King Arthur Fic: In Twilight's Kingdom (Resurrection AU), continued

[amari_z]

Continued from here.

The fist caught Agravaine unaware, knocking him into the side of the hallway. Galehaut was on him in the next second, and a second blow caught him before he could shake off the first. He did manage to deflect the third, and then to shove Galehaut off, sending the other knight into the opposite wall. He kicked him in the gut before Galehaut could recover. Galehaut, the wind knocked out of him, glared up at him from the floor, his eyes murderous with rage.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Agravaine snarled, wiping the blood from his mouth. In fact, he had been expecting this, although the ferocity of the attack had surprised him. Galehaut had never been a particularly good fighter. He had only survived as long as he had because Lancelot had watched his back.

"You're dead," Galehaut managed, apparently unperturbed by his inability to catch his breath.

Agravaine wiped at his mouth again, irritated. "I didn't shoot Lancelot," he said flatly. It was technically true, after all.

"You were aiming at Castus." Galehaut hissed as he levered himself to his feet, and Agravaine took a step backward. He could take down Galehaut with one hand behind his back, but some caution was warranted when dealing with lunatics.

Agravaine drew himself up. "If I were aiming at Castus, I would have hit Castus." He did not bother to disguise the disgust in his tone. It was always such a mistake to trust other people not to fuck up. He had been hard pressed not to kill the incompetent bastard when he had met him to retrieve the rifle. The only thing that had saved that man's life was the fact that Lancelot was not dead.

He realized that Galehaut was staring at him. The other knight studied him for a moment, the fury fading from his gaze. Then Galehaut looked away, and leaned back against the wall. He slowly sank to the ground again, his head bent over his knees, his shoulders shaking.

Agravaine thought he was crying, and his mouth tightened in annoyance, but then he realized Galehaut was laughing. Was the idiot having hysterics?

After a moment, Galehaut wiped at his eyes, seemed to get hold of himself. "The look on your face— I actually believe you."

Agravaine scowled and then reminded himself that he was supposed to be sympathetic. "Killing the Roman now wasn't the plan." He changed the subject; he did not want to talk about the next logical question—who else it might have been who wanted Castus dead. "How is your head? That was rather high handed of them."

The laughter drained from Galehaut and he took the hand up Agravaine offered. When he was on his feet again, he said, "It doesn't matter."

"How can you say that? Where does anyone get off keeping you away?" Agravaine pursed his lips as though thinking. "I've said I'd go to the hospital this afternoon. Why don't you come with me?"

Galehaut, fury spent, seemed to withdraw into himself, his shoulders hunched a bit, his head lowered. It was a posture that Agravaine remembered well. He used to see it every time Lancelot did some reckless, fool thing that got him injured or punished. It was worse, this time, than anything Galehaut had lived through before. Still, Galehaut managed a feeble joke, "They can't have put you on Castus guarding detail?"

Agravaine snorted. "Hardly. I said I'd watch Lancelot. If the Roman's there—" He shrugged.

Galehaut was still looking down at his feet. "I can't see him. Castus. I don't think I can stand—"

"I don't particularly want to see him myself." Bastard whoreson Roman should be dead.

Galehaut looked back at up at him, anguish twisting his mouth. "Why would Lancelot— For that Roman—" His lips compressed in a hard line, but still his mouth twisted and trembled like a child's who was trying not to cry. "I know that the plan was to give Lancelot time to see him for what he is, but now—" He broke off again, and then hissed, "I want him dead. I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands."

Agravaine blinked. He had not thought Galehaut had it in him. "We'll figure it out. For now, you should concentrate on Lancelot. Look, you can wait outside the hospital and when Castus goes out of the room, I'll call you and you can come see Lancelot. The Roman can't stay there the whole time."

Galehaut stared at him. "You'd do that?"

Agravaine controlled the urge to roll his eyes, and instead tried to smile. It felt strange. "Of course."

~

Galehaut hovered outside the door for a moment. He glanced over at Agravaine, who nodded at him. He swallowed hard before stepping into the room.

Lancelot was lying improbably still, on his back. Lancelot never slept on his back. Heart pounding, Galehaut took a few more steps into the room. Galehaut edged closer so he could sit on the chair at the side of the bed. He wondered bitterly if this was where Arthur had been sitting. Galehaut had been waiting for nearly four hours outside the hospital before Arthur had finally gone off to give some speech.

He took a deep breath and leaned forward. His hand hovered for a moment before he touched one of Lancelot's hands where it was resting, limp, outside the sheets. He winced at the sight of the tube attached to the back of the other.

Lancelot's skin was reassuringly warm. He moved closer, so his other hand could cup Lancelot's cheek. He felt acutely the inability to stroke Lancelot's hair in that old gesture of comfort. But the curly hair was gone, and he did not dare touch the bandages. Instead, he let his hand trace over the lines of Lancelot's face—over too sharp cheekbone and dry, cracked lips. Palomides said that Lancelot was breathing normally now. They had had him hooked up to something after the surgery. Tubes down his throat—the thought made Galehaut shudder—but they had removed them this morning.

He had not thought to do it, but he found himself leaning closer and then his lips were brushing over Lancelot's for the first time in— It did not matter.

