amari_z | King Arthur Fic: All Things Mortal (Resurrection AU), continued (Reply)

Continued from here.

Lancelot lay flat on the grass looking up at the stars. It was late, and the house, some distance behind him, was dark, most of its occupants asleep.

He had spent yesterday training with John Doe's team. Although he still did not really approve of the modern weapons, perhaps he was beginning to appreciate some of their allure. At least, yesterday, he had found it distinctly pleasing to make things explode with the squeeze of his finger. After returning to the house, he had passed the night drinking with Bors and some of the other knights before finally dozing off on the floor of the practice room for a little while. Today had been split between going with Gareth to his lady's farm and an afternoon with the knights not scheduled to work with Doe's men. All in all, Lancelot had kept himself busy since Sunday night—he had barely slept and he had seen Arthur only once.

Some small part of him had hoped Arthur might seek him out and finally tell him, but he hardly found it surprising that the man had made no such effort.

Now, he was tired. Lying here, he let himself feel only the weary pull of his muscles, the heavy burn of his eyes. He could hear the wind in the grass, and although the sound was not quite right—the grass was too short and it smelled wrong—he found himself half anticipating the rumble of the ground in the thunder of flying hooves.

The stars at least had always been familiar. As a boy, he used to watch them in the British sky, finding some hope in the old patterns. They had been one of the few things that made Britain seem less than wholly strange.

Now, centuries later, they were still the same. But the comfort of that had proved an illusion. Lancelot had once believed that the stars were eternal in their slow dance across the heavens. That while men were born and died, while empires rose and fell, the stars remained forever. It was rather bitterly amusing to learn that the light that he was seeing now was light that had been born far further back in time than even he had been. That the source of some of the light he was seeing in the night sky had already died and that all he was seeing were ghostly remnants of fires long gone out.

It was the faintest rustle that alerted him a moment before Tristan dropped down beside him. Lancelot continued to stare up at the night sky. For once, he out waited Tristan.

"What are you doing?" Tristan asked finally.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," Tristan said, sounding nearly irritated. "Are you planning to sleep out here? The grass is still wet."

"I might." His small peace wrecked, Lancelot found himself restless again, and he sat up.

"What are you doing?" Tristan asked again.

Lancelot looked over at him. It was a rare thing for Tristan to repeat himself. Finally, he answered, "I'm waiting for Arthur to decide."

Tristan stared at him, his expression inscrutable in the dim starlight. "You don't like waiting."

Lancelot made a sound that was nothing like a laugh. "No. I don't."

"So why do it now?"

Any remaining calm that Lancelot had found in the stillness of the night fled as his temper flared. He barely stopped himself from leaping to his feet, and instead wrapped his arms tight around his legs, as if to restrain himself. "What is it that you would have me do, Tristan?"

"Fight."

Lancelot felt his mouth twist. "Fight? Who exactly would you have me fight?" Tristan was silent. "That bitch, when she shows herself? What would that accomplish? She was Arthur's wife." He spat out the last word. "Arthur? And what shall I fight him over? He cannot even bring himself to be truthful with me."

Lancelot nearly jerked away when Tristan's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Tristan seemed to hesitate before finally saying, "He loves you."

"Does he?" Lancelot's anger dulled as quickly as it had ignited. For a moment, he felt the urge to laugh at the idea of Tristan telling him that, but that too drained away and all he felt was weary.

Arthur had never said those words to him, although once Lancelot would not have doubted it. Not really. Years ago, in the heady abandon of passion, Lancelot had murmured the words into Arthur's ear a few times, but Arthur had never acknowledged them. So Lancelot had stopped himself from saying them, at least in any language that Arthur could understand. Actions had always been more important to Lancelot than words, anyway. And when Arthur chose duty and religion over Lancelot time and time again, Lancelot at least knew that duty would not last forever and that, in spite of his religion, Arthur still turned to him. So he had not let himself linger on doubts. Not until those very last days. Not until it had become clear that whatever place Lancelot held in Arthur's heart, he would never hold first place, not even after Arthur had been freed and his choices were unquestionably his own.

Lancelot had been ripped from his home, run through by swords, punctured by arrows, slashed by daggers, knocked unconscious by blows to the head, whipped until he lost consciousness. He had watched his brothers die one by one. But he had never known that anything could hurt him like that.

Lancelot was tired. He rubbed at the scar on his chest and then tilted his head back and blinked a few times as the stars wavered before his burning eyes like the illusions they were. He listened to the wind rustle through the grass and the trees. It sounded nothing like the wind rushing through the grassland of the steppes.

