King Arthur Fic: Words Unspoken
Jan. 5th, 2007 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Words Unspoken
Warnings: Explicit slash
Summary: The consequences of Arthur's choices.
Notes: I know this was supposed to be the next chapter of Resurrection, but I’m still brooding over that one. Soon. Really. This came about as a result of something I was thinking about in teh crack, but is not related.
Arthur was nearly asleep when he felt Lancelot lay down beside him. Chilled limbs immediately wrapped themselves around him, and Arthur made a token protest even as he turned over so he could pull Lancelot into his arms.
Despite the icy feet tucked against his calf and the cold face pressed into his neck, Arthur sighed contentedly as he ran his hand through Lancelot's hair. Over the years, Arthur's hair had grayed, which Lancelot delighted in teasing him about, even as he crowed over the fact that his own hair seemed impervious. Up until a few weeks ago, Lancelot's hair had been as dark as it had ever been, but then Arthur had finally found a strand of growing silver amid the black. At the time, he had opened his mouth to gloat, but had changed his mind. Now, his fingers combed through the curls until he found that single strand again. It was his own small secret.
The combination of Arthur's body heat and the furs that covered them warmed up Lancelot soon enough, and it was not long before the body pressing against Arthur's in search of warmth was pressing against him for other purposes. Lips found Arthur's, and he kissed back with slow pleasure, his tongue twining with Lancelot's. He drew back after a long while, the hand in Lancelot's hair sliding down to cup the side of the other man's face.
The years had been kind to Arthur's lover—or maybe even time itself was a little wary of tangling with Lancelot. There were small creases radiating from the corners of his eyes and laugh lines around his mobile mouth, which Arthur quite adored, but he looked little different from the knight who had fought at Arthur's side in Britain all those years ago. A little leaner and harder, but he smiled more now, and his eyes were nearly clear of the old shadows.
Those eyes fluttered open, and met Arthur's own for a moment before drifting shut again. The heat in them sent a shiver through Arthur. His other hand, which had been mapping patterns over the length of Lancelot's back, slipped lower, and Lancelot made a quiet, breathy sound when Arthur's hand closed around him and began to stroke.
They were far more patient in seeking pleasure these days. Once, their time together had been little more than furtive moments stolen in some dark corner, a fumbling unfastening of trousers and a quick, hard fuck that relieved the burning need for a moment, but only left them hungry for more. Still, even now, patience only went so far when it came to Lancelot. Lancelot’s teeth and tongue had found that place on Arthur’s neck. Lancelot laughed as Arthur abruptly flipped him on to his back and crouched over him, letting in a rush of cold air under the furs.
Lancelot's arms snaked around Arthur's neck, trying to pull him down into another kiss, but Arthur refused to be distracted from his intent. Lancelot made a small sound of protest, but when Arthur's fingers stole back to press inside of him, he was moaning and spreading his thighs, as shamelessly wanton as ever. His hand found Arthur's erection, and it only took a few strokes before Arthur was biting his lip and shoving the skilled hand away. Their hands tangled together and Lancelot's hips rolled up to met Arthur as he thrust inside. And then it was only slick heat and burning movement and Lancelot. Always Lancelot.
Sweaty and content, Arthur lay still afterward, holding Lancelot against him, his cheek pressed against damp curls. With every breath he inhaled Lancelot's scent. One of Lancelot's long, lean legs was thrown over his hip, their groins pressed together. Arthur's hand stroked languidly over the skin of Lancelot's thigh, smooth except for the occasional rough edge of a scar. He never wanted to move again.
He tightened his arm around the pliant body and murmured softly, "I love you." He felt a slight tremor go through Lancelot and then a slow smile against the skin of his neck. He had said those words to Lancelot as often as he could since Badon Hill. He had made a promise to himself, during those nightmare days he had spent beside Lancelot's bedside. He had realized then that he might lose Lancelot, and that, for all his doubts and convictions, all that mattered was that it had felt like his soul was being torn away each time Lancelot's labored breathing stuttered. There was nothing evil, nothing shameful in his love. The evil was in having looked away from the warmth in Lancelot's eyes, and pretending he saw nothing. The evil was in never once having let the warmth he felt inside show itself to Lancelot.
He had said the words for the first time in that sickroom, when Lancelot's eyes had at last opened. Since then, he had said them many times, and each and every time, Lancelot still smiled.