Palomides had said that Lancelot might be able to hear their voices, but Galehaut found his lungs unable to grasp enough air to speak. He leaned back, lifting his hand from Lancelot's face to wipe angrily at his eyes. But with the other he kept hold of Lancelot's hand.

~

Agravaine stood by the door, keeping an eye out for Arthur and ignoring Lavaine, who was glowering at him. The boy looked ridiculous with that cap on. Agravaine's mouth twisted into a half-hearted sneer. Lavaine had used to trail after Lancelot, wanting to be just like him (something that Agravaine had found as ridiculous for the quiet-demeanored knight as he had found it irritating), but now it seemed like the situation was reversed, and Lavaine's hero had somehow ended up aping him this time.

Although he should have, Agravaine did not find the thought particularly amusing right now.

He had gotten a look at Lancelot when Galehaut had gone in the room. Now, he felt a little sick. He told himself that it was something he had eaten, but he knew he was lying to himself.

Lancelot did not look alive. Skin waxy, he looked empty in a way that Agravaine had found unexpectedly familiar.

He shook his head slightly, as if trying to unseat the memories bubbling up.

It did no good. He could see it again, as though it he were there. Lancelot in the barracks, looking little more alive than he did now, after Galehaut had died. Something had broken in Lancelot then.

The memory of that time roused in Agravaine something else he had mostly forgotten. He had thought, after Galehaut was dead, that—

Agravaine had always found Lancelot's arrogance insufferable. He was mocking and temperamental and had a tongue like a blade's edge, but, still, somehow, the others liked him. And he was just so bloody good at everything he did. But then— With Galehaut dead, Lancelot had been briefly different. Lancelot had been vulnerable then in a way he had never had before. Looking into Lancelot's eyes had been like staring into a dark, yawning abyss.

And, for a little while, Agravaine had imagined himself being the one to fill that emptiness. After all, who else but Lancelot, whose bloodlines were older than Agravaine's own, was actually worthy of Agravaine?

He had been biding his time, when the rumors started. He had not believed them at first. Lancelot and Castus? Lancelot would sooner cut his own throat, of that Agravaine had been certain. And if the Roman had taken advantage of Lancelot's recent frequent drunkenness—well, there was no way he would have lived out the next day. So Agravaine had not believed the rumors, not until he had seen them late one night in the stables. Castus had Lancelot against the wall, and although the Roman was pinning Lancelot's hands, Lancelot was not fighting him, but was returning his kiss viciously. They had broken apart when Lancelot jerked his hands free and shoved the Roman away. They had exchanged a long look before Lancelot stalked off, the Roman following him after a moment. Neither of them noticed Agravaine.

The next day, Agravaine had called Lancelot Rome's whore and Lancelot broken his nose.

Agravaine blinked, the memory fading. He had not thought of that in a long time. He rubbed at his nose. It was straight again now. He caught Lavaine staring at him, and dropped his hand, glaring back, before looking away dismissively.

It had been long enough. He opened the door and stepped into the doorway. Galehaut was bent over the side of the bed, one of Lancelot's hands clasped in both of his and held to his forehead. Agravaine ignored the old flicker of resentment and called, "Galehaut, it's time for you to go." Arthur would probably be back soon and all they needed was for Galehaut to do something stupid like attack Arthur in the hospital corridor.

Before leaving the room, his gaze lingered on Lancelot for a moment. You made your choices, he thought. I wanted us all to be free, but there are always casualties, aren't there? His gut was twisting again, but he ignored it.

~

For the second time in the last three months, Arthur found himself watching Lancelot sleep long days away. But while the first time had been filled an with impatient, almost giddy excitement and wonder, which it had taken nearly all of his will to keep tapped down, now it was despair he was fighting.

Over the last three days, any brief certainty Arthur had gained had flagged. Lancelot's chest wound was healing well, but the doctors were carefully watching for swelling around his brain. They (and specialists had been brought in to see Lancelot, so many that Arthur had lost count) used all sorts of long words and fancy explanations, pointed at things in scans that Arthur could not see, but still all it amounted to was that they did not know why Lancelot had not woken up, and they had no idea when he would. Arthur did not let himself think about what else they hinted at, in low, murmuring voices.

Once he had realized that they had no answers, Arthur had left Palomides to argue with the doctors. Arthur had barely moved from Lancelot's bedside in the last two days, refusing to budge after he been allowed back in to see Lancelot on the second day, except for that brief appearance before the clamoring media. The nurses, although a few gave him disapproving glances, left him alone. He gathered that Ms. Delaney had bullied someone into waiving the hospital's limited visiting policies, but he did not exactly care what means she had used.

At least Lancelot looked more like Lancelot now. Despite the bandaged head. They had removed the breathing mask yesterday. The obscenity of the IV was still there, along with all kinds of other tubes and wires, but Arthur had placed his chair on Lancelot's right side, so when no one was about, he could touch Lancelot's free hand.

He was simply too weary to think anymore. He had stopped noticing the knot in his gut, the ache in his neck or back, the way his teeth remained constantly clenched or the headache pounding at his temples. He did what necessity had taught him over the years: He held on, stubbornly. He held on and waited. He held on and waited because there was nothing else to do.

