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amari_zTitle: In Twilight's Kingdom
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, All Things Mortal and this one. To make sense, the stories should be read in order.
Warnings: None really, except that this is not based on archeological findings (recent or otherwise).
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b for the read through and usual head patting and to darklyscarlett for trying to explain the British law enforcement system to me. It’s not her fault I still don’t get it. :p
Summary: At the threshold, you have to decide whether to step in or out.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
~T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
Lancelot stood on a wide plain, listening to the wind moving through the swaying sea of grass. His head was tilted back so he could watch the clouds as they unfurled across the sky.
He spread his arms, letting the wind taste his flesh, breathing in the familiar scent of the land and air. He was not startled when a hand touched his face.
He let his arms drop as he turned his head, and he met his mother's eyes. The whole of the eternal steppe was reflected in her gaze.
She smiled at him. "Welcome home, my son."
~
The car was waiting for her as she hurried out of the building, her footing sure despite the tall heels she wore. Pam scrambled after her clumsily, but Lillian did not pause to berate her for her lack of dignity.
A man stepped out of the car's passenger seat and opened the back door for her. She slid in, Pam nearly tripping as she followed.
The man in the driver's seat cast back a look that made her spine stiffen. "You have it?"
"Yes," was all she managed before the car accelerated away from the curb, jolting her back into her seat. She found herself scrabbling around for the seatbelt.
The man who had opened the door looked back and gave them a strained smile. "We have met before. I'm Bedivere." He nodded at the driver. "That's Kay. You're Ms. Delaney and—?"
"My assistant, Pam," she responded curtly. Damn Michael for being off visiting his sick mother, anyway. She clutched at the door handle as the car made a sharp turn. Pam let loose a shriek.
Bedivere gave them another smile, probably meant to be a reassuring. Kay said nothing. From what Lillian could see of his face in profile, it was utterly still and expressionless, and he wove in and out of the heavy late afternoon traffic as if he had no nerves. Under other circumstances, Lillian might have admired such cold bloodedness, but right now she was concentrating on keeping herself from lurching about and smacking her head into the window.
The drive should have taken at least twenty-five minutes. They were pulling up before the hospital in twelve. Not waiting to be prompted, Lillian was out and headed inside before the car had recoiled from its abrupt stop. Bedivere was on her heels, Pam hastening after them. Lillian paid no mind to the crowd, much less to the shouted questions. Someone had recognized her, she realized with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, which transformed into a brief flicker of amusement at noticing that Bedivere seemed ready to shove a path clear for her. She was quite capable of making her own way.
The swishing close of the doors muted the sound of the crowd, and their footsteps echoed in the sudden quiet of the long hallway. Bedivere directed her toward what looked like a private waiting room. It had better be private; she had wasted quite enough time on the phone earlier making subtle threats at the chief of hospital administration, who, unable to accommodate her in one way, had fallen all over himself granting her other demands. Arthur had his privacy, shielded from the growing press circus outside and any curious people with genuine business in the hospital.
She recognized Dagonet, Gareth and Bors, who were speaking together in low, intense voices. Another young man, whom she had seen a few times, but whose name she did not remember, was hovering near Dagonet. She had met all of Arthur's knights at the beginning, but she had never bothered to learn most of their names. Most of them had seemed little more than children to her.
Kay came up behind them speaking into his mobile, his eyes narrowed, his voice like frozen steel. "I'm utterly indifferent to what you want, you will stay put and do exactly nothing until you are told otherwise. No more calls." He snapped his phone shut with a sharp click.
At the sound of Kay's clipped voice they had all turned, and Dagonet moved forward, so that she saw Arthur for the first time.
He was the only one in the room who was seated. He was bent over his knees, his head in his hands, and it took her a moment to understand that he was covered in blood. His coat and trousers were stiff with it and his hands were stained red. In the silence, he finally looked up, and she saw that his hands had left muddy crimson smears over his face as well. She felt her bile rise as her mind gibbered about where all that blood must have come from.
Then she met Arthur's eyes and flinched at the look in them.
The impatient movement of the other men in the room recalled her to herself. She cleared her throat and said as briskly as she could manage, "I have the papers."
The young man she did not recognize, who, she now noticed, had blood smeared across his shirt, muttered, "About time," but it was Dagonet who strode over to her. He took her arm and hustled her down the hall. She did not protest, although she struggled to keep up with his long stride. He too had bloodstains on his clothes.
There was another man whom she vaguely recognized as one of the knights prowling in front of the administration desk. He looked up at their approach and then turned sharply, saying something curt to one of the women behind the desk. She hurried out from behind it and around the corner.
The hospital administrator must have been hovering just out of sight, since he had appeared by the time she and Dagonet came to a stop by the other man. Lillian held out a demanding hand to Pam, who groped through the briefcase she was carrying and then pulled out a file. Lillian handed it over to him. The man, looking pale and sweaty, fumbled a bit himself as he opened the folder and then hastily flipped through the papers.
Lillian clenched her teeth as she waited. The bloody papers had taken over three hours to forge, despite the fact that they had a dozen solicitors on staff. They had better damn well be in order, or she was going to have to come up with some way to make those high-paid dimwits very sorry. She caught a glimpse of Dagonet's face from the corner of her eye. Maybe she would leave the task to him. And she had always thought of the big man as being rather placid.
The administrator shut the folder and cleared his throat nervously. Officious little man. He was practically cringing, and, for a moment, she felt a perverse pride at it until she realized he was not looking at her, but past her. Arthur was looming directly behind her.
The rest of his men had gathered around as well. Pam shrank closer to Lillian than she normally would have dared, but, for once, Lillian did not blame the ridiculous girl. Arthur's knights had the look of wolves eyeing their prey.
The administrator cleared his throat again, and then managed, "Everything seems to be in order. I'm sorry, Mr. Castus, to have made you wait, but given that you're not a relation, I'm afraid that legally—"
"He's not de—" the young knight she had not recognized blurted, but both he and the administrator were overridden by Arthur.
"I want to speak to the doctor." His voice held nothing but force. Lillian glanced back at him, wondering. Looking at him now and repressing a shudder, for the first time she understood that this man had become king of Britain through his mastery of war.
The man nodded jerkily. "Mr. Banson is still in surgery, but I will find someone who can update you right away." He scurried away as quickly as his legs would take him.
~
The house was in chaos. Kay, Gareth, Bedivere, Tristan, Palomides, Dinaden and Bors had gone out after the phone call. They had left Gawain and Gaheris in charge. Gawain had used more obscenities in response to that decision than Tor had ever heard come out of his mouth, but Kay had cut him off with a soft, "Someone with sense has to stay back and mind this lot. Unfortunately, all we have is you two."
It had shut Gawain up. No one argued with Kay when he looked at you like that.
Or no one except Galehaut, anyway. There had seemed to be some tacit agreement among the older knights that there was no way Galehaut was being allowed out of the house, and Galehaut's violent protest of that decision had ended with Bors calmly knocking Galehaut out. He was stretched out unconscious on one of the couches right now, and Gareth had said to tie him up if need be. He had not sounded if he were kidding.
Nor had the shouting stopped after the older knights had left. Most of the knights were gathered in the sitting room (where Gawain and Gaheris could keep an eye on them) and there was nothing to do but wait. Unfortunately, waiting left nothing to do but speculate. And that led inevitably to the shouting.
The truth of it was that they were, none of them, prepared for this. For all that they had lived their prior lives with the knowledge that at any moment any one of them could be killed or wounded, in just the few months they had lived in this place, something had finally relaxed. Or maybe it was being dead that had allowed them finally to let go. Tor did not know. But even when Lancelot had returned and had swept them all along in his schemes, it had been little more than a lark. Something to stave off the boredom that had begun to set in once the pure novelty of being in this time had worn off. There had been no enemy to fight here. No war. No danger. Or so, somewhere deep inside, they had come to believe.
Now, as that illusion shattered, they needed someone, something to blame. And they did not know what enemy to fight.
The truth of it was, for all the wild theories flying back and forth (it was some renegade branch of the conservative party, it was the Russian mafia, it was the Americans, it was some woman Lancelot had spurned or the husband of some woman he had not), they didn't know anything. Nothing except that Lancelot had been shot with a bullet probably aimed at Arthur. Even when those modern people of Arthur's had finally managed to get whatever stupid writing they needed just to be told whether Lancelot was alive or dead, they still had not learned much. They knew that Lancelot was still alive, and still with the doctors, and that these modern doctors seemed even more bloody secretive than their pompous Roman counterparts.
But lack of information only fueled the arguments. Gawain, pale and pinched-faced, seemed willing to let them go at it, so long as no one actually made a move to carry out any of the harebrained plans they raised—and so long as the violence of the arguments stayed verbal. There had been a few times when Gaheris had stepped in.
Right now Meligaunt was again declaiming that that this whole thing was Arthur's fault—by what right did he embroil them in his ridiculous causes once more?—and he was not being shouted down as loudly as he would have been. Before.
Yvain and Owein were sitting next to Tor, and like Tor, they had stayed out of the arguments, only whispering to one another. Tor rather envied them. Galahad was sticking close by Gawain and actually being quiet; Lavaine (who might have finally forgiven Tor in the face of all this) was, utterly uncharacteristically, one of those arguing with Meligaunt; and Galehaut was unconscious and of no use. Even that bastard Percival was busy shouting and waving his arms about. Tor, who felt as if he opened his mouth, something inside him might snap, could not bring himself to say a word.