Arthur nuzzled against the soft curls and added, "Anything for you." He meant it. In those last days in Britain, he had finally realized that duty and principles, and even Rome, were cold, abstract things to devote himself to. They were nothing compared to the man that Arthur held in his arms now. Lancelot had actually argued when Arthur had told him that he would leave Britain, not for Rome, but to go with the remaining knights to Sarmatia. It would have made Arthur laugh to hear Lancelot insisting that Arthur truly wanted to return to Rome, if the knight had not been so serious. In the end, Lancelot had given up fighting against his own heart's desire, although, in their first years in Sarmatia, there were moments when Arthur would catch Lancelot's eyes scrutinizing him as though searching for signs of regret.
Arthur had never repented his choice. Sarmatia and its ways were strange to him, but Lancelot was all he wanted. In time, he had grown to love the endless horizon and the wide sky, if not quite as much as Lancelot did, and even if, on cold nights such as this, he did miss snug stonewalls and a permanent hearth—at least until Lancelot joined him in bed. He had never imagined that he could be comfortable living a nomadic life, but in truth, it mattered little. Home was not stonewalls, it was not even this familiar tent hung with colorful tapestries woven by Lancelot’s sister and littered with the toys that Arthur carved and that Lancelot’s nieces and nephews inevitably left in their wake. Home was Lancelot.
Feeling warm, sated, and utterly content in his nest of pillows and furs and Lancelot, his hand continued to move possessively over Lancelot's thigh as he drifted to sleep, happy as he had been for these many years.
"My lord?"
Arthur started awake, immediately aware that he was lying on a hard cot, his limbs chilled under the scratchy wool blanket.
"My lord?"
He blinked and sat up, rubbing at his gritty eyes. His squire, knowing Arthur's dislike of being hovered over, dropped the flap separating the sleeping area of the field tent and disappeared from view. The boy was one of Bors's grandsons—his name was Tristan, but Arthur never thought of him thus; he seemed too much a meld of his grandfather’s bulk and his grandmother’s good sense. He returned just in time to assist Arthur with his armor, and both breakfast and his captains were waiting when he stepped out into the main part of the tent.
"Their forces are readying themselves, it won't be long," Gawain said coolly as he bit into a piece of bread.
"The traitor," Constantine practically spat the word, "won't outlive the day."
A few glanced at Arthur uneasily at that; Arthur kept his face impassive. They went over the battle plan again, but all their strategies had been set and they all knew their parts. They were outnumbered here two to one, but they had faced greater odds before, and his captains seemed sure of victory. Arthur let them talk, but found his attention actually drifting, and had to force himself to keep focused.
They broke up after a short while, Arthur concluding the meeting with the stirring speech they expected. At his words, their backs straightened and their eyes brightened.
They left the tent with short bows to him, and Arthur watched them go. Bors's grandson brought Excalibur to him, and then Arthur was ready for battle.
He left the tent after one long backward glance. For a moment, he saw not the spare field tent he used for campaigning, but the interior of a smaller, warmer tent, which existed only in his imagination and in that other life he had created out of his own regrets. Lancelot stirred, a flash of pale shoulder amid the dark furs and murmured sleepily, "Don't be long."
Arthur turned and stepped out onto Camlann Field.
Warnings: Explicit slash
Summary: The consequences of Arthur's choices.
Notes: I know this was supposed to be the next chapter of Resurrection, but I’m still brooding over that one. Soon. Really. This came about as a result of something I was thinking about in teh crack, but is not related.
Arthur was nearly asleep when he felt Lancelot lay down beside him. Chilled limbs immediately wrapped themselves around him, and Arthur made a token protest even as he turned over so he could pull Lancelot into his arms.
Despite the icy feet tucked against his calf and the cold face pressed into his neck, Arthur sighed contentedly as he ran his hand through Lancelot's hair. Over the years, Arthur's hair had grayed, which Lancelot delighted in teasing him about, even as he crowed over the fact that his own hair seemed impervious. Up until a few weeks ago, Lancelot's hair had been as dark as it had ever been, but then Arthur had finally found a strand of growing silver amid the black. At the time, he had opened his mouth to gloat, but had changed his mind. Now, his fingers combed through the curls until he found that single strand again. It was his own small secret.
The combination of Arthur's body heat and the furs that covered them warmed up Lancelot soon enough, and it was not long before the body pressing against Arthur's in search of warmth was pressing against him for other purposes. Lips found Arthur's, and he kissed back with slow pleasure, his tongue twining with Lancelot's. He drew back after a long while, the hand in Lancelot's hair sliding down to cup the side of the other man's face.