The knights were a constant presence around him. He was dimly aware that there were always two of them outside Lancelot's room, and more loitering somewhere nearby.

And since the doctors had said that it was possible that Lancelot might be able to hear them, one of the knights was usually in the room as well, talking to Lancelot. Arthur had tried to speak to Lancelot a few times when they were alone, but he found his words stillborn on his tongue. He would open his mouth and nothing would come out. All he could do was the mouth the words of prayers.

Arthur had come to barely notice anything, except the slow movement of Lancelot's chest, the hand resting by the edge of the bed, the dark lashes that lay against Lancelot's cheek. The long lashes that never fluttered with wakefulness.

Kay was in the room now. His voice seemed to run on in the back of Arthur's head even when he occasionally dozed off in his chair, more song than speech to Arthur, who could not understand the meaning of his words. He was telling tales of Sarmatia—things he had committed to memory before he had ever come into Rome's service.

Kay's voice was almost soothingly familiar. How many nights had Arthur watched as his knights, camped in some chill, damp wilderness, had listened to these cadences with such rapt attention, such a light in their eyes, that Arthur sometimes would follow their distant gazes, as though expecting to catch some glimpse of sweeping grasslands and wide sky?

He rubbed at his eyes. His mind kept drifting, and he would find himself thinking of some memory, and then for a moment not be sure where he was. Worst, far the worst, was that he kept thinking he was back at Badon Hill sitting beside Lancelot's bed another time. The memories were so vivid that the anguish, the desperation, of that time leeched out from them, and threatened to drag him even deeper into the darkness.

When he was thinking clearly, he did not know how he could be confused. Lancelot had been so young then. He had forgotten how young.

He had lost faith that time too. Had lost it in a way that he had never forgiven himself for. In a way that was unforgivable. And he had paid the consequences. How he paid.

Something jolted him out of reverie, and it jerked his dazed gaze away from Lancelot's face and over at Kay.

"What did you say?" he demanded. He was surprised by the roughness of his own voice. When had he last spoken?

Kay looked back at him, blinking for a moment, as though woken from a dream.

"You said his name—" he broke off, suddenly embarrassed at Kay's raised eyebrows. So what if Kay had been speaking to Lancelot this time rather than telling some old tale? What business of Arthur's was it what he said to Lancelot? If he had wanted Arthur to understand, he would have spoken a different language, as Bors did when he stopped by periodically to threaten and cajole Lancelot into waking with talk of stealing all the women and drinking all the drink. It had just been strange to hear the name, like the clear sound of a bell, among the flow of words that were as meaningless to Arthur as the sound of a rushing river.

But before Arthur could withdraw the question, understanding dawned on Kay's face. "I said 'Lancelot', yes? It's not our Lancelot, though, that I was telling of. It was a different one, who lived long ago." He grimaced slightly. "Longer ago."

Arthur had never thought about it. To him, his Sarmatians' names had been so odd, so unique, that he had not contemplated that their names might be commonplace in their own lands. And the idea of other Sarmatians with Lancelot's name was strangely disturbing.

"Was it a common name, then?" he found himself asking.

Kay seemed surprised at the question or maybe merely that Arthur was speaking to him. "No, not really. It's unique to his family, but the eldest son of his line is always named Lancelot. Long ago, it was more of a title, but, over time, they simply started naming their eldest sons that."

Arthur's tired brain tried to absorb that. So Lancelot's father and grandfather, and— It took him a moment to realize. "But he told me his father's name was Ban. He picked that last name, and he said—"

To his surprise, Kay began to chuckle. It was a startling sound in the quiet oppressiveness of the room, that Arthur actually found himself staring in shock.

"He said it wasn't a joke," Arthur said flatly. Had Lancelot just been having some fun after all, having looked at that bloody book? Damn Lancelot was always—

"Sorry," Kay said, still chuckling. "I don't doubt he told you the truth and his father's name was Ban. But it's a little joke he was making when he chose that name, even so." When Arthur merely stared back at him, he explained. "Banson. Technically, I suppose, correct. But Lancelot's family was old. They still went by the ancient ways and traced their line through maternal descent. He would have carried his mother's name, and his grandmother's and so on. I can recite his lineage back through the generations, but I wouldn't know his father's name. So it's not Lancelot's father who would have had the same name, but his mother's brother."

Arthur blinked, trying to understand the odd concept. "It seems unlikely that a man would just agree to allow his eldest son to be named for his wife's family—" Arthur himself had been named for his father's father.

Kay looked back at him, his eyebrows drawing down. "It's not a matter of allowing, Arthur. Even in our day, Lancelot's clan was still held in great respect. A man who married any daughter of that family would have joined it, not the other way around. It was a great honor to him and to his own clan. Families would brag of such a blood tie for generations.

"But his sons would belong to his wife's family, not to him. It was so among all Sarmatians long ago, and it was a custom upheld by the eldest clans. Lancelot's clan was an exception though. Even in the days when all Sarmatian's followed the maternal line, sons of his family would not have left their clans to marry, but like the daughters, if they took mates, those mates would have joined Lancelot's clan."

"That hardly seems like a workable system."

Kay shrugged. "It worked well enough for millennia. It was only certain clans that followed such a custom, so it was hardly an imposition. And by coincidence, or some other design, these clans tended to remain small, despite keeping both their daughters and their sons."