He heard Yvain murmur to Owein, "But if Lancelot—dies, that witch, Merlin, he can just bring him back again." He looked at Owein appealingly. "So it will be okay either way, right?"
Owein shoved an elbow into Yvain's side and growled, "Shut up. No one's dying." But he did not sound particularly convinced.
Suddenly unable to sit here any longer, Tor sprang up and headed toward the door, weaving between the others and ducking a few gesticulating hands. He caught a hard look from Gaheris, but he only shook his head and held up his empty palms, indicating that he was not up to anything. Gaheris narrowed his eyes in warning before turning his attention back to the debaters. Tor, relieved, escaped down the hall.
For the first time in a long time, the bright, warm house, with its rich fabrics, smooth, painted walls, and wide, bright windows, felt unreal to Tor. This type of feeling, this knot in his gut—which if he did not keep himself clenched around it, might burst itself out of his flesh, or, maybe, suck the whole of him inside its blackness—did not belong in this place. It belonged somewhere darker, colder, damper and dirtier. To a life demarked by rough, unforgiving stone and claustrophobic, dirt-floored rooms. To a place where the smell of blood was no more out of place than the smell of leather, steel, hay and horses. To a place where grief and fear had their outlet in violence.
He had paused to stare blindly up at the sour-faced old man's painting on the stairs when he heard someone coming in from the carport. Eager for a distraction and hoping it might be someone with news, he went back down the last few stairs and turned the corner in time to see Agravaine go through the door that led to the basement stairs. Tor blinked. Agravaine had been quite vocally present in the sitting room earlier. When had he left? But, actually, given that Meligaunt had been leading the anti-Arthur faction, Agravaine could not have been there for a while.
Curious, Tor quietly followed him down into the basement. Even though it was Agravaine, if the man had some kind of plan of action, Tor wanted in. Agravaine was an arrogant, rude sod, but there was no one better at sneaky tactics.
Tor was surprised to see, as he cast a careful look around the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs, that Agravaine was actually already carrying what looked like one of the rifle cases. He had thought he might catch Agravaine trying to smuggle some guns out of the basement, not into it.
Even more curious now, Tor crossed the polished practice room floor toward the back rooms. Just as he entered the storeroom, he found himself slammed back against the wall, the wind knocked out of him and a knife at his throat. Eyes bulging, he gurgled a protest.
Agravaine made a disgusted sound and let him go with a violent downward shove. "What are you doing following me, you little shit?"
"I'm not following you!" Tor lied indignantly. He picked himself off the floor. "I was just walking around," he added lamely. Ignoring the way Agravaine was sneering at him, and unable to curb his curiosity, he asked, "What are you doing with that gun anyway? You weren't in the group training today, and we're not supposed to take them out except when—"
He found himself slammed up against the wall again, but this time, Agravaine's arm was across his throat. "Listen here, you mongrel get of an ass"—Tor wanted to protest that slur, but he had no air—"what I do is none of your concern. Got it?" Agravaine pressed his arm harder against Tor's throat, and it was all Tor could do to feebly nod his head. This time, when Agravaine let him go, he fell to the ground without any assistance. When he got his breathing under control, he glared up at Agravaine, who was still standing over him. "I was just asking!"
Agravaine was watching him with narrowed eyes, but then he snorted in disgust, and turned away. "What is that these people say? Curiosity killed the cat? You're more like a particularly stupid dog, but you should be careful." He cast a narrow look over his shoulder. "I don't answer to you, boy."
It was on the tip of Tor's tongue to say that he could go fetch Gawain and Gaheris then, but he thought better of it as he scrambled to his feet for the second time. He felt gingerly at his throat. That had hurt. Agravaine was always such a bastard.
He cast a last glare at Agravaine's back as the other knight unpacked the sniper rifle from its case, and then he retreated.
Really, he had only been asking.
~
Bruenor had been sent out for coffee, newspapers, sandwiches and then more coffee in successive trips. He suspected it was mainly just to keep him busy (no one had eaten the sandwiches, not even Bors), but he was grateful to have something to do besides sitting around and waiting. He tended to talk too much in those circumstances, and he was afraid that if he mentioned again the new soufflé recipe he wanted to try, Kay might look at him. So, he was sitting, fidgeting, occasionally chewing at a nail to keep his mouth occupied.
Bedivere was sitting beside him, reading one of the newspapers with every appearance of calm. Bruenor looked at the paper, hoping for something distracting—maybe some of those funny drawings or a recipe—but Bedivere was studying endless columns of letters and numbers.
Bruenor sighed. Bedivere was weird. He liked numbers and could do impossible things with them in his head. Bruenor had never understood it. Bruenor could figure matters like how many more eggs to add to a recipe to quadruple its servings, but he usually had to count on his fingers to do that. Bedivere had been in charge of their payroll (and he was the one who kept track of all their many betting pools). These days, he seemed endlessly fascinated by the most boring parts of the newspaper and he watched all those dreary things on the telly. It was apparently a good thing, though, since, in ways Bruenor found too tedious to try to understand, Bedivere had made the knights a lot of money that Lancelot had used to—
Shifting restlessly, and avoiding looking at the side of the room where Arthur was sitting—with that scary woman, who probably did not know any better than to sit near Arthur right now—he glanced over at Gareth and Kay. Bruenor did not know what was going on, but he knew that the others would tell him when they needed him to do something. Tristan and Dinaden had disappeared after they had left the house, doing the Ancestors knew what, but it must be something to figure out who had done this. Tristan and Dinaden were good at that kind of thing. It would only be a matter of time. Then they would know who to go after and make them sorry. Very sorry.
Bors and Dagonet had also vanished a little while ago when the police had come by the second time. When they had initially been questioned about what had happened, Dagonet had actually done the talking, Bruenor occasionally nodding, Arthur saying nothing. The police had departed after only a little while. It had infuriated Bruenor at first, reminding him of the indifference of the Romans, but Gareth had told him to shut up when he had complained. The police had come back, anyway, and, that time, after talking for a while to that woman, Dagonet and Bors had gone with them out into the hall and not come back.
Bruenor realized he was shuffling his feet on the floor and stilled them. He was wondering whether he needed to go to the toilet—it would be something to do—when a tired looking man in rumpled looking pajamas appeared, Palomides on his heels.
~
Tristan was lying flat, elbows on the edge of the roof, watching the police on the next door roof through binoculars. It had not taken the police long to find the shooter's location, and Tristan had watched while they had scoured every inch of the roof, but they had found nothing. Not even a spent bullet casing.
Tristan turned his binoculars back to the street where, while the crowds had mostly dispersed, the sidewalk was still cordoned off and more police were gathered. They had recovered the bullet long ago and projected the trajectory, and they were now doing nothing productive as far as Tristan could see. Tristan did not understand what else they hoped to discover. The binoculars shook for a moment, blurring the images before he steadied them. It was not as if they did not already know whose blood was still staining the footpath.
He could not find Dinaden's dark head among the remaining reporters and gawkers. He turned his binoculars back to the rooftop.
Whoever had chosen that building had known what he was doing. It provided a perfect view of the street and a clear line of fire. And it was a busy building with a lot of small companies renting space and therefore had no significant centralized security. Easy access and no one was likely to notice a stranger's presence. The police had been questioning everyone in the building, but Tristan doubted they would learn anything.
He had been listening for the scrape of the door behind him. It was followed a moment later by the faintest scuffle beside him. Dinaden crouched down, his mobile still in his hand. "Bors says that the building does have security cameras, but two of them were out of order."
Tristan snorted, but otherwise ignored Dinaden. The sun would be setting soon. It looked as though the police were finishing up.
The real question was how the shooter had known Arthur would be taking this path. Dagonet had said that they had parked in a garage a few blocks from Scott's building because the usual parking area by the building had been closed. Tristan had little doubt they would find out that no one had any idea why that car park had been closed or who had ordered it.
The corner of his lip lifted in a barely visible snarl. They were not dealing with stupid people here.
He felt his mobile vibrate and raised himself up so that he could pull it out of his pocket. It was Gareth. He found his hands freezing for a moment, but then he flipped the handset open and waited.
He listened in silence and then rang off without a word. With one last look at the other rooftop, he came to his feet and spun toward the access door, but Dinaden's hand caught his arm.
"What did they say?" Dinaden demanded.
He shook his arm free. "The doctors have finished the surgery. He's still alive." He moved toward the door, but Dinaden grabbed at his arm again. Tristan finally looked at him, glaring through his hair.
"But will he—?"
"Read the signs," Tristan hissed. "They don't know a bloody thing." Tristan tried to pull away, but Dinaden would not let go. Banked frustration flared into fury and Tristan struck out.
The emotion died as quickly as it rose. He watched as Dinaden went down, and then balanced himself, waiting for retaliation. But Dinaden stood up slowly, one hand reaching up to touch his mouth. When Dinaden just kept staring at the blood on his fingers, Tristan resumed his course toward the stairs.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dinaden's voice came low and burning from behind him. "I've tried to understand, I've tried to wait. And even now with this—" A deep breath that sounded like a sob "Why won't you talk to me?"
