King Arthur Fic: All Things Mortal (Resurrection AU)

[amari_z]

Title: All Things Mortal

Warnings: Slash and violence.

Series: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The series (with links) is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town, Weapons of Choice, Myths, Legends and Lies, Lessons in Deportment, Ties to Bind, The Shopping Expedition, Dangerous Games, Rude Awakenings, and this one. To make sense, the stories should be read in order.

Notes: Yes, finally. I give up. Thanks to sasha_b for the multiple readings and darklyscarlett for her insights, and, as always, helping me get rid of some of the blatant Americanese. And extra special thanks to both of them for putting up with my neuroses, which were particularly never ending this time.

Feedback: May not make the writing happen, but without it who knows if the editing would ever get done? :p Anything you want to say.




Who says a river can't leave its waters?
Who says you walk in a line?
Who says a city can't change its borders?
Who says you're mine?
~Keane, Broken Toy



Prologue

Two weeks before Rude Awakenings

She watched the rear entrance to the building from the back seat of her car. Her perfect face was smooth but her hands were clenched in the coat neatly folded across her lap.

Her whole body tensed when two men emerged from the building, but then she relaxed a little. She recognized one of the men immediately, although she had only met him briefly. The other she did not know.

She ignored them as they strolled over to the car waiting closest to the door. Her attention remained fixed on the door.

Finally. There. Her breath caught in an involuntary gasp. A tall, lean figure in a long coat emerged from the doorway. He stood for a moment, poised at the doorway, his eyes sweeping around the parking area. For a moment, he seemed to look straight at her. She felt the ridiculous urge to duck, but there was no way he could see through the tinted windows, and her car was just one of several discreetly expensive cars parked out here awaiting the return of their passengers.

He looked younger than she had expected. It was not simply the clean-shaven face, but he was young. She had last seen him when she had been a girl with only a score of years behind her. He had not changed, but she had. Her perspective had shifted greatly since then.

But in at least one way, he was exactly as she had recalled. He still had every bit of the devastating charisma that had once drawn her eyes to him. To her chagrin, she felt that dangerous pull even now, across the vast distance of time and experience.

As she watched, he stepped away from the doorway and then Arthur's familiar figure appeared. Arthur, who had made himself conspicuously absent these last weeks. He turned to speak to Arthur, evidently making some joke, for Arthur grinned, a brilliant flash of teeth. The brightness of it shocked her and her fingers dug harder into her cashmere coat. The Arthur she had lived with had been a stern, serious man who rarely smiled, and when he did, it had never looked like that.

He was still talking, his hands gesturing, as they walked toward the car where the other two men waited. Arthur was actually laughing now, and she watched, amazed, as Arthur gave him a playful shove. He did not retaliate, only flashing his own heart-stopping grin before going around to the other side of the car where he exchanged some jibe with the unfamiliar of the two waiting men before getting in.

After their car had driven off, she sat still for a long time. Since she had awoken to herself, that day when her uncle had introduced her to his old friend Professor Emrys, Merlin had assured her that while Arthur would live again, he would not. She had been relieved. She had relied on it.

She had grown complacent.

She had spent half a lifetime fighting a ghost. She had always believed that a living man would be easier to vanquish. But now, faced with the vivid, living presence of the actual man himself, she was no longer sure.