He did not know what to do. And far worse, he suspected that there was nothing that he could do.

Tristan did not seem to have anything to say, but after a long time of quiet, his grip slipped down to Lancelot's arm and he tugged as he rose to his own feet.

Lancelot let himself be pulled upward and followed Tristan back toward the house without protest.

~

Tristan lay awake, listening to Lancelot's soft breathing. He was fairly sure that Lancelot had finally fallen asleep, although occasionally the man could deceive even him. Despite his uneasiness, Tristan found the familiar rhythm lulling him toward slumber.

It had always been like this for them. On the journey from Sarmatia to Britain, the Roman soldiers had assigned the Sarmatian boys into pairs. Tristan, to his irritation, had found himself saddled with a small, rather fragile looking boy with dark eyes and unruly hair. He had not thought much of the boy at first, but Lancelot had turned out to be difficult to ignore. Over the long months of travel, Tristan had even found himself growing to trust the other boy, who, for all his chattering and wild incaution, seemed to have an uncanny ability to see straight through Tristan's silence. He had ridden, eaten, and slept beside Lancelot for all those months. He had not really understood just how tightly they had been bound together, not until they had been separated when they had arrived in Britain and assigned to different barracks. Tristan had actually found himself unable to sleep without the familiar presence beside him.

They had changed as the years had passed, but that tacit bond had not. Tristan would tolerate things from Lancelot that he would not allow any other. It had been Lancelot who had finally tracked him down after Dinaden had died. That time was lost in a grey fog to Tristan, but it had to have been at least some weeks that Lancelot had been a constant, unwavering presence at his side. Tristan remembered looking up one day and smirking a bit to find Arthur's narrowed gaze on them. It had marked the return of his awareness to the world around him.

It went both ways. Years before that, after Galehaut, during that time when Lancelot had seemed never to blink, much less to sleep, and was bent on destroying himself by whatever means came to hand, the only rest Lancelot had gotten for weeks had been on those nights when Tristan managed to corner him and drag him off to the barracks. He would lay rigid for hours before exhaustion would finally overcome him and he would sleep. Dinaden, trying to sleep on Tristan's other side, had never dared to protest Lancelot's presence.

Just as Tristan, still listening to sound of Lancelot breathing, drifted into a light doze, he remembered that the last time they had slept like this had been the night before they had died.

~

She sat at one of the tables, her posture rigidly straight. It was very early, and the café was empty except for a few sleepy employees setting up the shop for the day.

One of the waiters ambled over with her drink, and she nodded curtly as he set it before her. Normally, she drank black coffee in the morning, but today she had ordered some chocolate caramel concoction, and she sipped at it, trying to hold down her agitation. She had finished half the drink before the man she was waiting for arrived.

"You're late," she said without preamble as he sat down.

He gave her a bland smile that to an onlooker might have looked apologetic before he signaled to one of the waiters. "Espresso, if you please," he told the man, before turning back to her. "You're looking well, as usual." At her scowl, his smile widened slightly. "So what was so urgent that you demanded we meet at this hour? I had thought you'd want a bit of a lie in after your trip." His smile turned sly. "You'll be pleased to know that your uncle was raving about the deal you brokered, although he did not seem to know much about the details."

Ignoring that, she pulled a folded newspaper out of the briefcase by her feet and tossed it on the table.

He picked up the paper and studied it. "It's a rather good likeness, isn't?"

"Merlin," she said warningly. Her voice a low hiss, she demanded, "What was he doing there?"

"Arthur brought him, of course." Merlin accepted his drink from the waiter and thanked him politely.

Her fingers clenched around her mug as she waited for the man to leave. "Dammit, old man, why did Arthur take him to a place like that? Parading him around before everyone!"

"I would think it would be obvious to you." Merlin took a sip of his thick, bitter drink. "Foolishness. But for all he twists against it, Arthur still knows what steps he needs to take. This is only a small indulgence."

She bristled at the implication. She was not merely some step on Arthur's path. "I thought you told him. Why does he think—?" she began, but Merlin, in that seemingly polite way he had, cut her off.

"You needn't worry. He hasn't put off the dates, has he?"

She forced herself to unclench her fingers. "No, he hasn't. You know that."

"Well then." Merlin sat back in his chair, as though the matter was closed.