Tristan stopped, his hand on the door handle.
"I've been thinking and thinking, and I can't figure out what I did that made you so angry with me. It can't be the woman, but it's the only thing—"
Tristan nearly spoke at that, but kept his lips pressed together for a moment, before saying, flatly, "This isn't the time—"
Dinaden made a sound in his throat. "When then? What are you waiting for? Whatever it may seem like, we don't have forever. Lancelot could die"—Tristan's fingers clenched around the door handle—"and someone tried to kill Arthur and yet still, you—" His voice dropped down to whisper, but Tristan heard it clearly. "You won't even look at me. What are you so afraid of?"
At that, Tristan jerked around.
Dinaden was not crying. Blood was dripping down his chin and his eyes were hot with rage.
His voice rose in volume, but it went hard and terse. "I can't do this anymore. Not now. I'm done with this, Tristan." Dinaden looked away back down at the roof below and he seemed to take deep breath. He continued after a moment, in a different tone. "As you said, this isn't the time." Then, he murmured, as if to himself, "Everything is different now."
Dinaden walked toward him, and it was only after Dinaden had flung open the door and disappeared down the stairs that Tristan realized he had backed away from the other knight's approach.
Tristan stood still for a long time before again reaching for the door handle.
~
Arthur stood just inside the room, listening to the soft beep of the machinery. The doctor was beside him, murmuring things Arthur was not listening to. Finally, Arthur moved forward until he could see the bed's occupant. His feet seemed to drag behind him as if the earth were pulling him downward.
He forced himself to look. For a moment, he nearly thought they had brought him to the wrong room. That still form covered in white could not be Lancelot.
The soul-tight clench he had around himself cracked a little.
He could only bring himself to glance briefly at Lancelot's face before his eyes slid away. He saw a face distorted by a plastic mask over nose and mouth. Closed eyes that looked sunken, dark shadows under them, as vivid as bruises.
"People always look a little strange after major surgery—" the doctor was saying. Arthur controlled a sudden impulse to slam a fist into the man to get him finally to be quiet. He knew enough of the prevarications of doctors to understand within in the first twenty words that the man had spoken.
There was nothing to do but to wait.
The part of him that had been holding himself together, believing that the ordeal would end with either relief or devastation, could not maintain its grip much longer. Not facing this uncertain eternity of waiting. Not again.
He moved closer, his eyes wandering over the beeping, blinking machinery that surrounded the bed. Finally, he looked back down. The doctor, thankfully, had fallen silent at last.
Arthur stared, taking in again the mask, the sunken features. The utter lack of animation. It slowly dawned on him what else was so disconcerting. There were bandages wrapped around Lancelot's head, as white as the pillow beneath it. Lancelot had hit his head on the sidewalk. Arthur knew that. He had heard the sickening sound of the impact. (Arthur had stood there and not moved, had not caught him.) The damage was serious. The doctor had spoken about potential bruising of the brain. Amazingly, he seemed more concerned about that than about the gunshot wound to Lancelot's chest. He seemed confident that they had repaired whatever damage the bullet had done. It was the blow to Lancelot's head and the blood loss that the doctor kept coming back to. It was why he would not say when Lancelot would wake up.
But—
There was no hint of Lancelot's irrepressible curls springing out beneath the bandages. They had shaved his head.
He's going to be in a rage when he—
The thought petered out. His eyes wandered again, and fell on one of Lancelot's hands. Arthur had always been fascinated by their long, fine shape, so different from his own thicker hands. Almost as much as being touched by them, he loved simply to watch them.
Lancelot's left hand had been positioned outside the sheets to rest beside him, a tube protruding from its back. A bandage covered the needle and tape stretched cross the fine, pale skin, puckering it. There was an ugly black bruise seeping out from beneath the bandage and tape.
Somehow, it was the sight of this perverse damage that broke through. Lancelot's hands—
Try as Arthur might he cannot wash the blood from the stiff hands. Blood is caked in the nails and seems to have finally stained deeply enough to permanently mar the pale skin. He tightens his grip and scrubs harder. He can make them clean again. If only they were a bit more malleable.
Gawain is saying something, but Arthur ignores him. He needs to get the blood off. But then Gawain is grabbing his arm, and Arthur realizes that the man is yelling at him. Arthur stares at him without comprehension. He looks back down and then he realizes what he has done. There are new bruises on the cold flesh, and one of the long fingers is twisted the wrong way.
Arthur had blood in his mouth. He did not know if he had bitten his tongue, if he had chewed on the inside of his cheek, if he had broken a tooth with the clenching of his jaw or if the blood was bubbling up from something broken in his aching chest. He did not care, either. He swallowed the salty liquid, nearly gagging.
The doctor was talking again, and, this time, Arthur caught the words. "We should leave now. He needs rest. You can come back tomorrow—"
He did not recognize his own voice as he interrupted. "Is there a chapel here?"
~
The small chapel was empty as Arthur sat down heavily in one of the pews. Both Bedivere and Bruenor had trailed him from intensive care unit, but they had not come in. Arthur had little doubt that they had stationed themselves outside the door, but he did not spare them much thought.
Arthur bent forward until his forehead rested on the back of the wooden pew in front of him. Prostrating oneself had gone out of fashion at some point in the last millennium and a half, and, as much as he might long for it, this small place did not even have enough room for it before the altar.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but no words would come. All he could think was that mantra that had been playing on his head for what felt like an eternity. Please, Lord. Please, Lord. Please, Lord.
Arthur had reconciled himself with God after Badon Hill. It had taken him some time, but, eventually, he had realized that he could not toss aside a lifetime of belief. And, in truth, not even at the blackest moment had he ever stopped believing. He had merely stopped believing that God heard him. Or, really, that God cared. Those had truly been his darkest days.
Arthur had learned that he could not survive without his faith. But now he found himself once more with that awful doubt. God had not answered his prayers when he had taken Lancelot the first time.
Arthur ground his forehead into the wood. Down that path lay folly. He tried to mouth the prayers that should have been as familiar to him as breathing. But even as the words were shaped on his lips, his mind could not follow.
Please, Lord. Please, Lord. Please, Lord.
~
He was sitting at his desk, his feet up on the edge, a drink in hand, watching the television tucked into one of the shelves that lined his office, when his secretary let the blond man in. After an inquiry about refreshments, which the visitor rudely cut off, she shut the door on her way out, but not before giving him a pointed look of irritation. He ignored it.
"The stupid bugger took it back," the man began.
He was not listening. The ads had ended and the news report was on again. He turned the volume up. He really was enjoying this.
The reporter was posed before police tape, her overly white teeth flashing as she spoke. "As we reported earlier, I'm standing before the site of a shocking scene that has rocked the city and the country this afternoon." He smirked. "A few hours ago, there was what appears to have been an assassination attempt against the popular New Labour candidate, Arthur Castus, in which one of Mr. Castus's aides was wounded. We can now confirm that the victim of the shooting was Lancelot Banson, who is reported to be in critical condition. According to witnesses, Mr. Banson is said to have—"
The blond man, who had taken one of the seats in front of the desk, straightened from his slouch and demanded, "He's not dead?"
"Not yet." He swirled his drink before taking a sip.
The man was scowling, his rather crude features looking even more vicious. "And I was just about to say that the old man knew what he was talking about after all."
He made a loose gesture with the hand holding his drink. The lazy movement was belied by the gleam in his green eyes. "But can you picture his face right now?" He chuckled.
The man's fist pounded down on the arm of his chair. It caused an ominous cracking sound. "I don't care about that! I followed your instructions. You promised me that the knight would die." He rose to his feet and loomed over the desk.
Taking another sip from his drink, and seemingly unconcerned, he looked up at his visitor. "And so he will. Soon enough. Let him malinger a bit—I thought you'd enjoy the prospect of a bit of pain before death, hmm?" In truth, he did not care whether Lancelot died or not. Actually, he preferred that the knight did not. He had already gained the leverage he had wanted against the old man. And if the old man was so bent in killing Lancelot, there must be an advantage to keeping him alive. Besides the obvious one. In a small concession to conciliate the man before him, he kept himself from smirking too broadly.
The blond opened his mouth to snarl something, but was halted by a preemptory hand. The scene had shifted to the front of the hospital and another white-toothed reporter. He did not want to miss any of this. If he were lucky he might catch a glimpse of some of Arthur's little knights as they scurried about in the background.
Such fun.
Absently, he reminded himself to tell his secretary to have someone take a look at the chair. That crack had sounded serious.
~
Arthur was still bent over, but he had given up on praying.
His mind, though, had begun to work. He had gone through it all. Lancelot would surely recover, for, otherwise, what would have been the purpose of awakening him in this time? ( To humble you.) Why grant Arthur's prayers if only to let this happen? (To quell your arrogance.) And there was no doubt in Arthur's mind that it was God's direct intervention that had brought Lancelot back, for according to Merlin it should not have been possib—
Merlin
Arthur straightened.
As though the old man were sitting across from him again, he could picture him calmly sipping his tea and saying, The sacrifice needs to be played out first.
Merlin could not have dared—
Fury roared up in Arthur, all the more potent for the hollow place it filled, and the protective numbness that had kept its grip on his mind fell away.