Arthur looked back down at Lancelot. He had never heard of any of this. In truth, he knew—what? Barely anything about Lancelot's family. It was jolting to realize, considering that it was Lancelot to whom he had once, and only once, told the full story of his mother's death.

The room was silent for a while, until, evidently realizing Arthur had nothing more to stay, Kay continued telling his story to Lancelot. It was only later, when Kay had gone, and Bors had smashed through the quiet of the room by poking his head in to tell Lancelot some extremely filthy joke and laugh uproariously at it—much to the chagrin of the nurses on duty—that Arthur realized he had forgotten to ask what story Kay had been telling about another Lancelot.

~

Tor wandered the hospital corridors, unsettled and restless. He had come along with Gaheris, Gawain and Galahad this morning, although he was not scheduled to be here. Waiting at the house, however, had become unbearable, especially without Galahad there. The air of the house was too still and too heavy to breath, and given that he was not allowed to go out on his own now, the hospital was his only alternative.

He had been assigned to guard Lancelot's door a few times, but had barely dared look into the room. Somehow, it seemed wrong to look at Lancelot when he was like that. Perhaps it was just that he remembered too vividly the trip back to the garrison after Lancelot had been so badly wounded that time just before Tor had died. When Lancelot's fever had risen, he had been delirious and raving, and although most of what he had been screaming had been incoherent, Tor had wanted to stop up his ears. It was not his place to hear such things.

It probably did not make sense to be comparing this time to that one, since Tor knew that the problem now was that Lancelot was sleeping too deeply and so would hardly be saying anything, but that sense of invasion at seeing Lancelot unguarded persisted.

Plus, he did not want to have to see Arthur. One glimpse of him outside Lancelot's room had been more than enough. He had been extremely relieved when Gareth had told him his assignments. Being Arthur's guards (in the event he ever went more than a few feet from Lancelot's room) had been assigned to the knights who knew Arthur better.

He caught sight of Tristan coming around the corner and opened his mouth to say something, but the other knight just looked past him and walked on. Tor blew out a breath but did not take offense. It was probably better not to be noticed by Tristan. Tristan did seem to take some kind of perverse pleasure in baiting Galahad, and Tor would rather not have that kind of attention turned on him.

Tor wandered into an open elevator and hit the button for Lancelot's floor. Although it was better than being stuck in tense silence of the house right now, he did not like this place. It was filled with a strange, chemical smell, the lights were too glaring, and it was cold. And it felt—unhappy. He did not see how people got well here. Even the Roman doctors had known that the sick needed sunlight and fresh air. It had not been their fault that Britain had so little of the former.

After a while he found himself back in the quiet corridor that led to Lancelot's room. The nurses' station looked like a garden. All these flowers kept coming for Lancelot. The knights had started laying bets on how many would arrive each day. Tor did not see how Lancelot could have met so many people in this time (and why would anyone who met Lancelot think that Lancelot would like to get flowers?), but Gaheris said that a lot of the people who sent flowers had never met Lancelot, but had heard about the shooting on the telly. People in this modern age were so strange.

Gawain and Gaheris were standing outside Lancelot's door. "I know we have to talk to him about it, but you try getting his attention right now," Gawain was saying. He broke off abruptly when he saw Tor. These days Gawain, normally so calm and reasonable, looked more stressed than Tor could ever remember.

Gaheris had turned around when Gawain had stopped speaking. "Tor. Galahad has gone down to the cafeteria. Why don't you go join him?"

Tor shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He had not really felt like eating much for a while. The knot in stomach left no room for anything else.

Gaheris gave him a skeptical look, but Gawain said, "Why don't you go down anyway. You can keep Galahad company, and maybe you'll be hungry if you see something you like."

Tor doubted it. He was not picky, but the hospital's food was unappetizing even by his standards—even if had been hungry. Nevertheless, he obediently turned around and went back down the way he had come. He already felt like he could navigate the halls of this place with his eyes closed.

It felt like they had been waiting here forever.

~

Lancelot watched Mother as she leapt down from the wagon, and turned to carefully close the canvas behind her. He caught of a glimpse of her face, outlined by the fire of the setting sun, and Lancelot's fingers clenched around his knees.

He waited a moment before, with a cautious look around, he slid out from his crouched position beneath the wagon. He was up and into the wagon in the next moment. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dimness, but he could hear a strange, rattling sound. He slowly realized it was the sound of Uncle breathing.

He had not been allowed to visit Uncle since he had gotten sick. Lancelot had last seen him when, shockingly, he had slid from his horse's back like an ill-tied pack. He crawled closer, and bit his lip. He touched Uncle's cheek, still half expecting his eyes to flutter open and for him to grin that easy grin, but Uncle did not move. His skin felt strange and clammy.

Lancelot had asked Mother this morning when Uncle would be better, and she had not answered. He had asked again, thinking she had not heard him, and then a third time, when she had still ignored him, and that time she had slapped him across the face.

He had blinked at her in consternation, and Mother had looked almost as surprised, but then his sister, who was finally learning to walk, had fallen down and had started crying, and Mother had turned away. (Father had been very wrong about the whole baby thing; his sister, although she had been around for a while now, was still not any fun.)