She whispered his name, half curse, half promise, before rapping on the glass divider to tell her driver to go.

~~~



The sun was brilliantly insolent overhead as Lancelot walked, casting his shadow before him. From the other shadow, he knew that Arthur was beside him, but he refused to look over. Anger was flaring through him like it might burst through his skin. He did not want to be here.

He did not know why he was here.

A flash of sunlight on metal caught his eye and he squinted upward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur stumble. Lancelot turned his head in time to see Arthur take another lurching step and then fall to the ground.

Blood pooled beneath him, as scarlet as the cloak he had once worn. His head was twisted to the side, one green, unblinking eye staring up at the clear, blue sky.

Lancelot stood, frozen. As though he had lost all ability to move. As though the world itself had come to an end. As though time had ceased.

It could not—

It could not—

be.

Lancelot woke as he lurched upward. He looked frantically about. He saw not the grey concrete of his dream, but the smooth cream of wood. He was sitting on the floor in the basement practice room, which was dimly lit by the low level overhead lighting.

He stumbled to his feet, accidentally kicking something—a beer bottle, the floor was littered with them—that rattled and as it rolled and knocked over some other bottles with a crash.

A sudden movement had Lancelot spinning around, but it was only Bors, woken by the noise. The big man had lumbered to his feet with surprising swiftness, but his eyes were still closed as he took a wild swing in the direction of the noise. Lancelot easily ducked under his arm, his mouth opened to yell at Bors, but then he took a step back and his foot landed on one of the overturned beer bottles.

If he had not still been confused by his abrupt awaking, if he had not drunk quite so much, he might have been able to catch his balance. As it was, his wildly flailing arms did nothing to save him, and he fell, landing soundly on his arse.

Bors blinked down at Lancelot, as though surprised to find the other knight on the floor. He rumbled, sounding confused, "Lancelot?"

"Who else?" Lancelot said wryly, as he pulled himself, wincing, to his feet.

"Stop making so much bloody noise," Bors growled before he settled himself back on the floor. In another few moments, he was snoring.

Lancelot rubbed his sore rear and caught sight of Dinaden, slumped against the wall, one glinting eye slightly opened. Lancelot made a rude gesture at him, but Dinaden's eye only drifted shut in what Lancelot would have sworn was an amused manner. Lavaine, curled up on the floor near Dinaden, his pale, bald head glinting in the dim light, had not stirred despite all the noise.

Lancelot snorted and resettled himself on the floor. He idly checked a few of the nearby bottles, but found that they were all empty. Treacherous buggers. He lay back, his arms folded under his head.

He let his eyes shut, trying to ignore the headache already building in his temples. He had not drunk that much. As he slid toward sleep he remembered that he had dreamed something—something bad—that had sent him careening awake. He frowned a little as he realized that he did not remember what it was. It had not been the old dream about fire. All he could remember was that it had felt familiar, as though he had dreamed it many times before.

~

Gawain could not sleep. It was not Gaheris's soft snoring that kept him awake—he was used to that. Nor was it the fact that he was not sleeping in his usual place; most nights, Gawain ended up in the middle, with Gaheris and Galahad on either side. Tonight, however, it was Galahad who slept between them, curled up at Gawain's side with Gaheris against Galahad's back, Gaheris's loose arm thrown over them both.

Gawain should have been tired. They had exhausted themselves with one another for most of the night (Gawain was actually rather impressed that the bed had survived intact). It had been the same thing the night before. He had been afraid that Galahad would sense something odd about their fervor, but Galahad had not seemed to notice anything. He had only complained, yesterday night, at seeing the finger shaped bruises blossoming on Gaheris's shoulder, that they had been having fun without him.

Gawain's hand stroked through the rough silk of Galahad's tousled hair. Feeling it slide between his fingers, he nearly chuckled, his mood lightening for a moment. It had surprised no one to find Galahad and Tor were behind the calamity that had befallen poor Lavaine's hair. They, the stupid gits, had left the evidence of their crime in plain sight, and once Lavaine had stopped throwing up, it had not been hard for him to figure out what had happened. Not with the empty box of hair color left in the bathroom, the streaks of dye on his shirt and Tor's panicked expression. Bloodshed had nearly ensued, but after an early-morning, high-speed chase through most of the house, Gareth had managed to break it up, although not before several expensive-looking items had ended up on the floor in pieces.

Gareth, after listening patiently and parsing through the screaming of rabid accusations, vociferous denials, ill-advised defenses and death threats, had informed Tor and Galahad that they would be doing Lavaine's chores for the next three months—the time Gareth estimated it would take for Lavaine's hair to grow back. Galahad, of course, had been unable to resist protesting the punishment, much to Tor's alarm. But Galahad had promptly shut up when Lancelot, who had happened onto the proceeding, graciously offered an alternative: If they did not like Gareth's punishment, he would be willing to hold them down while Lavaine shaved their heads. Lavaine had looked quite eager at that suggestion and then rather disappointed when, after turning pale and clutching protectively at his head, Galahad had mutely shook his head—to Tor's palpable relief.