Damn that man and his superstitions!
Arthur rose to his feet, and stalked to the door with new purpose.
Uncaring that he was in God's House, he swore to himself that the old man would die very slowly if he had had a hand in this.
He was out the chapel door, and after a moment became aware of Bedivere
and Bruenor scrambling after him. Bedivere caught up, and, despite getting a look at Arthur's face, asked, tone mild, "Where are you going, Arthur?"
Whatever scathing retort was burning on Arthur's tongue went unspoken, as he caught sight of Bors and Dagonet talking with two men whom Arthur did not recognize.
One of the strangers, catching sight of their approach, raised an arm called out, "Mr. Castus, I'm glad we caught you. I'm sorry to bother you at such a time, sir, but we'd like a word."
Arthur was not interested in having a word with anyone except Merlin—and that would be considerably more than just a word. He was about to tell the man exactly what he thought of the idea, when the movement of the man's arm revealed the holster at his side. Police.
Arthur swallowed down some of his ire, and managed to speak civilly, if somewhat curtly. "What is it you need, constable?"
"Detective Chief Inspector Stephens and this is my partner, DS Tanner. We're Special Branch." He held out a hand. Arthur shook it and then other man's with thinly veiled impatience. "Dagonet can answer any questions you have—" he began, already turning away, but the man stopped him.
"Of course, sir. But, in light of what happened this afternoon, we've been instructed to provide you with a police security."
Arthur opened his mouth to tell the man what he thought of that, but Bors butted in.
"Arthur, we told him that you already had security."
The man nodded, "Your men's credentials are impeccable, and, honestly, they'll provide you with more protection than we could supply—we simply don't have those kinds of resources—but the Prime Minister himself has been in touch with my superiors, and I'm afraid I need confirmation from you that you're refusing the offer of official security."
Arthur had been staring at Bors, who was smiling at him toothily, unabashed. What— He realized the detective was waiting for an answer. "No, no police protection will be necessary." He added, after a moment, "Thank you."
The man nodded and wanted to shake his hand again, as did his partner. He did the same with Bors and Dagonet—quite chummily, to Arthur's suddenly watchful eyes, and Detective Tanner added in his farewell to Bors, "I have your card, so I'll be in touch—those local clowns may think they have jurisdiction here, but they'll soon learn better. And some other day, I'll take you up on your offer of a chat on what it's like on the other side."
Arthur barely waited until they were out of earshot before fixing his eyes on Bors and Dagonet. "Card?" He was aware that Bedivere and Bruenor had faded back down the corridor.
Bors gave Arthur that smile that had always made Arthur look around to see what it was exactly that Lancelot was doing. "It's nothing. Just something we had printed up. In case we needed it."
"I'd like to see it," Arthur said evenly. He held out his hand.
Dagonet and Bors exchanged a glance, and then Dagonet reached inside his coat pocket and held out something.
It was a discretely elegant business card, with the words "K.R.T. Security" and a number that Arthur did not recognize."
Arthur looked back up. "K.R.T.?" he asked, voice seemingly mild.
Bors cleared his throat. "A little joke, that."
"I see." Arthur returned the card. "And the credentials?"
They exchanged another glance. Bors coughed. "You see, Arthur—" he began.
"Now."
After a moment during which no feet were actually shuffled, Dagonet reached into his jacket again and handed over a leather case. Arthur flipped it open. It listed Dagonet's name and a series of certifications that Arthur could make no sense of until he caught sight of—
"Firearms?" he demanded. "You've been carrying guns?"
Their studiously blank faces said it all.
Arthur opened his mouth and then shut it. He threw the case back at Dagonet and then spun and continued down the hall.
He could not deal with this right now.
But Lancelot was going to get better. Because then Arthur was going to kill him.
~
Bors and Dagonet were left staring after Arthur, relieved at the unexpected reprieve.
"I thought you said that Arthur was too preoccupied to realize what we were doing," Dagonet said in gentle mockery.
"He was," Bors protested. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "He wasn't paying attention to anything. Lancelot's right—prayer is an evil thing."
Bruenor and Bedivere had come up. Bruenor cast a look of appeal at Dagonet. "We don't really have to go after him, do we?"
Dagonet only looked back at him.
Bedivere was already heading off down the corridor, and, not before letting out a sigh, Bruenor jogged after him.
Bors was still swearing to himself. When he had run down a bit, he added, unknowingly echoing Arthur's thoughts, "Lancelot had bloody well better wake up. Cause I'll be buggered if I have to be the one to explain to Arthur all the shit he's gotten us up to."
~
They gathered in the private waiting room the hospital had provided for Arthur.
Bors and Dagonet were the last to arrive. Dagonet came to stand beside Kay, and Bors looked around before demanding, "Who's watching Lancelot's door?" They were not allowed into Lancelot's room—only Arthur had been let in, and, for once, they had acquiesced someone else's rules—but the hospital had given special permission to allow them to station two people at the door. Given the special circumstances.
"I called in Lucan and Urré," Gareth said. Like all of them, he looked a little different than he had this morning. Harder, sharper. The gentle older brother figure was nowhere in evidence now. This world had tilted on its axis and the new view was both strange and familiar, leaving a feeling like vertigo. Well, they had all better get over it soon, Kay thought. "We need to set up a schedule," Gareth said. "Two people with Arthur at all times, two at the door. I'll take care of it."
"Arthur's going to bloody love that," Bors muttered. Arthur, even back in the old days, had not taken kindly to any protective urges the knights exhibited. Lancelot had done a lot of yelling about Arthur's carelessness with his personal safety. Arthur seemed to think he won those fights, but in truth Lancelot had simply done whatever he wanted behind Arthur's back. Louder, Bors said, "The police don't know a fucking thing. No one saw anything and they didn't recover anything from the gunman's site."
Dinaden nodded. "From what we could see, that's true. They didn't find anything."
"What about the surveillance cameras?" Tristan asked from where he leaned against a wall, a little apart from the others.
"Nothing yet. The policeman said that they are reviewing the footage from the ones that were working. The chances of finding anything, though—" Dagonet spread his big hands. His clothes were still stained with Lancelot's blood. If Kay had been thinking, he would have brought a change of clothes with him to the hospital. The blood was going to be a bitch to wash out.
"The clever fuckers," Bors was muttering to himself.
"They recovered the bullet." Tristan's flat voice cut in.
Bors snarled, "But what will that tell us but what kind of gun was used?"
"So we don't know a bloody thing." Dinaden said, banging a fist backward into the wall he lent against on the other side of the room from Tristan. Kay took note of their positioning, but ignored it for now. "What about that fellow Arthur's running against—?"
He trailed off as Kay exchanged a look with Gareth.
"What?" Tristan demanded.
"Nothing," Kay said, meeting Tristan's eyes, unruffled.
Kay walked out into the hall and pulled out his mobile. He needed to update Gawain and Gaheris and check on what was happening at the house. The gods alone knew what the others might get up to if left to their own devices.
He was about to flip open the mobile when he realized that someone had followed him. He looked back over his shoulder.
"You're not telling us something," Tristan said flatly. His eyes were narrowed dangerously beneath the fall of his hair.
Kay was nearly amused at this. Tristan was trying to intimidate him. Or he might have been amused, if he did not have to lie. He and Gareth had discussed it, and now was not the time to be dropping any revelations. Even though they might come to regret that decision, for now, they would pursue that lead on their own, and leave Tristan and Dinaden out of it. At least until they had a chance to talk to Arthur about it.
"There are many things I don't tell you," Kay said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you referring to anything in particular, Tristan?"
Tristan just watched him, studying him carefully. But as good as Tristan was, he had never been able to track Kay. Kay had been the one who had been the one who first taught him how to hunt, after all.
After a long moment, Kay turned away and flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial for Gawain. He was aware of Tristan leaving, but he did not look up to acknowledge it. He knew this was far from over.
~
Arthur let Bedivere drive, quickly discarding the idea of trying to order the knights to leave him alone. He did not have the patience to argue, and he knew that they would follow him regardless.
When they pulled up in front of Merlin's house, he told them to stay in the car, and slammed the door behind him.
Merlin took his sweet time answering the door. When he finally appeared, he did not seem surprised to see Arthur. "I would have thought you would be at the hospital," was all he said. He did not smile, and so Arthur did not hit him. Instead, Arthur just pushed past him into the entryway.
Merlin shut the door and stood, waiting, his eyebrows slightly raised in mild inquiry.
He stared at the old man, and the ancient loathing rushed back over him. Murderer.
Into the silence, Merlin spoke. "And how is young Lancelot doing? Out of danger, I suppose, if you're here."
Arthur's fingers were clenched so tight, he felt the bones creaking. "You suppose wrong," was all he managed. He took a step toward the old man. "What did you do?"
"I?" Merlin barely blinked. "I have done nothing."
Arthur's fists unclenched, twitched and then bunched again. "Don't lie to me! You said—"
Despite the softness of his voice, Merlin managed to interrupt him. "Was the aim not to kill you or are the accounts incorrect? Did not your knight save you at the expense of himself? The press is already making a hero of him." He turned away and headed into the house, evidently untroubled by turning his back on Arthur. Voice dry, he continued speaking, "Surely you can't believe I am responsible. If nothing else, my boy, I've worked too hard to bring you back to want to kill you. Now come in and sit down."