"Well then, nothing. What is he thinking? I want—"

His dark eyes pinned her, and she felt the chill of that gaze down to her bones. "You want?" Merlin's voice had gone soft. "You are no longer a child. What you want is irrelevant. You will be the most powerful woman in the world, but have care that you do not let your petty jealousies lead you astray once more."

Enraged, she snarled, "Jealousy?" How dare he? "I—"

"You've always been jealous. Like a child denied the toy she thought should be hers. What is it you expect? Romance? Passion? Boundless devotion?" His tone had turned mocking. "I thought you would have outgrown such fairy tales by now."

She bit her tongue, tasting blood. Sometimes, she could not help but hate him.

He continued on as though he did not notice her anger. "Arthur wants to govern. And Arthur of all men knows that leadership demands sacrifice. Let him indulge his appetites for now. It won't be for long." He patted her hand like some kindly grandfather, and she controlled the urge to growl at him.

"Not for long?" She had a sudden vivid image of the mark on Arthur's neck. She had pretended not to notice it, but she had not been able to drive it from her mind since. "You promised me he wouldn't be here in the first place!" She belatedly lowered her voice as one of the café staff looked over at her.

His eyes flickered with something that made her pause, but when he spoke, his voice remained mild. "Merely a slight misunderstanding on my part. It seems that things do indeed come full circle. Have no worries, my dear, history will repeat itself."

She tightened her lips. She did not want history to repeat itself; she wanted things to be better! After a moment, she took a slow breath and squared her shoulders. There was no use whining about it now, and certainly not to Merlin. She looked at him levelly. He was maddening, but she had always trusted him. "Do you give me your word, Merlin, that this will be taken care of?"

Merlin set his cup down. He gave her a smile—not the strange, bland smile of Professor Emrys, but something sharper and more menacing. "Oh, it will be taken care of. Rather soon, I do believe. It is another necessary step, after all." He stood and dropped some coins on the table. "I really must be going. I'll be in touch soon."

She watched him leave with narrowed eyes, her manicured nails tapping on the table. Contrary to what he seemed to think, she was not without resources of her own, if it came to that. She sat, not noticing as the regular morning traffic began and the café grew crowded with people. She was startled out her thoughts when someone stopped by her table.

"Miss, are you reading that?"

"It's yesterday's," she warned without looking up.

"That's alright." The young woman picked up the paper and studied the photograph. "I just wanted to see who was in the picture with Arthur Castus. He's brilliant, don't you think? I hope he wins. But this guy with him—'Lancelot Banson'," she read and then shrugged. "Never heard of him, but he's bloody gorgeous, isn't he? Can I have this?"

She stood abruptly, barely restraining the urge to snarl. Without answering, she picked up her briefcase and stalked off, leaving half her drink behind. It had been too cloyingly sweet anyway.

~

Lancelot woke with a violent heave. He found himself crouched on the bed, as though to spring to his feet, and his lungs were pulling air as though he had been choking in his sleep. It took him a wild moment to realize where he was. Not his—Arthur's—room. Tristan's. Tristan was gone, however. He was alone in the room. He needed— Maybe there was— He reached around to feel under the mattress. His hand encountered metal, and he pulled a gun free. He would rather have had a knife, but it was better than nothing. He checked the clip in a gesture that was already becoming automatic. The weight of metal in his hand was comforting.

When he could no longer hear his blood pounding in his ears, he slipped the gun back under the mattress, careful to replace it exactly where he had found it. He scrubbed his hands over his face and fell back onto the mattress. He could not remember what he had dreamed. He had— It slipped away from him like water through his fingers except a few vivid images, which seemed somehow familiar. A glint of metal in the sunlight. A pool of red spreading on the ground. Arthur— Hollowing terror and rage that ripped through him.

Suddenly, he wanted Arthur desperately. He wanted those strong arms wrapped around him and to feel the weight and heat of his body. He wanted to inhale the familiar scent, to be cradled in that feeling of utter safety.

Lancelot shook his head violently and then sneered at himself. Besotted fool.

He took a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes before sitting up again. He would not be able to sleep again now. Not after such an awakening, and not alone. He needed to do something to distract himself. He might as well see what this day would hold.

~

Feeling very nearly anxious, Arthur slowly descended the steps toward the sounds of metal striking against metal. Although he had not been down to the basement since his first visit, immediately after Lancelot had admitted that the knights were building a training room, that was not the source of his uncertainty.