The years had been kind to Arthur's lover—or maybe even time itself was a little wary of tangling with Lancelot. There were small creases radiating from the corners of his eyes and laugh lines around his mobile mouth, which Arthur quite adored, but he looked little different from the knight who had fought at Arthur's side in Britain all those years ago. A little leaner and harder, but he smiled more now, and his eyes were nearly clear of the old shadows.
Those eyes fluttered open, and met Arthur's own for a moment before drifting shut again. The heat in them sent a shiver through Arthur. His other hand, which had been mapping patterns over the length of Lancelot's back, slipped lower, and Lancelot made a quiet, breathy sound when Arthur's hand closed around him and began to stroke.
They were far more patient in seeking pleasure these days. Once, their time together had been little more than furtive moments stolen in some dark corner, a fumbling unfastening of trousers and a quick, hard fuck that relieved the burning need for a moment, but only left them hungry for more. Still, even now, patience only went so far when it came to Lancelot. Lancelot’s teeth and tongue had found that place on Arthur’s neck. Lancelot laughed as Arthur abruptly flipped him on to his back and crouched over him, letting in a rush of cold air under the furs.
Lancelot's arms snaked around Arthur's neck, trying to pull him down into another kiss, but Arthur refused to be distracted from his intent. Lancelot made a small sound of protest, but when Arthur's fingers stole back to press inside of him, he was moaning and spreading his thighs, as shamelessly wanton as ever. His hand found Arthur's erection, and it only took a few strokes before Arthur was biting his lip and shoving the skilled hand away. Their hands tangled together and Lancelot's hips rolled up to met Arthur as he thrust inside. And then it was only slick heat and burning movement and Lancelot. Always Lancelot.
Sweaty and content, Arthur lay still afterward, holding Lancelot against him, his cheek pressed against damp curls. With every breath he inhaled Lancelot's scent. One of Lancelot's long, lean legs was thrown over his hip, their groins pressed together. Arthur's hand stroked languidly over the skin of Lancelot's thigh, smooth except for the occasional rough edge of a scar. He never wanted to move again.
He tightened his arm around the pliant body and murmured softly, "I love you." He felt a slight tremor go through Lancelot and then a slow smile against the skin of his neck. He had said those words to Lancelot as often as he could since Badon Hill. He had made a promise to himself, during those nightmare days he had spent beside Lancelot's bedside. He had realized then that he might lose Lancelot, and that, for all his doubts and convictions, all that mattered was that it had felt like his soul was being torn away each time Lancelot's labored breathing stuttered. There was nothing evil, nothing shameful in his love. The evil was in having looked away from the warmth in Lancelot's eyes, and pretending he saw nothing. The evil was in never once having let the warmth he felt inside show itself to Lancelot.
He had said the words for the first time in that sickroom, when Lancelot's eyes had at last opened. Since then, he had said them many times, and each and every time, Lancelot still smiled.
Arthur nuzzled against the soft curls and added, "Anything for you." He meant it. In those last days in Britain, he had finally realized that duty and principles, and even Rome, were cold, abstract things to devote himself to. They were nothing compared to the man that Arthur held in his arms now. Lancelot had actually argued when Arthur had told him that he would leave Britain, not for Rome, but to go with the remaining knights to Sarmatia. It would have made Arthur laugh to hear Lancelot insisting that Arthur truly wanted to return to Rome, if the knight had not been so serious. In the end, Lancelot had given up fighting against his own heart's desire, although, in their first years in Sarmatia, there were moments when Arthur would catch Lancelot's eyes scrutinizing him as though searching for signs of regret.
Arthur had never repented his choice. Sarmatia and its ways were strange to him, but Lancelot was all he wanted. In time, he had grown to love the endless horizon and the wide sky, if not quite as much as Lancelot did, and even if, on cold nights such as this, he did miss snug stonewalls and a permanent hearth—at least until Lancelot joined him in bed. He had never imagined that he could be comfortable living a nomadic life, but in truth, it mattered little. Home was not stonewalls, it was not even this familiar tent hung with colorful tapestries woven by Lancelot’s sister and littered with the toys that Arthur carved and that Lancelot’s nieces and nephews inevitably left in their wake. Home was Lancelot.
Feeling warm, sated, and utterly content in his nest of pillows and furs and Lancelot, his hand continued to move possessively over Lancelot's thigh as he drifted to sleep, happy as he had been for these many years.
"My lord?"