Lancelot was not stupid. He knew about death. And he realized that Mother thought Uncle would die. But Mother was mistaken. Uncle would not die like this. Not because of sickness and not in bed. Uncle would die someday, he knew that, but it would be fighting. Uncle was a warrior. And besides, although he had not told anyone, not even Uncle—especially not Uncle—Lancelot had dreamed it. It would be a long time from now, because he had not recognized the armor Uncle was wearing, the strange, smoke filled landscape around him, or the strange enemy Uncle fought.

So Lancelot had come to see Uncle himself. But now, looking at the pale, gaunt face, Lancelot felt uncertainty creep over him. Maybe the dream had just been a dream. He rubbed at his eyes, and then curled up at Uncle's side, his head resting on Uncle's chest. He pulled a limp arm around himself and held Uncle's hand, curling his small fingers around the long ones. He could hear Uncle's heartbeat, but it was not the strong, steady beat he knew so well. Lancelot closed his eyes.

He was nearly asleep when he felt Uncle's chest convulse. He held tighter onto Uncle's hand and squeezed his eyes shut.

A little while later, the inside of the wagon was silent, and he could not hear Uncle's heart beat anymore.

He did not cry. He was the only Lancelot left now.

~

Palomides squinted at the chart, trying to make out the messy scrawl of the doctor's latest notation. He sighed and looked around before flipping through the pages. He would rather not get caught looking at it—the nurses got indignant.

Bors had stopped in again and had chivvied Arthur into leaving Lancelot for long enough to wash. Bors had joked that Arthur would not want to hear the things he and Lancelot would be talking about anyway, and that Lancelot would be embarrassed by Arthur listening in (that had made Palomides snort—he did not think Lancelot had ever once been embarrassed in all of his life).

Palomides could hear the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom, and Bors was now telling some improbable story involving a set of twins and their mother. Palomides snorted to himself again and pulled out the films and held them up to the light.

As a child, Palomides had watched his mother treat sicknesses and injuries, and he had found he had an affinity for it himself. It was not surprising then that in Britain he had become the one who saw to the knights' injuries out in the field. The Romans had their doctors, but none of them would risk his precious skin by leaving the safety of stonewalls and going where they would do the most good. And although all but a very few of them had nothing but contempt to offer to an illiterate barbarian nosing about and asking questions, Palomides had always tried to learn what he could.

Since he had woken in this place, he had felt like a starving man faced with a feast. So much knowledge, so easily accessible. There seemed no end to the things that could be learned; the doctors now knew things that the Romans had never even dreamed of.

Yet, they did not know everything.

He had not realized that Bors had fallen silent until the man's voice broke into his thoughts. "What is that you're looking at?"

"It's—a picture of the inside of Lancelot's head."

"Big, empty space, then?" Bors tried, but his heart was not really in it. Palomides gave him a slight smile for effort. Bors stood up and came over to look. "Doesn't look like anything," he said after a moment.

Palomides shrugged and then indicated a place. "That's where he is injured."

Bors squinted. "I don't see anything."

"I don't really, either," Palomides confessed. "They're watching to see if there's any swelling of the brain. If there is, they'll have to release the pressure."

Bors looked at him, surprised and then cast a look over at Owein, who had been silent since he had entered the room. "The Romans did that too."

Palomides put the films back. "Well, the Romans knew what they were doing a lot of times."

Bors scowled at that, but did not protest. Instead he said with forced heartiness, "Well, so far so good. He has a hard skull, if anyone does. But I can't imagine he'll be pleased to find out that everyone's been looking into his head."

Palomides nodded, trying to smile again. He did not voice what they both already knew. While there was no sign of dangerous swelling, the doctors did not know why he was not waking up, and the longer that Lancelot slept the more likely there was that was some damage to his brain.

The idea of Lancelot waking up as something less than himself was unbearable. Palomides, who, of all of them, should have known better, could not help simply refusing to consider the thought.

Bors clapped him on the back and then, rather awkwardly, patted Lancelot's blanket covered leg. "Wake up soon, you lazy bastard," he said before leaving.

When he was gone, Palomides ran his hands over his face. He was startled when Owein spoke. "He's going to wake up like Yvain, isn't he?"

Palomides lowered his hands and looked at the other knight. He was sitting, a little hunched over, as though to protect himself from a blow to the gut. But then he looked up at Palomides and Palomides swallowed hard as he got a look into his eyes.

"No," he answered, but his voice came out uncertain. "No, we don't know that. The doctors now, they have a lot of knowledge—"

"They don't know why he won't wake up." Owein's voice was flat.

Palomides did not know what to say. He could not lie outright, not to Owein, not about this. Yvain had woken up from the blow to his head, but when he had, he had not been Yvain anymore. He had hardly been human.

Owein had looked away from Palomides and was staring at Lancelot. "I haven't told him, you know." He was not taking about Lancelot. "He doesn't remember anything after the battle."

Palomides nodded and sat down in Arthur's chair. "That's probably for the best, isn't it? You did what you had to, Owein. You don't have anything to reproach yourself about."

Owein looked back up at him. "No. You don't know. I— I couldn't do it."

"What?" Palomides asked, not following.