Since Sunday night, Arthur had seen Lancelot—if you could call it that—only once, and it had been purely by chance. Yesterday, after returning home from his interview, he had stepped out onto the terrace for some fresh air and encountered the sight of a double handful of his knights sprawled about on the grass below. His bewildered (and rather alarmed) inquiry as to why their skin and clothes were covered in a patchwork of bright colors had resulted in several assault rifles being waved at him. It had taken him a furious moment to realize that the weapons were in fact toys, and that the knight had been playing some kind of game.

Trying not to show his agitation, he had groped after something to say. He had asked who had come out the victor in their game. He had not been prepared for the sound of the voice that had responded, "I did." When his startled eyes found Lancelot amid the knights, he had realized why he had not recognized him immediately. Where the others were multicolored, Lancelot was covered with so much rainbow paint as to render him unrecognizable. Even his normally irrepressible hair was matted flat to his skull.

Arthur's mouth had crooked despite himself. "You don't look like you won." He had kept his voice as casual as he could. Lancelot had not responded, but, strangely, Bors, whose singing had always made Arthur cringe, began to bellow:

"C'est moi! C'est moi,
I'm forced to admit.
'Tis I, I humbly reply.
That mortal who
These marvels can do."

Some of the other knights had gleefully joined in; Lancelot, beneath all the paint, might have looked murderous; Arthur had listened, nonplussed.

"C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never lost
In battle or game;
I'm simply the best by far."

Arthur had retreated after that, deciding that he really did not want to know.

Now, the closer to the bottom of the stairs he got, the louder the sounds of clashing steel became. This time, Arthur was not particularly surprised by the sight that greeted his eyes as he reached the doorway.

Lancelot was in the middle of the room, his blades in his hands, facing off against Lavaine and Lamorak. Arthur felt his nails digging into his palms as he clenched his fists, but the habits of a lifetime were not to so easy to shake. Despite the irrelevancy of such skills in this age, he found himself unconsciously assessing what he saw. Lavaine and Lamorak were good fighters with a great deal of potential, but they lacked seasoning. Lavaine was dropping his guard on his left side, and, just as Arthur noticed it, he was punished for it. The flat of one of Lancelot's blades struck him a blow that, had it been the edge, would have cut him open. Lamorak seized that moment to launch an attack of his own, but he was too eager. Lancelot let him over extend himself and then kicked his knee out from under him.

Neither Lavaine nor Lamorak were quitters, and when Lancelot backed off long enough to let them recover—something he would never have done in a real fight—they exchanged a look and then launched simultaneous attacks from each side. Lancelot was grinning maniacally as the trio exchanged a flurry of blows. This had always been Lancelot's greatest strength—the ability to fight equally well with either hand. It was uncanny, and it allowed him, as Bors used to complain, to kill twice as many enemies in the same amount of time, and therefore, according to Bors, more than his fair share.

Arthur watched and, as he always had when seeing Lancelot fight, marveled. Except for that brief moment when he had seen Lancelot sparring with Tristan before he had called a halt, it had been many years since Arthur had seen Lancelot fight. Although this was only a pale imitation of Lancelot on the battlefield, Arthur wondered how it was that his recollection had grown so dim.

The exchange did not last long. It concluded with Lavaine losing his sword and Lamorak ending up back on his arse.

"What did—" Lavaine began as he went to retrieve his sword, but then he fell silent as he saw Arthur standing by the doorway. The young knight seemed slightly startled (and Arthur wondered for a moment why he was wearing a knit cap on his head), but when Lamorak turned to see Arthur, his eyes widened and he cast a look back at Lancelot that actually seemed panicked. Arthur restrained a sigh. He had hoped the knights had not picked up on what was going on between him and Lancelot, but that was apparently too much to hope for. The whole house must know that they were at odds.

Lancelot betrayed no surprise at seeing Arthur in the training room. Most likely he had noted Arthur's presence the moment Arthur had entered the room. Lancelot raised an arm to wipe at the sweat on his brow with the back of his arm, and then rested one of his swords on his shoulder, a gesture that was so familiar that it made Arthur ache. Lancelot, his eyes still lit with frenetic energy that fighting always brought to them, raised an eyebrow and asked, "Care to take a turn?"

It was a rather insolent challenge; Lancelot knew quite well that Arthur had refused to pick up a sword since he had been resurrected. He should have been angry, but Arthur could not help simply drinking in the sight of Lancelot.

Both Lavaine and Lamorak were looking uneasily between the two of them and, strangely, Lamorak was also casting distressed looks at the back of the room. Arthur paid them no mind.