Gawain chuckled silently to himself, remembering Tor's expression, but was pulled out of his thoughts when Galahad sighed and fingers began to trace slow patterns on Gawain's skin. Gawain listened to Galahad's breathing for a moment before whispering, "I thought you were asleep."

Galahad shook his head slightly against Gawain's shoulder.

Gawain slid his hand over Galahad's side, and then down his hip. He smiled slightly when as he found Gaheris nestled up snugly against Galahad's back. "Why aren't you sleeping?" He felt a sudden stab of anxiety. Galahad could not have found out—

"I was thinking." Gawain's own tension and something in Galahad's tone kept Gawain from making the obvious joke.

"About what?"

"What would you do if you had to choose—"

Gawain felt a flood or relief, but irritation followed hard on its heels. "Don't start that again," he warned sharply. "I thought we were over—"

But Galahad was shaking his head. "Not that."

"Then what?"

Galahad was silent for a moment. "Arthur and Lancelot. If you had to choose between them, what would you do?"

"What are you taking about? Frankly, neither one of them are exactly my type, although I suppose I wouldn't boot either one of them out of bed. I did always kind of wonder how it was that Arthur managed— "

Galahad pinched his arm. Hard. "Eww, that's disgusting! Not like that! I mean, if you had to take sides."

Gawain rolled his eyes, even though he knew Galahad could not see them. "Look, this row they're having, it'll blow over; it always does."

"I'm serious, Gawain," Galahad said sharply.

Gawain paused. He heard that tone so rarely from Galahad. He sighed and his hand returned to stroking Galahad's hair. "I don't know. How can I say? It would depend on what they were fighting over, I suppose."

Galahad levered himself up on elbow to stare down at Gawain incredulously. Disturbed, Gaheris stirred slightly, but then the soft snoring resumed.

"What?" Gawain demanded.

"We're loyal to Arthur. We've always been loyal to Arthur. But Lancelot is one of us."

"Galahad—"

"You know what Arthur did, and if it came to taking sides, I—"

Gawain slid his hand over Galahad's mouth. "Why are you talking like this?" Why was Galahad dredging up the past? Arthur had not done well by Lancelot at the end, but he had paid for it. It was not something Gawain liked to think about. "It's never going to come to that. Really, do you really think Lancelot would let himself be parted from Arthur? Or Arth—"

Galahad shoved his hand away. "I think it could."

Even in the dark room, Gawain could tell that his mouth was set in that grim line that Gawain did not like remembering. Galahad had still been boyish—often maddeningly so—even at the end, but— "What are you on about?"

As Galahad began to explain his suspicions, Gawain did not understand what the big deal was at first, but the more Galahad talked and the longer he thought about it, the more it began to make an appalling, disastrous sort of sense.

Gawain closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, after Galahad had fallen silent. When he opened them, he met Gaheris's narrowed eyes over Galahad's shoulder.

~

Arthur walked down the stairs, trying only to think of the interview he had this afternoon. He had not seen Lancelot since Lancelot had slammed out of the bedroom. That had been Sunday night. Today was Tuesday. He told himself he was not listening for the sound of Lancelot's voice rising from somewhere in the house, nor looking for a glimpse of the familiar lean form.

He stopped in the foyer, ostensibly to look at the post piled on the table there. As usual, it was all useless adverts; the real mail was not sent to the house, but to Robert Scott's office. He had just picked up a garish brochure addressed to one Mr. Bors Collingwood, demanding, "Feel the Rush!!" in brilliant yellow lettering, when the house telephone shrilled.

There was an extension on the other side of the foyer, and he was about to walk over to it when the thunder of approaching feet made him pause. Tor and Percival tumbled into view. Arthur watched, appalled, as Percival shoved Tor viciously backward and made a leap toward the telephone. Tor, however, got a foot in Percival path, sending them both crashing to the floor. Tor, on top, managed to scramble over Percival (planting a knee somewhere sensitive, if Percival's grunt, then squeal of protest was anything to go by) and grabbed at the telephone receiver.

"Hello?" he gasped, breathlessly. "If you're the pizza person, you're bloody late. We've been waiting for ages— Oh. You're not? You're name is what? Seriously? Like the candy?" Tor stood and, apparently still not seeing Arthur, was sure to give Percival a good kick on the way up. Percival surged upward as though to retaliate, but then he realized Arthur was watching him, and froze. Tor was still talking, his back to Arthur. "Oookay. Lancelot? Um, hold on."

Arthur had started to speak, but he halted at the mention of Lancelot's name. Tor suddenly bellowed, "Lancelot! It's for you!" Arthur waited, holding his breath, but no answer was forthcoming. "Laaanceloooot!" Tor yelled again, rather miraculously managing to increase his volume over his last effort. Footsteps approached, but it was only Gareth.