Arthur stared after him, suddenly feeling deflated and weary. Merlin would not want to kill him, that he knew. And the bullet had been aimed at him, not Lancelot. Damn Lancelot! Why had he— He rubbed his hands over his face, and took a breath. After a moment, he followed Merlin into the house.
Merlin had made tea, but Arthur ignored the cup placed in front of him. He did wait until the man had settled back with his own cup before, voice still not managing to be more than a snarl, demanding, "Then who? Assassination is not exactly de rigueur in British politics."
Merlin ignored his tone. "I have been thinking on this. Arthur, there's little doubt that you'll win your seat this election and there's already talk of your appointment to a cabinet ministry." Merlin took a sip of his tea, for all the world lecturing like the professor he impersonated. Arthur clenched his teeth but kept silent, listening. "Your ideas are well known, and will act to the detriment of many powerful people. Now, as ever, the powerful do not take kindly to threats against them."
"So they would resort to murder?" Arthur's tone was scornful. "Surely there are more sophisticated ways to discredit me."
"Of course, but we've taken great care. There's little for anyone to work with, and it will be difficult to fabricate anything. I really have found you the best people, Arthur."
Arthur waved that away dismissively. "I can't believe that anyone would take such action against what is only a potential threat."
"Well, of course, there are other possibilities."
"What?"
"Arthur, your return wasn't accomplished on a whim. There's always been the possibility that there are other forces out there aligned in opposition."
"I'm in no mood for your crypticness, Merlin."
Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Did you think this was some easy thing, Arthur? Do you think men are brought back from death to do mundane things?"
The old man seemed to sigh. "Do you still think that your knights were resurrected merely to assuage your misplaced guilt at their deaths? I do not know what we face, but it is likely that it is no ordinary opponent." The old man looked at him, and the scholarly façade was gone, and in its place that was the Merlin that Arthur had hated and yet come to trust. "Make no mistake Arthur. You need to be ready."
"Ready? For what? How?"
"We no longer have time for dawdling. You need to consolidate your position, quickly. You are not engaged in a polite debate, Arthur. You know of what I'm speaking of. And, while it may be crude to say so, there will be a great deal of sympathy over today. We must capitalize on it."
Arthur felt sick at it, but he did not refuse. After a moment he said, "The first cannot happen until Lancelot is better. If you are worried about maintaining sympathy." He added the last with a bitter twist to his mouth.
Merlin sipped his tea and then bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. "But you will need to hold a press conference, Arthur. As soon as possible. The country is waiting to hear from you. Scott's people will set it up for tomorrow."
When he left Merlin's house, he slumped back into the car's seat and told Bedivere to take them back to the hospital.
He rubbed his hands over his face and then stared at the back of his knights' heads. There was even more at stake now. No more, he vowed.
He looked back down and caught sight of his hands. Ms. Delaney had made him change at the hospital, telling him that they would not let him in to see Lancelot in his stained clothes, and she had procured new ones for him with her usual efficiency. He had washed when he had changed, but he had not been careful about it. His eyes traced the reddish brown stains around his nails.
He clenched his eyes closed. None of them would die for him this time. None of them. He would do whatever he had to prevent that.
Just as soon as Lancelot woke up.
~
Lancelot was nearly asleep. Cradled in warmth, the familiar rocking motion lulled him. Best of all, Mother was humming softly, her fingers stroking lightly over his hair. There was some distant memory of pain, some ache in chest, but he must be better now. He had gotten lung fever once, when he was a baby, but that was a long time ago, and he barely remembered it.
Today, Father had let Lancelot ride his very own horse most of the day, but a little while ago, he had told Lancelot to ride with Mother. Lancelot had protested he was not sleepy and that he was not a baby anymore, and he could ride by himself now all day. Father had not been impressed. But he could have done it, he thought drowsily.
He was not so near sleep that the thunder of hooves did not have him stirring, and then twisting around eagerly to catch sight of his uncle's fast approach. He felt his mother sigh, but he ignored that, in the rush of excitement.
Mother scolded Uncle, telling him that the boy (that meant him) needed to sleep, but Uncle only laughed. Lancelot scrambled up, standing on mother's horse's back, his mother's hand restraining him. He squirmed, wanting to be free. It was not as if he could actually fall. Uncle winked and held out his arms, and Lancelot, with a brief look over his mother's shoulder to where his sister was snuggly asleep in the sling around Mother's back (babies were boring, although Father promised she would play with him soon), leaped, fearlessly sure that he would be caught.
And he was. Uncle swung him up to sit before him. Uncle was Lancelot's favorite person (along with Mother and Father, and, he supposed, the baby). He laughed a lot, never said Lancelot was too small to do things, and he would keep answering questions even when Father would get tired and tell Lancelot to go play.
And Uncle told the best stories, better even than the lore master, who was always telling Lancelot to sit still and that Lancelot should remember everything, because it was important for Lancelot to know the history of his clan, and so could make even the interesting stories boring. Uncle wasn't like that. He made even the boring stories interesting. And he told the especially good ones whenever Lancelot asked. Lancelot's favorites were the ones about how grandmother's grandmother's brother had refused to surrender to the greedy Romans. One day, Lancelot would kill Romans too. Next best, he pretended to like the stories about the old kings, since he knew Uncle liked them, but he really did not like the part about the fire. When Uncle had first starting telling Lancelot those stories, Lancelot had woken up screaming a lot. Mother had yelled at Uncle and Uncle had actually looked sorry. After that, although he still sometimes dreamed he was on fire, Lancelot tried hard to keep from screaming out loud. Uncle had even asked Lancelot, in an odd, serious voice, if he understood that those things had happened long ago and that they did not happen any more? He knew, did he not, that the days of the kings and the need for sacrifice were long past? Lancelot had insisted he understood. He was not afraid of stories.
But still, Lancelot had wanted to make sure he was really not afraid, and so he had, a couple of times, practiced moving his hands close enough to the cooking fire so that the flames nearly licked at his fingers, but then Father had caught him at it. Father had been furious.
Lancelot craned up to see Uncle's face. Uncle grinned at him, and he grinned back. People said that Lancelot looked like Uncle, and he liked that. They had the same dark, curly hair (that hurt so much when mother made him sit still so she could jerk a comb through it) so, maybe, Lancelot would grow up and be just like Uncle, and lead all the hunts and raids, laugh all the time, and be the best with a sword and lance.
Sleepiness forgotten, he demanded, "Can we run?"
Uncle raised an eyebrow at him. Lancelot tried to do that, but could not make one go up and keep the other from moving. "I don't know, why don't you see?" Lancelot twisted back around to sit straight. He stroked the strong, silky neck under his hands and leaned forward to ask. And then they were flying, and Lancelot was laughing.
He could not imagine anything better in all the world.
Continued here.
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, All Things Mortal and this one. To make sense, the stories should be read in order.
Warnings: None really, except that this is not based on archeological findings (recent or otherwise).
Notes: Thanks to
sasha_b for the read through and usual head patting and to darklyscarlett for trying to explain the British law enforcement system to me. It’s not her fault I still don’t get it. :p Summary: At the threshold, you have to decide whether to step in or out.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
~T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
Lancelot stood on a wide plain, listening to the wind moving through the swaying sea of grass. His head was tilted back so he could watch the clouds as they unfurled across the sky.
He spread his arms, letting the wind taste his flesh, breathing in the familiar scent of the land and air. He was not startled when a hand touched his face.
He let his arms drop as he turned his head, and he met his mother's eyes. The whole of the eternal steppe was reflected in her gaze.
She smiled at him. "Welcome home, my son."
The car was waiting for her as she hurried out of the building, her footing sure despite the tall heels she wore. Pam scrambled after her clumsily, but Lillian did not pause to berate her for her lack of dignity.
A man stepped out of the car's passenger seat and opened the back door for her. She slid in, Pam nearly tripping as she followed.
The man in the driver's seat cast back a look that made her spine stiffen. "You have it?"
"Yes," was all she managed before the car accelerated away from the curb, jolting her back into her seat. She found herself scrabbling around for the seatbelt.
The man who had opened the door looked back and gave them a strained smile. "We have met before. I'm Bedivere." He nodded at the driver. "That's Kay. You're Ms. Delaney and—?"
"My assistant, Pam," she responded curtly. Damn Michael for being off visiting his sick mother, anyway. She clutched at the door handle as the car made a sharp turn. Pam let loose a shriek.
Bedivere gave them another smile, probably meant to be a reassuring. Kay said nothing. From what Lillian could see of his face in profile, it was utterly still and expressionless, and he wove in and out of the heavy late afternoon traffic as if he had no nerves. Under other circumstances, Lillian might have admired such cold bloodedness, but right now she was concentrating on keeping herself from lurching about and smacking her head into the window.
The drive should have taken at least twenty-five minutes. They were pulling up before the hospital in twelve. Not waiting to be prompted, Lillian was out and headed inside before the car had recoiled from its abrupt stop. Bedivere was on her heels, Pam hastening after them. Lillian paid no mind to the crowd, much less to the shouted questions. Someone had recognized her, she realized with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, which transformed into a brief flicker of amusement at noticing that Bedivere seemed ready to shove a path clear for her. She was quite capable of making her own way.