Arthur finally responded, "No. I came to see if— It's Wednesday. You had said you would accompany me to the meeting today." He'd had no intention of pressing the issue, but then he had received a phone call from Merlin this morning, checking to make sure that Lancelot was accompanying him today (something about the number of telephone calls Robert's office had received after the picture from Sunday night's event had appeared in the paper). He would be damned if he would admit to Merlin that there was any trouble between them, and so he had told Merlin that Lancelot would be there. Yet, under the scrutiny of Lancelot's dark eyes, he found himself adding, "But you needn't come if you don't wish to." He would come up with some excuse.

Arthur was about to turn away when Lancelot spoke. "No, I'll go."

"You will?" It slipped out, sharp with surprise and bright with a flare of hope, before Arthur could stop it. Lavaine began to stare off at an unmarked spot on the opposite wall, while Lamorak was fairly squirming and looked like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

Lancelot's mouth crooked into something that was not a smile. "I assume you don't want me going like this, though. I take it I have time to change?"

Arthur managed to keep his tone similarly dry. "And to wash."

He watched as with fussless efficiency, Lancelot wiped down his swords and racked them. He passed by Arthur on his way to the stairs, and Arthur could not help inhaling as he went by, catching the heady scent of his damp skin. The almost violent flare of desire that followed took him off guard. After a moment, he went up the stairs, leaving a relieved-looking Lavaine and Lamorak in possession of the room.

~

They had been packing their gear, largely in silence. Arthur's revelation had shocked them all, and the tension radiating off Lancelot was like a crossbow bolt held back by a faulty wire. They had all heard the words he had exchanged with Arthur, although they were pretending they had not.

This was strange, Gawain decided, as he contemplated the task before him. They were all practiced in packing for missions—deciding what was necessary, leaving behind what was not, but this was a wholly different exercise. They were leaving for good, but they faced a long journey. Gawain would bring his second best ax, but what about his third best? His spare armor, but what about the bits and pieces he had been thinking of having repaired?

He was startled out of his musings when Lancelot suddenly spun and hurled the greaves in his hand against the wall. He was swearing viciously as he stalked out of the stables.

The rest of them exchanged glances, and the tension seemed to leave them in a long, relieved exhale.

"About time," Bors said.

"I'm not finishing his packing," Galahad warned.

Conversation flowed after that, the familiar complaints and insults as comfortable as well-worn boots. Although none of them voiced it, they were sure that Lancelot would convince Arthur. Arthur was bull headed when it came to something he viewed as "right," but Gawain could not imagine him truly parting with Lancelot. And Lancelot would not stay in Britain.

But Lancelot returned far too quickly.

Gawain and Galahad were arguing over how to stack the packs in the wagon, not even noticing that Tristan had slipped around them and begun the task to his own specifications, but they fell silent immediately at the sight of Lancelot. Lancelot's face was utterly closed and expressionless. Without a word he returned to sorting through his gear.

It was Galahad, of course, who blurted it out. "I thought you were going to—talk to Arthur."

Lancelot did not look up from what he was doing. "He already had company."

It was the way Tristan's head came up at Lancelot's clipped words that made Gawain realize what Lancelot meant. Gawain felt his mouth drop open before he snapped it shut. Arthur had—? He managed to grab at Galahad's elbow just in time. Galahad gave him a look, but for once, held his peace.

They finished packing in silence. Not even Bors dared to say anything.

Gawain swallowed hard, as though to drive out the bitter taste of the memory. Galahad's idea was actually starting to make a scary kind of sense, the more he thought about it. Arthur had always been a fool in certain ways, and it seemed to bloody fit the man's behavior.

Lancelot would— By the Ancestors, he did not know what Lancelot would do if it were true and if—when—he found out. Arthur might have once thought he could keep his secrets, but given who had crossed Gawain's path the other day, like a demon risen straight from the netherworld, Gawain suspected that those days were passing. And while Gawain felt a little stupid for never thinking of it before, if Galahad had reached that conclusion, once Lancelot finally became aware of certain facts—

Gawain was pacing around the foyer, waiting for a chance to catch Arthur on his way out for the afternoon. Both Galahad and Gaheris had offered to talk to Arthur with him, but Gawain had refused them both. Galahad with alacrity and Gaheris after a moment's consideration. The truth of it was that, as reluctant as Gawain was to admit it, he was really the only person who could have this conversation with Arthur. Galahad would lose his temper in the first minute, and Gaheris simply did not know Arthur as well as Gawain did. And someone had to talk to Arthur, if not to try to persuade the man of the merits of engaging in some kind of damage control, then to find out what type of hell was going to be breaking loose.