"For pity's sake, Tor! He's obviously not here. Percival, what are you doing on the floor? Oh, hello, Arthur." Gareth held out his hand to Tor. Tor handed the handset over and wandered off, muttering about false promises of half-hour delivery. Percival scrambled up and stalked after him, a murderous glint in his eyes. "Hello?" Gareth said, politely. "You're looking for Lancelot? He's not available at the moment, can I take a message?" Gareth listened for a moment. "Your name is Juju? Yes, I'll be sure to let him know. No, sorry, he doesn't have a mobile. Why? He doesn’t seem to like them. Right." He wrote something down on the pad beside the phone and then rang off. He looked over at Arthur and smiled slightly. "Our Lancelot seems to have suddenly become quite popular."

"Oh?" Arthur's voice was level.

"Yes, there have been a number of calls for him. This young women, and another called something equally outlandish, and there was a rather, er, formidable sounding older lady, and then a man calling from some kind of pony club? I didn't quite follow, but he called twice." Gareth's tone was mild, but he was watching Arthur carefully. Arthur, concentrating on keeping his face expressionless, merely nodded before walking off, forgetting for the moment that he had wanted to ask Gareth where Lancelot was if not in the range of Tor's lungs. He also completely forgot about the bungee jumping brochure he had left crumpled in his wake.

~

Agravaine had only been waiting for about fifteen minutes when the black car pulled up, but he was already annoyed. He did not appreciate being kept waiting, and the fact that it was raining certainly did not sweeten his mood. The car's boot popped open, and Agravaine carefully stowed the case he was carrying before getting into the front passenger seat. He took some satisfaction in knowing that his wet clothes would soak the car's expensive leather.

As soon as he yanked his door shut, the car pulled away from the curb. Agravaine had opened his mouth to complain about the tardiness, when he noticed someone sitting in the back seat. A big man, with light hair, a brutish face and rather bizarre looking piercings on his face. Agravaine had never seen him before. Agravaine frowned and looked over at the driver. "Who—?" he began to demand.

"An associate of mine," the driver cut him off smoothly. "No one followed you?"

Agravaine sneered. As though anyone could follow him. Tristan and Dinaden might think themselves stealthy, but Agravaine was never fooled. Agravaine glared at the driver. He did not like being doubted. In fact, he did not like this man, period. The very sight of him set Agravaine's teeth on edge. Mongrel cur. And his smug assumption that he was in charge—it was all too gallingly familiar. Who did the man think he was, anyway, to try to give Agravaine orders? Agravaine could recite his lineage for fifty generations back to the Great Ancestors themselves, and this man . . . .

This man had his uses for the moment. Agravaine's voice was only a little surly when he answered. "No. No one followed me." He pushed his wet hair out of his face and abruptly demanded, "Why this sudden change in plan? You said it would not be until just before the election."

The man shrugged. "There doesn't seem to be any need to wait that long anymore, does there?" Green eyes turned from the road to regard Agravaine for a moment. They seemed to glow in the car's dim interior, rather like a cat's. Agravaine did not like cats.

"It was your plan." Agravaine said, a pointed edge to his voice. "And you had promised me a hand in the act." He cast a resentful glance at the thug in the back seat. He knew why the man was here.

"But this way, we can move immediately. Unfortunately, moving forward now means that you won't have time to become proficient with the weapon." He actually sounded regretful. The man in the driver's seat had thought it a great joke when Agravaine had informed him that the knights had selected Agravaine for sniper training. "But in a few brief days you will be rid of your little problem. That's all that counts, isn't it? And you've still played a crucial part." The man lifted a hand from the steering wheel to wave toward the backend of the car.

Agravaine scowled and wiped at the water trickling down his forehead. "And that's another thing." He jerked his thumb at the man in the backseat. "Why can't he supply his own weapon?" The instruction to bring a weapon with him had rankled. Agravaine had never been fond of sharing.

"It would take a few days to procure one, and we'd miss this opportunity." The man glanced over at him, his eyebrows raised. "And I would have thought you'd enjoy the irony of it."

Irony? Agravaine had no use for irrelevant things like irony. All that mattered was winning.

"Tell me," the man continued after a moment, "what have you learned about who will be accompanying him?"

"There's no way to be sure. Likely Dagonet. He usually goes." Faithful, like a none too intelligent dog. "One of the others as well."

"And Lancelot?"

One side of Agravaine's thin lips twitched upward. "It looks unlikely." He glanced backward as a sudden movement caught his eye.

The driver help up a hand and the man in the back subsided. "Why is that?" His voice remained calm, but Agravaine could hear a tense note, which surprised him. He had thought the man would be pleased at the removal of an unpredictable variable. But then, this one had always seemed a little too curious about Lancelot.

Lancelot, it was always Lancelot.