The swishing close of the doors muted the sound of the crowd, and their footsteps echoed in the sudden quiet of the long hallway. Bedivere directed her toward what looked like a private waiting room. It had better be private; she had wasted quite enough time on the phone earlier making subtle threats at the chief of hospital administration, who, unable to accommodate her in one way, had fallen all over himself granting her other demands. Arthur had his privacy, shielded from the growing press circus outside and any curious people with genuine business in the hospital.
She recognized Dagonet, Gareth and Bors, who were speaking together in low, intense voices. Another young man, whom she had seen a few times, but whose name she did not remember, was hovering near Dagonet. She had met all of Arthur's knights at the beginning, but she had never bothered to learn most of their names. Most of them had seemed little more than children to her.
Kay came up behind them speaking into his mobile, his eyes narrowed, his voice like frozen steel. "I'm utterly indifferent to what you want, you will stay put and do exactly nothing until you are told otherwise. No more calls." He snapped his phone shut with a sharp click.
At the sound of Kay's clipped voice they had all turned, and Dagonet moved forward, so that she saw Arthur for the first time.
He was the only one in the room who was seated. He was bent over his knees, his head in his hands, and it took her a moment to understand that he was covered in blood. His coat and trousers were stiff with it and his hands were stained red. In the silence, he finally looked up, and she saw that his hands had left muddy crimson smears over his face as well. She felt her bile rise as her mind gibbered about where all that blood must have come from.
Then she met Arthur's eyes and flinched at the look in them.
The impatient movement of the other men in the room recalled her to herself. She cleared her throat and said as briskly as she could manage, "I have the papers."
The young man she did not recognize, who, she now noticed, had blood smeared across his shirt, muttered, "About time," but it was Dagonet who strode over to her. He took her arm and hustled her down the hall. She did not protest, although she struggled to keep up with his long stride. He too had bloodstains on his clothes.
There was another man whom she vaguely recognized as one of the knights prowling in front of the administration desk. He looked up at their approach and then turned sharply, saying something curt to one of the women behind the desk. She hurried out from behind it and around the corner.
The hospital administrator must have been hovering just out of sight, since he had appeared by the time she and Dagonet came to a stop by the other man. Lillian held out a demanding hand to Pam, who groped through the briefcase she was carrying and then pulled out a file. Lillian handed it over to him. The man, looking pale and sweaty, fumbled a bit himself as he opened the folder and then hastily flipped through the papers.
Lillian clenched her teeth as she waited. The bloody papers had taken over three hours to forge, despite the fact that they had a dozen solicitors on staff. They had better damn well be in order, or she was going to have to come up with some way to make those high-paid dimwits very sorry. She caught a glimpse of Dagonet's face from the corner of her eye. Maybe she would leave the task to him. And she had always thought of the big man as being rather placid.
The administrator shut the folder and cleared his throat nervously. Officious little man. He was practically cringing, and, for a moment, she felt a perverse pride at it until she realized he was not looking at her, but past her. Arthur was looming directly behind her.
The rest of his men had gathered around as well. Pam shrank closer to Lillian than she normally would have dared, but, for once, Lillian did not blame the ridiculous girl. Arthur's knights had the look of wolves eyeing their prey.
The administrator cleared his throat again, and then managed, "Everything seems to be in order. I'm sorry, Mr. Castus, to have made you wait, but given that you're not a relation, I'm afraid that legally—"
"He's not de—" the young knight she had not recognized blurted, but both he and the administrator were overridden by Arthur.
"I want to speak to the doctor." His voice held nothing but force. Lillian glanced back at him, wondering. Looking at him now and repressing a shudder, for the first time she understood that this man had become king of Britain through his mastery of war.
The man nodded jerkily. "Mr. Banson is still in surgery, but I will find someone who can update you right away." He scurried away as quickly as his legs would take him.
The house was in chaos. Kay, Gareth, Bedivere, Tristan, Palomides, Dinaden and Bors had gone out after the phone call. They had left Gawain and Gaheris in charge. Gawain had used more obscenities in response to that decision than Tor had ever heard come out of his mouth, but Kay had cut him off with a soft, "Someone with sense has to stay back and mind this lot. Unfortunately, all we have is you two."
It had shut Gawain up. No one argued with Kay when he looked at you like that.
Or no one except Galehaut, anyway. There had seemed to be some tacit agreement among the older knights that there was no way Galehaut was being allowed out of the house, and Galehaut's violent protest of that decision had ended with Bors calmly knocking Galehaut out. He was stretched out unconscious on one of the couches right now, and Gareth had said to tie him up if need be. He had not sounded if he were kidding.
Nor had the shouting stopped after the older knights had left. Most of the knights were gathered in the sitting room (where Gawain and Gaheris could keep an eye on them) and there was nothing to do but wait. Unfortunately, waiting left nothing to do but speculate. And that led inevitably to the shouting.
The truth of it was that they were, none of them, prepared for this. For all that they had lived their prior lives with the knowledge that at any moment any one of them could be killed or wounded, in just the few months they had lived in this place, something had finally relaxed. Or maybe it was being dead that had allowed them finally to let go. Tor did not know. But even when Lancelot had returned and had swept them all along in his schemes, it had been little more than a lark. Something to stave off the boredom that had begun to set in once the pure novelty of being in this time had worn off. There had been no enemy to fight here. No war. No danger. Or so, somewhere deep inside, they had come to believe.
Now, as that illusion shattered, they needed someone, something to blame. And they did not know what enemy to fight.
The truth of it was, for all the wild theories flying back and forth (it was some renegade branch of the conservative party, it was the Russian mafia, it was the Americans, it was some woman Lancelot had spurned or the husband of some woman he had not), they didn't know anything. Nothing except that Lancelot had been shot with a bullet probably aimed at Arthur. Even when those modern people of Arthur's had finally managed to get whatever stupid writing they needed just to be told whether Lancelot was alive or dead, they still had not learned much. They knew that Lancelot was still alive, and still with the doctors, and that these modern doctors seemed even more bloody secretive than their pompous Roman counterparts.
But lack of information only fueled the arguments. Gawain, pale and pinched-faced, seemed willing to let them go at it, so long as no one actually made a move to carry out any of the harebrained plans they raised—and so long as the violence of the arguments stayed verbal. There had been a few times when Gaheris had stepped in.
Right now Meligaunt was again declaiming that that this whole thing was Arthur's fault—by what right did he embroil them in his ridiculous causes once more?—and he was not being shouted down as loudly as he would have been. Before.
Yvain and Owein were sitting next to Tor, and like Tor, they had stayed out of the arguments, only whispering to one another. Tor rather envied them. Galahad was sticking close by Gawain and actually being quiet; Lavaine (who might have finally forgiven Tor in the face of all this) was, utterly uncharacteristically, one of those arguing with Meligaunt; and Galehaut was unconscious and of no use. Even that bastard Percival was busy shouting and waving his arms about. Tor, who felt as if he opened his mouth, something inside him might snap, could not bring himself to say a word.
He heard Yvain murmur to Owein, "But if Lancelot—dies, that witch, Merlin, he can just bring him back again." He looked at Owein appealingly. "So it will be okay either way, right?"
Owein shoved an elbow into Yvain's side and growled, "Shut up. No one's dying." But he did not sound particularly convinced.
Suddenly unable to sit here any longer, Tor sprang up and headed toward the door, weaving between the others and ducking a few gesticulating hands. He caught a hard look from Gaheris, but he only shook his head and held up his empty palms, indicating that he was not up to anything. Gaheris narrowed his eyes in warning before turning his attention back to the debaters. Tor, relieved, escaped down the hall.
For the first time in a long time, the bright, warm house, with its rich fabrics, smooth, painted walls, and wide, bright windows, felt unreal to Tor. This type of feeling, this knot in his gut—which if he did not keep himself clenched around it, might burst itself out of his flesh, or, maybe, suck the whole of him inside its blackness—did not belong in this place. It belonged somewhere darker, colder, damper and dirtier. To a life demarked by rough, unforgiving stone and claustrophobic, dirt-floored rooms. To a place where the smell of blood was no more out of place than the smell of leather, steel, hay and horses. To a place where grief and fear had their outlet in violence.
He had paused to stare blindly up at the sour-faced old man's painting on the stairs when he heard someone coming in from the carport. Eager for a distraction and hoping it might be someone with news, he went back down the last few stairs and turned the corner in time to see Agravaine go through the door that led to the basement stairs. Tor blinked. Agravaine had been quite vocally present in the sitting room earlier. When had he left? But, actually, given that Meligaunt had been leading the anti-Arthur faction, Agravaine could not have been there for a while.
Curious, Tor quietly followed him down into the basement. Even though it was Agravaine, if the man had some kind of plan of action, Tor wanted in. Agravaine was an arrogant, rude sod, but there was no one better at sneaky tactics.
Tor was surprised to see, as he cast a careful look around the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs, that Agravaine was actually already carrying what looked like one of the rifle cases. He had thought he might catch Agravaine trying to smuggle some guns out of the basement, not into it.
Even more curious now, Tor crossed the polished practice room floor toward the back rooms. Just as he entered the storeroom, he found himself slammed back against the wall, the wind knocked out of him and a knife at his throat. Eyes bulging, he gurgled a protest.