Arthur started awake, immediately aware that he was lying on a hard cot, his limbs chilled under the scratchy wool blanket.
"My lord?"
He blinked and sat up, rubbing at his gritty eyes. His squire, knowing Arthur's dislike of being hovered over, dropped the flap separating the sleeping area of the field tent and disappeared from view. The boy was one of Bors's grandsons—his name was Tristan, but Arthur never thought of him thus; he seemed too much a meld of his grandfather’s bulk and his grandmother’s good sense. He returned just in time to assist Arthur with his armor, and both breakfast and his captains were waiting when he stepped out into the main part of the tent.
"Their forces are readying themselves, it won't be long," Gawain said coolly as he bit into a piece of bread.
"The traitor," Constantine practically spat the word, "won't outlive the day."
A few glanced at Arthur uneasily at that; Arthur kept his face impassive. They went over the battle plan again, but all their strategies had been set and they all knew their parts. They were outnumbered here two to one, but they had faced greater odds before, and his captains seemed sure of victory. Arthur let them talk, but found his attention actually drifting, and had to force himself to keep focused.
They broke up after a short while, Arthur concluding the meeting with the stirring speech they expected. At his words, their backs straightened and their eyes brightened.
They left the tent with short bows to him, and Arthur watched them go. Bors's grandson brought Excalibur to him, and then Arthur was ready for battle.
He left the tent after one long backward glance. For a moment, he saw not the spare field tent he used for campaigning, but the interior of a smaller, warmer tent, which existed only in his imagination and in that other life he had created out of his own regrets. Lancelot stirred, a flash of pale shoulder amid the dark furs and murmured sleepily, "Don't be long."
Arthur turned and stepped out onto Camlann Field.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-01-05 10:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 03:56 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2007-01-05 11:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 03:08 am (UTC)Shelley
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Date: 2007-01-06 03:53 pm (UTC)Glad you liked it! Thanks for your comments.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 03:16 am (UTC)Yeah, that's Lance's opinion, too!
At the time, he had opened his mouth to gloat, but had changed his mind. Now, his fingers combed through the curls until he found that single strand again. It was his own small secret.
Whoa, a sentimental A from you for once. Hmm, quite intriguing. Very well done. Bah -- why does it always take L having been on the brink of death, AND in a dream/fantasy at that, for A to act nobly towards his lover?
You do have a ghost/specter theme running throughout your ficlets -- a bit macabre, but you handle it well.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 04:40 pm (UTC)Sentimental A, and you know there's got to be a catch. Given the conceit of the first part of this fic, I was freer to run amok with the sentiment. : )
I do seem to have a theme going, don't I?
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 05:57 pm (UTC)I pity the knight that has to clean up that practice room floor. Thank god they're only drinking beer so far. If a bottle of Laphroiag ever made it into the house, who knows how many bodies you'd find.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 06:51 pm (UTC)Clean up duty? How can you doubt that it'll be the
idiotdynamic duo?Have fun at the wedding!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 07:27 pm (UTC)I think you could put Gareth's "He doesn't seem to approve of them" line back in, as that bit seems too clipped ending right with "he doesn't have a mobile", even for Gareth (and I no doubt Juju would press him for why).
Hah -- it's nice to be the other knights these days. Living in a mansion in the bucolic English countryside, all their needs taken care of, a spending allowance, and the best maid service money can... Well, just maid service. Bors has suggested they go ahead and wear uniforms. To which Galahad replied that he'd gladly do so, and gave Bors the card to a very reliable manufacturer of such items -- Prada. Apparently, they make the uniforms for Becks and Posh's staff.
Will take a closer look when I get back. Should be a rather tame night with this couple.
So the spots are drying up too quickly -- how I'm going to cover all the surfaces that are about to flake off, I don't know.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 05:07 am (UTC)I love that.
And oh my fucking god.
Rip my heart out, why don't you? And you say I'm the angst queen. Lovely, heartbreaking imagery here and I love the stark separation between reality and Arthur's dream. Sometimes when we hurt most we do create a place to go to in our dreams like that - it's the only thing that keeps us sane. I know how he feels.
Excellent. Thanks for sharing.
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Date: 2007-01-06 04:01 pm (UTC)Glad you liked it!
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Date: 2007-01-06 05:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 05:24 am (UTC)Meanie!
Stunning.
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Date: 2007-01-06 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-07 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-07 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-07 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-07 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 05:49 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting--I'm glad you liked it!
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Date: 2011-12-29 02:28 am (UTC)