like a cry of bloated satisfaction. Lancelot does not flinch. He does not clench his fingers or his teeth, but instead only stares coolly at the man who has ordered this. It is all bravado, since each strike of the pronged whip is agony, but Lancelot would sooner slit his own throat than give the fat Roman a moment's satisfaction.

He does not look at Arthur, who is standing some feet distant from the other Roman officer, no doubt with a pained look on his face. Arthur who had argued against this punishment, but who in the end had given in. For Lancelot had struck a superior officer, never mind the provocation, and Arthur is a great one for rules and duty. But Lancelot is no one to be tamed.

Lancelot is not angry with Arthur, not really. His only real regret is that he had not broken more than just the officer's nose. His neck would have been far better.

Lancelot is not sure if it is blood now or just sweat that is dripping down his back, and he finds that his fingers are curling despite himself. But as his vision starts to darken, he keeps his eyes on the Roman's bandaged face, and begins to smile.

Nine

Lancelot is arrogant, but it is not an exaggeration that he can outfight anyone in the garrison, including Arthur himself. But not even he is invulnerable.

When the Woad's ax cleaves through his armor and deep into his chest, he knows a moment of resignation. He has watched more than half his Sarmatian brethren die in this cursed land, and it seems that his turn has come. Because he is who he is, the resignation is only momentary before the rage flares up. He kills the ax wielder and the man after that and the man after that, before he finds that his legs cannot support him. The earth, when he falls on it, is cold, and he nearly laughs, but his blood is warm in his mouth.

He is aware of nothing except pain. Pain and unbearable heat. Surely, then, he thinks, or maybe only thinks he thinks, he must have left Britain, for when has it ever been hot in Britain? Perhaps there is some kind of truth to Arthur's notions of hell after all.

He becomes aware, after time has coiled around him like a snake, of a hoarse voice murmuring near his ear. He cannot make out the words, but he knows the cadence of it. He wants to tell Arthur to shut up, he is going, and he does not want sodding church words ringing in his ears as he breaks free at last, but he cannot seem to manage to speak. What he does do is open his eyes, and the only thing he can see is Arthur's face.

Arthur leans even closer, and, the rhythm of his voice changes. It takes Lancelot a moment to understand the words.

Lancelot closes his eyes and considers for a while. Don't leave me. He has never heard Arthur use quite that tone.

After he considers, he decides that freedom will have to wait, and he will not be leaving yet after all.

Ten

Lancelot still sleeps with women, although far less frequently than he once did. Women are pleasant, a diversion when Arthur is preoccupied with his Rome or his God or whatever else the man sees as his "duty."

Arthur does not like it, although he says nothing. But if Lancelot fails to notice that Arthur's touch is more grasping, more forceful, after Lancelot has tumbled some lass, then he is not very observant.

In fact, Arthur views Lancelot's dalliances much the same way the other man views Arthur's prayers. Both see something that takes away what they view as rightfully their own.

The difference is that Lancelot's tongue does not restrain itself from attacking what he does not like.

The difference is that, while Arthur does actually know that Lancelot's women mean nothing to Lancelot, Lancelot thinks he knows that Arthur's God means everything to Arthur.

Eleven

Lancelot knows that Arthur had only the best intentions when he had the table constructed. Forty seats for forty knights, each sitting in a place equal to the other. It is a worthy ideal. Arthur is full of worthy ideals. Unfortunately, the world does not work as Arthur perceives, and Arthur's worthy ideals all too often make Lancelot want to throttle the man.

Sitting at the table with the remaining knights, a large goblet of wine before him, Lancelot's eyes linger on the empty places. So many. It has been for some time now that the empty chairs have outnumbered the occupied.

Beside him on either side is an empty place. On one side sat Gareth, three days dead. On the other sat Ector, five years dead.

Talking a deep draught of wine and ignoring the inquiring looks he is getting from Arthur, two empty seats away, Lancelot wonders if Arthur ever thought of what it would mean to give each knight a place at the table. If he had ever thought that there would be a time when each empty place would be like a wound that will not heal for being constantly worried open.

Lancelot wonders what will happen when their numbers dwindle even further. Will there be a day when this great table with its forty places will seat only eight? Seven? Six? Five? Will a handful of knights sit, diminished by the grandness of this room, their voices echoing emptily, mockingly, from wall to wall as they call to each other across the table? Will there come a day when all the chairs will be empty and Arthur will sit alone here in the hall, with only his fine table and his ideals for company?

Twelve

Although Lancelot delights in teasing Bors about his bastards' parentage, Lancelot claims not to like children. Bors's bastards are hardly children, anyway, he often says, more like spawn from Arthur's hell.

Still, he watches sometimes, as the children tumble and play around Vanora's skirts. They laugh and yell, demanding attention of the knights and accepting it as their due. The bolder ones come even to him, tugging at his clothes and hands, wanting his notice, and although he is often short and sarcastic with them, they are not dissuaded.

Lancelot sometimes tells Bors to keep his shrieking brats under control—locking them in one of the empty barracks is one of his nicer suggestions—but when Number Eight crawls into his lap, thumb in her mouth, he does not push her away, but steadies her with a gentle hand on her back.

Thirteen

Ector. Kay. Percival. Cador. Gareth. Lamorak. Uwain. Agravaine. Gaheris. Yvain. Bruenor. Dinaden. Lavaine. Servause. Galehaut. Safer. Bedivere. Lovel. Urre. Owein. Lionel. Mador. Bruenor. Galleron. Lovel. Uwain. Palomides. Pellinore. Lucan. Griflet. Morholt. Erec. Meliagaunt.

Lancelot knows how each knight died and where his grave lies. But he never sets foot in the cemetery if he can help it. He goes there only to bury one of his own or to wrangle Arthur free of his preoccupation with the place.

He knows that Arthur goes to the cemetery to pray for the dead—and to speak to the man buried in the swordless grave—but for Lancelot, the notion that anything of his brethren's spirits are lingering in this place is something worse than death itself.

He honors the dead in his own way. He honors them by living, and by doing what he can to ensure that the others live as well. That way, someone will be left to carry the names of the dead home. That way, the dead will live on in the hearts of those who survive.

Fourteen

Time is not a thing that is so easily measured, despite what the Romans think. At twenty-six, one year is not as long as it was at twelve. And sometimes it seems impossible to Lancelot that he has spent fourteen years in Britain fighting for Rome. Other times, it seems to him as though he has never done anything else.

Lancelot aches for freedom, aches for home, with a yearning that he has no words to describe. But more and more lately, as freedom and home creep closer and closer, he lies awake at night listening to Arthur breath and wondering if Sarmatia is only a place he dreamed of.

Fifteen

Neither Lancelot nor Arthur can ever leave anything be, so it is not surprising that after their argument in the stables, Lancelot opens his eyes to find Arthur in his room.

The Roman says nothing, only stripping off his clothes before climbing into the narrow bunk with Lancelot. Their kiss is all the more desperate for their frustration with one another. As Arthur thrusts inside of him, he hisses into Lancelot's ear, almost a promise, nearly a threat, "You will be free and you will go home."

Lancelot does not answer, except to tighten his horseman's thighs around Arthur, pulling him yet deeper. But he knows it for a lie, for, despite what he has told Arthur, his freedom is not simply his to take anymore and home is no longer just one thing.