Lancelot had spent the entire morning down in the basement knocking around anyone idiotic enough to agree to cross swords with him. Luckily, there were no shortage of fools in this house. Percival, Lionel, Urre, Tor, Yvain and Safer were currently gathered in one of the sitting rooms, trying to out do each other in complaining and comparing their darkening bruises. This was a good chance for Gawain to try to corner Arthur while Lancelot was otherwise occupied.

He just finished that thought when he heard footsteps in the hall and looked up to find Lancelot approaching. Lancelot passed him with a curt nod before going up the stairs, leaving Gawain to scowl in his wake, cursing the man's perverse refusal to do anything expected of him. A moment later, more footsteps sounded. This time it was Arthur. Gawain glanced up. Lancelot had disappeared from sight. So, now.

He straightened his spine and took a breath. He found himself wishing he had stopped to have a drink or ten before starting this. "Arthur," he began, making his tone forceful, "I need to speak to you."

Arthur did not so much as pause on his way to the stairs. "Now is not a good time, Gawain." He spoke over his shoulder. "I've a meeting this afternoon that I have to get to. Perhaps tonight?"

Gawain opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur was already at the top of the steps. Another moment, and he had disappeared around the corner. Gawain's teeth clicked as he shut his mouth. Later. Arthur was not getting out of this. Nor, therefore, unfortunately, was Gawain.

~

Arthur entered the bedroom, and was relieved to hear the water running in the bath. He had not been sure that Lancelot would come here to get ready—as far as he could tell Lancelot had barely set foot in the bedroom since Sunday night, and certainly not at any time Arthur had been present.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and rested his face in his hands. These last days had been hard. During the daytime he had been able to distract himself somewhat with work, but that did not change the fact that he had spent each night alone, in an empty bed, unable to sleep. Each time he began to doze, he would wake himself reaching for what was not there.

When Lancelot had returned to him, it he had never occurred to him that Lancelot would sleep anywhere but in Arthur's room. In the past, he and Lancelot had rarely passed a whole night together. Although it was not something they spoke about, well before dawn, Lancelot would silently slip from Arthur's room. Even back then, Arthur had been forced to resign himself to the fact that the other knights were well aware of his relationship with Lancelot, but his own sense of proprietary (and his own guilt) had demanded that at least the pretense be maintained in front of them, and that the depth of their relationship be kept hidden from everyone else in the garrison. In retrospect, it was odd that Lancelot, utterly shameless creature that he was, had never fought with him over this furtiveness.

Now, however, Arthur had grown used to having Lancelot with him. He no longer felt the need to pretend, at least not in the house. The day that Lancelot had finally woken, he had hardly touched him as he had explained the situation to the baffled and irritated Lancelot before taking him to see the eagerly waiting knights. He had thought he had himself well in hand, but watching Lancelot talk and laugh with the other knights –alive, so vividly alive—he had realized that he had been fooling himself. When he had finally gotten Lancelot away from the others, he had been unable to wait even long enough to get to his bedroom. They had had sex in one of the sitting rooms—a room with neither door nor lock. Anyone could have happened on them, but Arthur had not cared. He managed to get Lancelot up to the bedroom after that, although they had not actually made it to the bed even that second time. But at least Arthur had managed to kick the door shut.

Arthur's eyes fixed on a certain place on the floor. He took a deep, calming breath as a hot shudder went through him. He had never known such desperation. Well, it had been fifteen years after all. Fifteen years.

Arthur closed his eyes. He had lived all those years without hope. Resigned to the life he had created with his own hands. He had chosen duty, and so he had been left only with duty.

Yet, the one year in this time in many ways had been far worse: hoping beyond hope, hoping in the face of Merlin's denials, hope that too often had felt like a taunt, like a jeer. And then, that cruel hope had crystallized like an actual touch of the divine. If he lived a hundred years, if he lived a thousand lifetimes, he would never forget it. Merlin's disbelieving face and Lancelot, there, lying across the stone floor like a gift. Lancelot, who did not disappear when Arthur reached out to touch, but whose skin had been warm and smooth and real, real, under Arthur's trembling hands.

Now, though— He cast a glance at the bathroom door, listening to the water run.