Agravaine made a disgusted sound and let him go with a violent downward shove. "What are you doing following me, you little shit?"
"I'm not following you!" Tor lied indignantly. He picked himself off the floor. "I was just walking around," he added lamely. Ignoring the way Agravaine was sneering at him, and unable to curb his curiosity, he asked, "What are you doing with that gun anyway? You weren't in the group training today, and we're not supposed to take them out except when—"
He found himself slammed up against the wall again, but this time, Agravaine's arm was across his throat. "Listen here, you mongrel get of an ass"—Tor wanted to protest that slur, but he had no air—"what I do is none of your concern. Got it?" Agravaine pressed his arm harder against Tor's throat, and it was all Tor could do to feebly nod his head. This time, when Agravaine let him go, he fell to the ground without any assistance. When he got his breathing under control, he glared up at Agravaine, who was still standing over him. "I was just asking!"
Agravaine was watching him with narrowed eyes, but then he snorted in disgust, and turned away. "What is that these people say? Curiosity killed the cat? You're more like a particularly stupid dog, but you should be careful." He cast a narrow look over his shoulder. "I don't answer to you, boy."
It was on the tip of Tor's tongue to say that he could go fetch Gawain and Gaheris then, but he thought better of it as he scrambled to his feet for the second time. He felt gingerly at his throat. That had hurt. Agravaine was always such a bastard.
He cast a last glare at Agravaine's back as the other knight unpacked the sniper rifle from its case, and then he retreated.
Really, he had only been asking.
Bruenor had been sent out for coffee, newspapers, sandwiches and then more coffee in successive trips. He suspected it was mainly just to keep him busy (no one had eaten the sandwiches, not even Bors), but he was grateful to have something to do besides sitting around and waiting. He tended to talk too much in those circumstances, and he was afraid that if he mentioned again the new soufflé recipe he wanted to try, Kay might look at him. So, he was sitting, fidgeting, occasionally chewing at a nail to keep his mouth occupied.
Bedivere was sitting beside him, reading one of the newspapers with every appearance of calm. Bruenor looked at the paper, hoping for something distracting—maybe some of those funny drawings or a recipe—but Bedivere was studying endless columns of letters and numbers.
Bruenor sighed. Bedivere was weird. He liked numbers and could do impossible things with them in his head. Bruenor had never understood it. Bruenor could figure matters like how many more eggs to add to a recipe to quadruple its servings, but he usually had to count on his fingers to do that. Bedivere had been in charge of their payroll (and he was the one who kept track of all their many betting pools). These days, he seemed endlessly fascinated by the most boring parts of the newspaper and he watched all those dreary things on the telly. It was apparently a good thing, though, since, in ways Bruenor found too tedious to try to understand, Bedivere had made the knights a lot of money that Lancelot had used to—
Shifting restlessly, and avoiding looking at the side of the room where Arthur was sitting—with that scary woman, who probably did not know any better than to sit near Arthur right now—he glanced over at Gareth and Kay. Bruenor did not know what was going on, but he knew that the others would tell him when they needed him to do something. Tristan and Dinaden had disappeared after they had left the house, doing the Ancestors knew what, but it must be something to figure out who had done this. Tristan and Dinaden were good at that kind of thing. It would only be a matter of time. Then they would know who to go after and make them sorry. Very sorry.
Bors and Dagonet had also vanished a little while ago when the police had come by the second time. When they had initially been questioned about what had happened, Dagonet had actually done the talking, Bruenor occasionally nodding, Arthur saying nothing. The police had departed after only a little while. It had infuriated Bruenor at first, reminding him of the indifference of the Romans, but Gareth had told him to shut up when he had complained. The police had come back, anyway, and, that time, after talking for a while to that woman, Dagonet and Bors had gone with them out into the hall and not come back.
Bruenor realized he was shuffling his feet on the floor and stilled them. He was wondering whether he needed to go to the toilet—it would be something to do—when a tired looking man in rumpled looking pajamas appeared, Palomides on his heels.
Tristan was lying flat, elbows on the edge of the roof, watching the police on the next door roof through binoculars. It had not taken the police long to find the shooter's location, and Tristan had watched while they had scoured every inch of the roof, but they had found nothing. Not even a spent bullet casing.
Tristan turned his binoculars back to the street where, while the crowds had mostly dispersed, the sidewalk was still cordoned off and more police were gathered. They had recovered the bullet long ago and projected the trajectory, and they were now doing nothing productive as far as Tristan could see. Tristan did not understand what else they hoped to discover. The binoculars shook for a moment, blurring the images before he steadied them. It was not as if they did not already know whose blood was still staining the footpath.
He could not find Dinaden's dark head among the remaining reporters and gawkers. He turned his binoculars back to the rooftop.
Whoever had chosen that building had known what he was doing. It provided a perfect view of the street and a clear line of fire. And it was a busy building with a lot of small companies renting space and therefore had no significant centralized security. Easy access and no one was likely to notice a stranger's presence. The police had been questioning everyone in the building, but Tristan doubted they would learn anything.
He had been listening for the scrape of the door behind him. It was followed a moment later by the faintest scuffle beside him. Dinaden crouched down, his mobile still in his hand. "Bors says that the building does have security cameras, but two of them were out of order."
Tristan snorted, but otherwise ignored Dinaden. The sun would be setting soon. It looked as though the police were finishing up.
The real question was how the shooter had known Arthur would be taking this path. Dagonet had said that they had parked in a garage a few blocks from Scott's building because the usual parking area by the building had been closed. Tristan had little doubt they would find out that no one had any idea why that car park had been closed or who had ordered it.
The corner of his lip lifted in a barely visible snarl. They were not dealing with stupid people here.
He felt his mobile vibrate and raised himself up so that he could pull it out of his pocket. It was Gareth. He found his hands freezing for a moment, but then he flipped the handset open and waited.
He listened in silence and then rang off without a word. With one last look at the other rooftop, he came to his feet and spun toward the access door, but Dinaden's hand caught his arm.
"What did they say?" Dinaden demanded.
He shook his arm free. "The doctors have finished the surgery. He's still alive." He moved toward the door, but Dinaden grabbed at his arm again. Tristan finally looked at him, glaring through his hair.
"But will he—?"
"Read the signs," Tristan hissed. "They don't know a bloody thing." Tristan tried to pull away, but Dinaden would not let go. Banked frustration flared into fury and Tristan struck out.
The emotion died as quickly as it rose. He watched as Dinaden went down, and then balanced himself, waiting for retaliation. But Dinaden stood up slowly, one hand reaching up to touch his mouth. When Dinaden just kept staring at the blood on his fingers, Tristan resumed his course toward the stairs.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dinaden's voice came low and burning from behind him. "I've tried to understand, I've tried to wait. And even now with this—" A deep breath that sounded like a sob "Why won't you talk to me?"
Tristan stopped, his hand on the door handle.
"I've been thinking and thinking, and I can't figure out what I did that made you so angry with me. It can't be the woman, but it's the only thing—"
Tristan nearly spoke at that, but kept his lips pressed together for a moment, before saying, flatly, "This isn't the time—"
Dinaden made a sound in his throat. "When then? What are you waiting for? Whatever it may seem like, we don't have forever. Lancelot could die"—Tristan's fingers clenched around the door handle—"and someone tried to kill Arthur and yet still, you—" His voice dropped down to whisper, but Tristan heard it clearly. "You won't even look at me. What are you so afraid of?"
At that, Tristan jerked around.
Dinaden was not crying. Blood was dripping down his chin and his eyes were hot with rage.
His voice rose in volume, but it went hard and terse. "I can't do this anymore. Not now. I'm done with this, Tristan." Dinaden looked away back down at the roof below and he seemed to take deep breath. He continued after a moment, in a different tone. "As you said, this isn't the time." Then, he murmured, as if to himself, "Everything is different now."
Dinaden walked toward him, and it was only after Dinaden had flung open the door and disappeared down the stairs that Tristan realized he had backed away from the other knight's approach.
Tristan stood still for a long time before again reaching for the door handle.
Arthur stood just inside the room, listening to the soft beep of the machinery. The doctor was beside him, murmuring things Arthur was not listening to. Finally, Arthur moved forward until he could see the bed's occupant. His feet seemed to drag behind him as if the earth were pulling him downward.
He forced himself to look. For a moment, he nearly thought they had brought him to the wrong room. That still form covered in white could not be Lancelot.
The soul-tight clench he had around himself cracked a little.
He could only bring himself to glance briefly at Lancelot's face before his eyes slid away. He saw a face distorted by a plastic mask over nose and mouth. Closed eyes that looked sunken, dark shadows under them, as vivid as bruises.
"People always look a little strange after major surgery—" the doctor was saying. Arthur controlled a sudden impulse to slam a fist into the man to get him finally to be quiet. He knew enough of the prevarications of doctors to understand within in the first twenty words that the man had spoken.
There was nothing to do but to wait.
The part of him that had been holding himself together, believing that the ordeal would end with either relief or devastation, could not maintain its grip much longer. Not facing this uncertain eternity of waiting. Not again.
He moved closer, his eyes wandering over the beeping, blinking machinery that surrounded the bed. Finally, he looked back down. The doctor, thankfully, had fallen silent at last.