A little reluctantly, Agravaine explained, "Lancelot and Castus had some kind of row. Usually they fight and make up quickly, but that doesn't seem to be the case this time."

"What are they fighting about?" The man only sounded mildly curious.

"Who knows?" Agravaine had his suspicions, but, despite his best efforts, he truly had no idea what the Roman had done to anger Lancelot this time. If anyone knew, no one was saying, and Lancelot was unlikely to confide in him. But it hardly made a difference now. While Agravaine had hoped that Casuts and Lancelot's relationship would have a chance to deteriorate on its own, the new timetable made that impossible. "Does it really matter?"

He received a sharp sideways flash of the man's eyes before the man smiled. It looked wrong on that face. "Not at all." His eyes swept over the street as he pulled over to the side of the road. It was not the place where he had picked Agravaine up. "You'd better go."

Agravaine scowled at the abrupt dismissal. The bastard had not given him any real answers to his questions, either. Well, Agravaine did not care about this man’s games, so long as it got done.

Still, he did not like to be pushed around. The rain lashed against the windshield as he pointedly waited a long moment before saying, "I don't care what's behind the sudden change in timing." He cast a disdainful look at the man in the back seat. "But it bloody well had better work." He slammed the door shut after him, not giving the man a chance to respond.

As he walked away, despite the bad temper his encounters with that man always engendered, despite the rain, despite the fact that he would not be the one to kill Lancelot's precious Arthur, despite that he had several blocks to walk before reaching the spot where Meliagaunt waited with the car, Agravaine began to smirk.

Another few days, and they would finally be free.

They would all thank him in the end.

~

The man in the car watched Agravaine walk away. He found the sour-tempered knight rather amusing. The blond settled into the vacated passenger seat and scowled at the seat's dampness. "What are we going to do now? You said—" the man began angrily.

He gave the blond a cold look. "All you have to do is do exactly as you're told."

The blond glared. "You heard what he said! How—"

"Are you questioning me?" It came out with silky menace.

"Why the bloody fuck shouldn't I? That dog of Rome, he doesn't even know what you're really planning does he? Or is it me you're lying to?" Light eyes narrowed. "Your instructions never made any sense to begin with. Aim at—"

"If you want your chance for revenge, you will do precisely as you're told." The man paused before smoothly adding, "Or do I need to speak to your father again?"

The blond's lip lifted in a snarl, but he said nothing.

The man's smile was distinctly less pleasant now. "I will call you with the final instructions." The blond had reached for the door handle when the other man added, "Oh, one more thing." He turned his head to stare directly into the blond's eyes. "Remember, my friend, if you don't carry out my instructions to the letter, it is not your father who you will need to be afraid of."

Despite himself, the blond swallowed, but then he angrily jerked the door open. The driver pressed the lever to disengage the latch and watched through the rear view mirror as the blond slammed the boot shut with enough force to rock the car. He stalked off with the case in hand.

He waited until the blond disappeared around a corner before reaching over to open the glove compartment. He pulled out a newspaper clipping and stared at it for a minute, frowning. It really was such an unfortunate waste.

He ran a fingertip over image of the man in the photo. He had torn the paper to cut the second man out of the picture.

He sighed. He had entertained such happy plans, but if the old man was telling the truth, there was no other way. Sacrifices always had to be made, after all.

He was humming to himself as he pulled back onto the road.


Continued here.

Comments

[pixelarious.livejournal.com]

Got here via crack_van, and am just so damned impressed with this series. Thoroughly imagined, with a plot and mystery and everything! And poor stupid Guinevere, getting in the way AGAIN. Argh.

Great job. I'll be looking forward to the next installments.

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

Thanks very much, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I wasn't too fond of Guin in the movie, I must admit, but as Merlin might say, everyone has their roles to play. ; )

RL is being a bit obstructionist right now, but hopefully more to come.

[searisme.livejournal.com]

From where did you get this title? *curious*
(Haven't read your fic yet, but they sound nice so I think I will once I have some spare time...)

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

To the best of my recollection, I made it up. It wouldn't surprise me, though, if I had actually picked it up from somewhere at some point--I do that with phrases.

If you get a chance to read the fic, I hope you enjoy them!

[searisme.livejournal.com]

I was just wondering cause I recognise the line from "the Garden of Proserpine" by Algernon Swinburne
Excerpt:
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her,
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

Oh, I'm sure I will.

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

Very nice! But I'm pretty sure I've never read it, so, if I picked it up, it was probably from somewhere else. Thanks for sharing the poem. I shall have to go read the whole thing.

[searisme.livejournal.com]

I though you might like it. Swinburne is an awesome poet.