"I went into that room, sure I could. I knew he wouldn't want to linger on like that. I knew it. I told myself it was like putting down a horse with a badly broken leg. Or a rabid dog. A terrible thing, but a mercy."

"So it was. But I don't understand. You—"

"He did it for me." He jerked his chin at Lancelot. "When he saw I couldn't."

Palomides looked at Lancelot. He found he was not particularly surprised. "I didn't know that."

"No one does, except him and me." Owein looked away. "I never could bring myself to say thank you."

In the silence that followed, Palomides finally opened his mouth to say something, but Owein, who was now staring at Lancelot again, spoke first. "They can keep him breathing pretty much forever, can't they?"

Palomides knew it was more complicated than that, but he nodded, and then added, "yes," when he realized Owein could not have seen it.

"Someone should do it for him. If it comes to that."

Palomides shrank back into the chair a little, suddenly feeling so very tired. "Arthur doesn't believe—" he began.

Owein looked up at him, eyes blazing. "Bugger Arthur."

Palomides could not do anything but nod, because the bathroom door was opening.

~

It was near sunset when Gareth returned to the house. The house was quiet, with an uneasy stillness to it, although perhaps that was Gareth's imagination. He encountered no one on his way to Kay and Dagonet's room.

"There's no change," he reported, unnecessarily as he leaned in the doorway. The words had become a litany.

Kay, who was getting ready to leave, did not bother to look up from pulling his socks on. "And we've learned nothing." The ritual response.

Gareth looked down at his own feet. He had not expected otherwise. Not really. How did you track down a man using only a picture that Percival had drawn based on Bors and Gawain's somewhat contrary descriptions? They had no name, no location, no points of contact. For all they knew, the man did not even exist in this time.

"And the police?" he asked wearily. It was the next question. "Have they discovered anything?"

"Nothing, either," Dagonet said. Despite the calm of his voice, Gareth knew he was frustrated. They were all frustrated. Tomorrow would be the sixth day since the shooting. It felt like an eternity, and yet they had accomplished nothing.

Gareth slumped further against the doorjamb. "What else can we do?" He could not help longing for Lancelot. Lancelot would come up with something. Something strange and mad and clever. He always did.

"We keep doing what we can. We keep our eyes open and we keep ready." Kay was never one to wish after what he did not have. He was practical like that.

Gareth sighed, but then thought of something else. "And what of Tristan and Dinaden?" He had not heard anything about what they were doing for several days.

"They've come up empty handed as well," Kay said. He finished lacing up his boots and tugged his trouser legs straight. "They seem to be taking different tacks, however. Dinaden's still keeping his own eye on the police investigation." His lips tightened briefly before he continued. "I'm not sure what Tristan is doing besides haunting the hospital corridors, scaring the workers. I don't think he's been back to the house at all."

"Well, it is Lancelot."

Kay was frowning, "Yes." His voice trailed off as if he were not really agreeing. "He doesn't set foot in Lancelot's room, though," he said almost to himself. Gareth looked over Dagonet, who merely looked back at him. Gareth had never made any pretense of understanding Tristan. Kay, who had been the oldest in the barrack's room he had shared with Tristan, Dinaden and Palomides, had generally been the one to deal with them when they were younger and more in need of . . . guidance. It had worked out alright. Mostly. Kay, after all, was the only one among the knights who could match Tristan cold scariness for cold scariness.

"I wonder how he knew," Dagonet said, interrupting Gareth's drifting thoughts.

Gareth was too tired to make sense of that. "What?"

It was Kay who spoke. "Lancelot. Strange to think, we could not have been more prepared for this if we knew it was coming. The weapons. The security company front."

Gareth shrugged. Were they truly prepared? It did not feel like it. "He's a paranoid bastard?"

Kay's raised eyebrow was skeptical. "I would not have said he was the most paranoid among us." He and Dagonet exchanged a look. People who did not know either of them well might have thought them well matched. Dag, who rarely said more than he had to, and Kay, who, when relaxed, would never run out of things to explain to you. Listener and speaker. But, in truth, these two had never seemed to need many words.

After a moment, Kay continued. "We've been thinking about it. Any of us—well, most of us—could have had the same concerns he did. We were here for six months, basically unarmed, beyond the odd table knife." His mouth quirked slightly. "A rather unnatural state for us, no?"

Gareth shook his head. "I don't get your point."

"Why didn't any of the rest of us think to arm ourselves? It's like we were sleeping."

"Or not yet awake," Dagonet added.

~

Kay and Dagonet left for the hospital after the fruitless talk with Gareth. During the drive, Kay thought it over. He was missing something. He looked over at Dagonet.

"Do you know how Dinaden died?"

Dagonet's grip tightened on the steering wheel and then relaxed. "I didn't see it. He was hit in the back. He didn't linger."

"The back?" Kay's eyes narrowed. "And Tristan?"

Dagonet's flickered away from the road to look at him and then back. "Wrenched ankle and bruised ribs."

Kay was silent for a while, staring out the window at the gloom lit scenery. This, at least, he could do something about. "I'm rather tired of the whole drama, you know. I don't think I have any patience left for it anymore."

Dagonet glanced over at him again. Any of the others might have edged away at Kay's tone, but a small smile touched Dagonet's lips.