He could not live without again. He could not. Not even for one more night. Fear had kept him silent too long. He would tell Lancelot today. After the meeting. Lancelot would be angry, but he would understand. Lancelot knew him, and he would understand, as he always had.

He heard the water shut off and stood. Having made up his mind, he did not want to risk getting into an row with Lancelot now. He would tell Lancelot after they came back from the meeting. He took a deep breath, said a quick prayer for strength, and left the room.

~

Lancelot shed his sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower. The ease he had been feeling in the training room had proven temporary, and he could feel the tension that had driven him to move, to seek out someone to hit at, returning. He did not quite understand it. It was not that there were not more than a fair number of things troubling him—but what he was feeling now was not anger or upset. This was the preternatural awareness he would feel out in the field when his instincts were screaming at him. It made no sense here. The only thing he could think of was that it was a carry over from this morning's dream. Yet even that made little sense to him. His instincts had been honed by years of surviving ambushes and surprise attacks. They were not easily deceived, even by anxiety-fueled dreams.

Well, there was little he could do about it now, but try to banish the lingering image the dream had left him with—a reflective flash of metal in the sunlight, seen too late. Arthur lying on the ground, blood spreading beneath him like the cloak he had once worn. He shook his head, sending water everywhere. He squeezed his eyes shut, even though the image was conjured by his mind and could not be so easily blotted out.

He scrubbed angrily at his skin, leaving red marks on pale flesh. The paint used in the toy guns had proved harder to remove than the term "water-soluble" suggested. It had taken him what had felt like hours to get it out of his hair and his skin still had a colored tinge in various places.

The knights had started out playing in four teams, until Percival had "accidentally" shot Tor, his own teammate. John Doe would not have been impressed by what followed. Although Lancelot had come out the victor in the ensuing free-for-all (probably because both Tristan and Dinaden were off training with real weapons), Bors, that son of a whore, had instigated a coup among the "dead." Lancelot snorted. Spoiled, resurrected bastards had all turned on him. He would get his revenge. For that and the stupid, stupid song Bors was still humming whenever he saw Lancelot. Ridiculous bloody movie. And why the fuck did they show people running about and breaking into inane singing all the time anyway? Idiots.

Lancelot had managed to suitably distract himself into a temper by the time he turned the water off. When he stepped out of the shower, a flash of light in the mirror from the movement of the shower door caught the corner of his eye—a reflective flash of metal in the sunlight— He slammed a fist into the wall.

Ignoring his throbbing hand, Lancelot toweled off and dressed quickly. While normally he enjoyed making Arthur late, today he was not in the mood.

When Lancelot reached the car where Dagonet and Bruenor were waiting, after making sure that Arthur was absorbed in the conversation he was having on his mobile, he leaned close to Dagonet and murmured, "You're both armed, right?"

Bruenor, overhearing, gave him a startled look, but Dagonet merely nodded. Lancelot thought that should have made him feel a little better.

He climbed into the car, not noticing that Agravaine was watching their departure from one of the windows.

~

Gawain was still roaming the hallways muttering to himself when the knights who had gone out for arms training tumbled back into the house. Busy laughing and jeering at one another's ineptitude, they passed Gawain with waves and nods. Tristan and Dinaden were among the last in, Dinaden trailing after Tristan, apparently trying to speak to him—an effort that Tristan was completely ignoring as he strode toward the stairs. But he paused when he caught sight of Gawain.

After a moment he raised an eyebrow, and Gawain controlled the urge to swallow. Tristan did not know anything, and not even Tristan could actually read Gawain's mind. He could not.

Tristan continued to stare at him and Gawain had to bite his tongue to keep himself from blurting out something.

Finally, Tristan broke the gaze and glanced around. Dinaden was hovering behind him, and still, apparently, being completely ignored. Tristan abruptly asked, "Where's Lancelot?"

Relieved at a question he could answer, Gawain responded, "He went with Arthur."

Tristan's gaze pinned him again. "What?"

Gawain shrugged. "He went with Arthur."

Tristan's lips tightened slightly, and Dinaden leaned forward, trying to get a look at his face.

Gawain was so tense that he actually started when the hall telephone rang, just as Galehaut walked through the door.

~

Arthur watched Lancelot out of the corner of his eye. Lancelot had been silent since they had left the house, and now seemed to be absorbed in watching the passing scenery. But even Bruenor, who had started the drive avidly describing some cookery show, had fallen silent, unable to keep up his chattering in the tense atmosphere. He was now occasionally casting not particularly surreptitious glances back at Lancelot and Arthur.

Arthur sighed, which earned him the sideways flash of Lancelot's eyes. But that was it. Lancelot seemed to go back to studying the view. Arthur was not deceived, however. If Lancelot had been any tenser he would be vibrating. Although his long legs were casually stretched out in the car's generous space, his shoulders were slightly hunched and the fingers of his right hand were digging into his thigh in an effort, Arthur knew, to stop them from fidgeting. His left hand had made an abortive movement upward several times. It had taken Arthur a moment to realize what he was doing. He was reaching for the lion pendant that he no longer wore. The gesture distressed Arthur, both for the fact that Lancelot still instinctively sought comfort from something that spoke to him of Sarmatia, and because Lancelot felt the need to seek comfort at all.

Arthur was not feeling too relaxed himself, and several times he opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it. He had resolved to talk to Lancelot when they returned home, and he had no idea what he could say in the meantime that would not result in him getting flayed alive by Lancelot's tongue. In fact, he had rather expected Lancelot to break the silence by now—if nothing else, the man's temper would always drive him to speak—but Lancelot had not said a word to Arthur. He had, in fact, barely looked at Arthur at all.

Arthur sighed again, this time careful to keep it inaudible. He glanced at his watch and then turned his head so he could stare out of his own window.

When they finally parked the car, Lancelot hesitated before getting out. For the first time since he had entered the car, Lancelot turned his head to look at Arthur. Arthur had already opened his door, but he froze, with one foot out of the car.

Lancelot's dark eyes seemed to burn even in the dimly lit garage. "Arthur—" Lancelot said, his voice rough. Arthur thought that it was fear that he saw in Lancelot's eyes, but that was impossible. He did not dare say anything. He only waited, eyebrows slightly raised.

An endless moment later, Lancelot's eyelids drooped and his chin lifted haughtily. "Nothing." He exited the car without another word.

~

Lancelot walked beside Arthur down the street. The parking area by Scott's building where they usually parked the car had been barricaded with orange cones and yellow plastic tape. Dagonet had to drive around a bit before he finally found a public garage where they could park. It was only a few blocks away from the building—a minor inconvenience—but for some reason, it set Lancelot's teeth on edge.

Dagonet and Bruenor were hanging a few feet back, as though keeping a prudent distance from an unstable, unexploded mine. Lancelot restrained the urge to turn around and snarl at them.

The car ride over in suffocating silence had left him more tense than before and his skin was fairly prickling. He took a few deep breaths, but the uneasiness did not leave him. He found himself scanning their surroundings as they walked, as wary as if he were riding through Woad territory. Something was wrong, but surely—

A glint of metal in the sunlight caught the corner of his eye and his head jerked up. He could not see anything, but some instinct screamed at him. Arthur lying on the ground— He hurled himself sideways at Arthur. He did not know if he was too late.

~

Arthur was thinking about the speech he had to give tomorrow to one of the labor groups. Robert wanted to tone down some of the rhetoric, arguing that it would alienate those with business interests, but Arthur was inclined to keep the speech as written. He would not bandy words— He sensed it a moment before Lancelot barreled into him. He had braced himself at the last second, and so he only staggered backward rather than being knocked down. "What? Lanc—!" escaped him even as he watched, stunned, as Lancelot jerked once, impossibly, in the opposite direction, before falling to the ground, his head making a sickening crack as it hit the sidewalk. At the same instant, the store window behind Arthur exploded into glass fragments.

"Arthur! Get down! Arthur!"

People were suddenly screaming and running all around him, but Arthur paid none of it any mind.

He took a step toward Lancelot, staring down without comprehension. Red. Red as Arthur's cloak had once been. The red was spreading beneath Lancelot's body as though he were lying on that long-lost garment. Arthur's legs buckled. His hand landed atop the scarlet. Warm. It was warm. Warm and wet and sticky. His vision wavered. Instead of the modern street with its high-rise buildings of glass, concrete and steel, he saw a smoke-shrouded field and the grey stone of the wall stretching over the distance. He blinked and it was all different—a modern street again. Only Lancelot's sprawled body did not change.

Not again. Not—

Arthur threw back his head and screamed up to the sky.

~~~

End Notes: Bors's song is of course from the musical Camelot, and is a really rather pompous song "Lancelot" sings. The real Lancelot was so not amused by that travesty of a movie. Thanks to