When they arrived at the hospital, Kay left Dagonet to continue on to Lancelot's room, but began to hunt through hospital himself.

It was a large place, but he knew his prey's habits quite well. He cornered Tristan on the roof without too much difficulty. Tristan was leaning against one of the access doors. Too bad the roof had more than one entry point.

"If you're going to mope about here, you could at least make yourself useful and guard Lancelot's door," Kay commented. He gazed out over the city's lights. The hospital roof had a rather nice view.

Tristan only glared out at Kay from beneath the fall of his hair, his eyes electric with warning even in the gloom.

Kay ignored it, and continued on in a conversational tone. "Lancelot shows no signs of waking, in case you were wondering. Arthur won’t leave his side, of course. But I've been wondering about something—perhaps you can help me figure it out.” For the first time he looked directly at Tristan. “Do you think that Arthur will be angry with Lancelot after this? It can't be easy, sitting there and knowing that Lancelot is hurt in his place."

Tristan said nothing.

"I suppose Arthur would be justified in being angry. What do you think, was it selfish of Lancelot to push him out of the way like he did?"

Tristan still did not speak, but he was no longer meeting Kay’s eyes and his shoulders were tense and just slightly hunched inward.

Kay nearly smiled. He had thought so. He looked away and began to study his nails. "I suppose it really is quite unforgivable. Stealing someone else's death like that. Especially inconsiderate if you've been waiting so long for it to come already. After all, it's not always that easy to find someone strong enough to kill you. But Arthur doesn't really have that problem, I’m guessing. Doesn't have a death wish, not that I've ever seen, anyway. But to be the cause of the death of someone you love—"

"Shut up." It was little more than a hiss, and Tristan struck like a snake, but Kay was unencumbered and therefore faster, for all that he had seemed barely to be looking at Tristan. Tristan’s blow never landed, and he was slammed back against the wall. He did not move after that, crouched against the door and watching Kay like a wounded animal.

Kay was unruffled, but his lips were held in a thin line, his pale eyes lit with that chill that could make even Lancelot pause. "I'm disappointed in you, pup. I knew you were afraid, but I didn't realize you were quite this cowardly." His light eyes flickered over Tristan once more before they dismissed him. "I thought I taught you better."

He turned his back, and called over his shoulder as he walked away. "I'll leave my boots out somewhere easily accessible, this time, shall I?"

~

She asked for directions at the front desk, and then stood waiting at the elevator the receptionist had directed her to.

She been patient, but Arthur had not called her. Nor was he answering his mobile, which went straight to voicemail. It was past time to force his hand anyway. While she had thought to wait until things were settled one way or the other, Lancelot was being inconsiderate about it.

The elevator arrived and she stepped in, ignoring the admiring glance of the man who held the door open for her.

She found the room easily enough, although unlike the other rooms, there was no patient's name on the door. But it had something the other rooms did not have: two men guarding the door. She did not recognize either of them, although she knew what they were.

She raised an eyebrow, daring them to keep her out.

"Move along," one of them asked brusquely. "You have the wrong room." She did not miss the wary way they were both watching her. Good. Not fools, then. Arthur did not need fools around him. He was foolish enough on his own.

"Tell Arthur I'm here to see him." Her tone suggested that anything but obedience was inconceivable.

They exchanged a quick, surprised glance. She expected—and wanted—to be asked to identify herself, but to her annoyance one of them simply nodded, and slipped into the room. She did not bother to try to get a glimpse of the interior. She did not want to be seen craning her neck like a child.

It was a moment before Arthur emerged, the knight—for that was what the pair of men were—at his heels. Arthur was rumpled, exhausted looking and unshaven, but she could not help the old thrill that ran through her at the sight of him. Still, she was well aware of how he made sure the door swung shut after him, as though not wanting her to catch even a glimpse of the man inside.

He was frowning at her in weary incomprehension. "What are you—" But then he seemed to realize that they were under the gaze of two curious sets of eyes, and he took her arm and walked her down the hall. He did not speak until they had gone around a corner.

"What are you doing here, Guinevere?"

His voice, hoarse with weariness, sounded angry, but she ignored that. "Seven days, Arthur, and you've not bothered to contact me once." She knew how to handle him, and, sure enough, although he was still frowning down at her, he looked guilty now. "How is Lancelot?" She said the name deliberately. It was not a name that was often voiced between them.

His mouth tightened at he looked away. She thought he would not answer, but then he spoke, voice nearly a whisper. "Unchanged. He won't wake up."

She made a sympathetic noise, and laid a hand on his arm. "And you?"

"What?" He was rubbing at his eyes now.

"Have you left here at all? Eaten? Slept?"

He shook his head, dismissing her concerns as petty ones. "They've a cot for me. They let me sleep in his room."

Her jaw clenched for a moment. Of course Arthur would be unable to pull himself from that man's bedside. She kept her voice level and brisk as she spoke. "And what good will you be to anyone, Arthur, like this? You're exhausted. You need a good few hours of sleep, and a real meal."

"I'm not leaving." He had that familiar stubborn look on his face.

She sighed, making sure it was audible. "A few hours, Arthur. My flat is not far from here. They will call you if anything changes, and you can be back here quickly."

He still looked stubborn.

She looked up at him. "Please."

He capitulated all at once, his shoulders slumping a little. "Only for a few hours."

She kept the pleasure of it off her face. They walked back the way they had come, and when they turned the corner, two men were hurrying toward them. They both stopped short at the sight of her and Arthur.

These two she knew, she realized with satisfaction. "Bors, Dagonet. It's good to see you," she said. Dagonet was staring at her blankly, Bors with his mouth falling open and a dumbfounded look on his face. "I'm taking Arthur to get some rest. You are to call him if anything changes." She swept by them without acknowledging their shock, only letting a small smile touch her lips once she was passed. Arthur said nothing.

But when they reached Lancelot's door, he paused. The two knights guarding it were looking back and forth between them and the frozen forms of Bors and Dagonet. Arthur would not be able to keep this a secret any longer.

For the moment, however, Arthur seemed oblivious. He was staring at the door. She knew he wanted to go inside, but she tugged at his arm, reminding him of her presence. After a moment, he went with her, although he cast another long look back at the door.

~

"Bloody fuck," Bors muttered feebly.

Dagonet said nothing.

After a few more moments of utter stillness passed, Bors added, "Maybe it would be better if Lancelot stays asleep after all."

Dagonet glared at him.

"Don't look like that. You know what I mean. Bloody fucking hell."

It was a little while before they realized that they had forgotten to follow Arthur.

~

Lancelot wanted to fix everything in his memory—to take in the lines of his parents' faces, to remember the exact shade of his sister's bright hair—but it seemed impossible that he should ever forget. What was more familiar to him than his own family's faces? He could not imagine a time, no matter how distant, where he could ever forget the smallest detail. Instead, his eyes kept straying to the group waiting just beyond the camp. The red-cloaked Romans he ignored; it was the strange Sarmatian boys who kept drawing his gaze. They were a motley bunch, different ages, from different tribes, and Lancelot knew none of them.

Father was tying a bag to his saddle, and he realized Mother was speaking, but between the way his heart was racing and the strange numbness in his head, he could not pay attention. He tried to look at her, but again his eyes drifted back to the waiting party. His vision blurred, and when he blinked to clear it, he found himself looking not at boys, but at men. A frisson of recognition went through him at the sight of them. He knew them. All of them. And there, at their head, a man—a Roman?—in a red cloak.

They were waiting.

His mother's hand on his shoulder jolted him and he jerked his head around to look at her. For a dizzying moment, he thought he was looking down at her, as though he were fully grown and tall.

"You must choose, son." She had been saying that all along, he realized.

He looked up into her eyes, dark, like his, not understanding. There was no choice! He was the eldest son, and the Romans had come for him. He either went, or the Romans would come back and slaughter them all. He knew this. Everyone knew this. He did not understand why Mother was being so cruel.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the tenderness of the way she was looking at him stopped his words. "You must choose," she repeated.

He shook his head. There was no choice. There had never been a choice! Not a real one—

He glanced back again, and this time his eyes did not play tricks on him. He saw them again, the boys. Miserable looking. Tired and afraid, but trying to hide it behind rigid, blank faces. He felt something unexpected swell inside of him.

He looked back at Mother and wondered what she would do if he said he wanted to stay. That he did not want to go to the other end of the world to be Rome's slave. Nearly his whole life he had been prepared for this. That the Romans might come and he would have to go with them. A sacrifice for the clan. He had always understood it—it was in his blood after all—even if as a small boy he had still believed that Uncle would never let anyone take him. But Uncle was long dead now.

Mother was smiling at him, sad but fierce. He glanced back again. Their gazes seemed to tug at him and he met the eyes of one of them. He did not look Sarmatian, although he must be. His eyes were vividly green even across the distance.

He tore his gaze his away and opened his mouth to tell Mother that he did not want to go, that he belonged nowhere but here, but instead he found himself asking, voice small, "Would you wait for me?"

"If the gods allow it."

It was not the reassurance he had been seeking. He bit his lip and let his eyes wander again, but not toward the waiting boys, but at the land spread before him, lit by a halo of light over shadow. It was twilight, but he could not remember if it was the end or the beginning of the day.

He eyes moved over the sweep of the horizon. He could not imagine a place where the vastness of the land and sky came to an end, but everyone said the world was big and other places were strange. Not home. He looked at his gathered family. They were all watching him.

How could he fail them?

But why was it that he felt that he was actually being asked not to fail those strange, waiting boys?

"Choose, Lancelot." Mother said again. He started at his name. She never called him that. For her, it was even now only Uncle's name. "Choose your path."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He looked inside himself.

There was no other way. Not for him.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, into the depth of her eyes, and chose.


In a different place, it was the darkest part of the night, but Gareth jerked forward, his breath catching, the moment Lancelot's hand moved, and Tor was already out the room hollering at the top of his lungs for a doctor when dark eyes fluttered opened.

~~~

Comments

[amari-z.livejournal.com]

I dunno, slapping Lancelot, even an amnesiac one, might not be the best idea. But then again, some of those knights, they aren't famous for their good judgment, so . . . .

Tristan's troubles are just starting, I think. Poor boy. :p And it was nice to finally give Dagonet some more face time. He's been waiting rather patiently.