Arthur stared, taking in again the mask, the sunken features. The utter lack of animation. It slowly dawned on him what else was so disconcerting. There were bandages wrapped around Lancelot's head, as white as the pillow beneath it. Lancelot had hit his head on the sidewalk. Arthur knew that. He had heard the sickening sound of the impact. (Arthur had stood there and not moved, had not caught him.) The damage was serious. The doctor had spoken about potential bruising of the brain. Amazingly, he seemed more concerned about that than about the gunshot wound to Lancelot's chest. He seemed confident that they had repaired whatever damage the bullet had done. It was the blow to Lancelot's head and the blood loss that the doctor kept coming back to. It was why he would not say when Lancelot would wake up.
But—
There was no hint of Lancelot's irrepressible curls springing out beneath the bandages. They had shaved his head.
He's going to be in a rage when he—
The thought petered out. His eyes wandered again, and fell on one of Lancelot's hands. Arthur had always been fascinated by their long, fine shape, so different from his own thicker hands. Almost as much as being touched by them, he loved simply to watch them.
Lancelot's left hand had been positioned outside the sheets to rest beside him, a tube protruding from its back. A bandage covered the needle and tape stretched cross the fine, pale skin, puckering it. There was an ugly black bruise seeping out from beneath the bandage and tape.
Somehow, it was the sight of this perverse damage that broke through. Lancelot's hands—
Try as Arthur might he cannot wash the blood from the stiff hands. Blood is caked in the nails and seems to have finally stained deeply enough to permanently mar the pale skin. He tightens his grip and scrubs harder. He can make them clean again. If only they were a bit more malleable.
Gawain is saying something, but Arthur ignores him. He needs to get the blood off. But then Gawain is grabbing his arm, and Arthur realizes that the man is yelling at him. Arthur stares at him without comprehension. He looks back down and then he realizes what he has done. There are new bruises on the cold flesh, and one of the long fingers is twisted the wrong way.
Arthur had blood in his mouth. He did not know if he had bitten his tongue, if he had chewed on the inside of his cheek, if he had broken a tooth with the clenching of his jaw or if the blood was bubbling up from something broken in his aching chest. He did not care, either. He swallowed the salty liquid, nearly gagging.
The doctor was talking again, and, this time, Arthur caught the words. "We should leave now. He needs rest. You can come back tomorrow—"
He did not recognize his own voice as he interrupted. "Is there a chapel here?"
The small chapel was empty as Arthur sat down heavily in one of the pews. Both Bedivere and Bruenor had trailed him from intensive care unit, but they had not come in. Arthur had little doubt that they had stationed themselves outside the door, but he did not spare them much thought.
Arthur bent forward until his forehead rested on the back of the wooden pew in front of him. Prostrating oneself had gone out of fashion at some point in the last millennium and a half, and, as much as he might long for it, this small place did not even have enough room for it before the altar.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but no words would come. All he could think was that mantra that had been playing on his head for what felt like an eternity. Please, Lord. Please, Lord. Please, Lord.
Arthur had reconciled himself with God after Badon Hill. It had taken him some time, but, eventually, he had realized that he could not toss aside a lifetime of belief. And, in truth, not even at the blackest moment had he ever stopped believing. He had merely stopped believing that God heard him. Or, really, that God cared. Those had truly been his darkest days.
Arthur had learned that he could not survive without his faith. But now he found himself once more with that awful doubt. God had not answered his prayers when he had taken Lancelot the first time.
Arthur ground his forehead into the wood. Down that path lay folly. He tried to mouth the prayers that should have been as familiar to him as breathing. But even as the words were shaped on his lips, his mind could not follow.
Please, Lord. Please, Lord. Please, Lord.
He was sitting at his desk, his feet up on the edge, a drink in hand, watching the television tucked into one of the shelves that lined his office, when his secretary let the blond man in. After an inquiry about refreshments, which the visitor rudely cut off, she shut the door on her way out, but not before giving him a pointed look of irritation. He ignored it.
"The stupid bugger took it back," the man began.
He was not listening. The ads had ended and the news report was on again. He turned the volume up. He really was enjoying this.
The reporter was posed before police tape, her overly white teeth flashing as she spoke. "As we reported earlier, I'm standing before the site of a shocking scene that has rocked the city and the country this afternoon." He smirked. "A few hours ago, there was what appears to have been an assassination attempt against the popular New Labour candidate, Arthur Castus, in which one of Mr. Castus's aides was wounded. We can now confirm that the victim of the shooting was Lancelot Banson, who is reported to be in critical condition. According to witnesses, Mr. Banson is said to have—"
The blond man, who had taken one of the seats in front of the desk, straightened from his slouch and demanded, "He's not dead?"
"Not yet." He swirled his drink before taking a sip.
The man was scowling, his rather crude features looking even more vicious. "And I was just about to say that the old man knew what he was talking about after all."
He made a loose gesture with the hand holding his drink. The lazy movement was belied by the gleam in his green eyes. "But can you picture his face right now?" He chuckled.
The man's fist pounded down on the arm of his chair. It caused an ominous cracking sound. "I don't care about that! I followed your instructions. You promised me that the knight would die." He rose to his feet and loomed over the desk.
Taking another sip from his drink, and seemingly unconcerned, he looked up at his visitor. "And so he will. Soon enough. Let him malinger a bit—I thought you'd enjoy the prospect of a bit of pain before death, hmm?" In truth, he did not care whether Lancelot died or not. Actually, he preferred that the knight did not. He had already gained the leverage he had wanted against the old man. And if the old man was so bent in killing Lancelot, there must be an advantage to keeping him alive. Besides the obvious one. In a small concession to conciliate the man before him, he kept himself from smirking too broadly.
The blond opened his mouth to snarl something, but was halted by a preemptory hand. The scene had shifted to the front of the hospital and another white-toothed reporter. He did not want to miss any of this. If he were lucky he might catch a glimpse of some of Arthur's little knights as they scurried about in the background.
Such fun.
Absently, he reminded himself to tell his secretary to have someone take a look at the chair. That crack had sounded serious.
Arthur was still bent over, but he had given up on praying.
His mind, though, had begun to work. He had gone through it all. Lancelot would surely recover, for, otherwise, what would have been the purpose of awakening him in this time? ( To humble you.) Why grant Arthur's prayers if only to let this happen? (To quell your arrogance.) And there was no doubt in Arthur's mind that it was God's direct intervention that had brought Lancelot back, for according to Merlin it should not have been possib—
Merlin
Arthur straightened.
As though the old man were sitting across from him again, he could picture him calmly sipping his tea and saying, The sacrifice needs to be played out first.
Merlin could not have dared—
Fury roared up in Arthur, all the more potent for the hollow place it filled, and the protective numbness that had kept its grip on his mind fell away.
Damn that man and his superstitions!
Arthur rose to his feet, and stalked to the door with new purpose.
Uncaring that he was in God's House, he swore to himself that the old man would die very slowly if he had had a hand in this.
He was out the chapel door, and after a moment became aware of Bedivere
and Bruenor scrambling after him. Bedivere caught up, and, despite getting a look at Arthur's face, asked, tone mild, "Where are you going, Arthur?"
Whatever scathing retort was burning on Arthur's tongue went unspoken, as he caught sight of Bors and Dagonet talking with two men whom Arthur did not recognize.
One of the strangers, catching sight of their approach, raised an arm called out, "Mr. Castus, I'm glad we caught you. I'm sorry to bother you at such a time, sir, but we'd like a word."
Arthur was not interested in having a word with anyone except Merlin—and that would be considerably more than just a word. He was about to tell the man exactly what he thought of the idea, when the movement of the man's arm revealed the holster at his side. Police.
Arthur swallowed down some of his ire, and managed to speak civilly, if somewhat curtly. "What is it you need, constable?"
"Detective Chief Inspector Stephens and this is my partner, DS Tanner. We're Special Branch." He held out a hand. Arthur shook it and then other man's with thinly veiled impatience. "Dagonet can answer any questions you have—" he began, already turning away, but the man stopped him.
"Of course, sir. But, in light of what happened this afternoon, we've been instructed to provide you with a police security."
Arthur opened his mouth to tell the man what he thought of that, but Bors butted in.
"Arthur, we told him that you already had security."
The man nodded, "Your men's credentials are impeccable, and, honestly, they'll provide you with more protection than we could supply—we simply don't have those kinds of resources—but the Prime Minister himself has been in touch with my superiors, and I'm afraid I need confirmation from you that you're refusing the offer of official security."
Arthur had been staring at Bors, who was smiling at him toothily, unabashed. What— He realized the detective was waiting for an answer. "No, no police protection will be necessary." He added, after a moment, "Thank you."
The man nodded and wanted to shake his hand again, as did his partner. He did the same with Bors and Dagonet—quite chummily, to Arthur's suddenly watchful eyes, and Detective Tanner added in his farewell to Bors, "I have your card, so I'll be in touch—those local clowns may think they have jurisdiction here, but they'll soon learn better. And some other day, I'll take you up on your offer of a chat on what it's like on the other side."
Arthur barely waited until they were out of earshot before fixing his eyes on Bors and Dagonet. "Card?" He was aware that Bedivere and Bruenor had faded back down the corridor.
Bors gave Arthur that smile that had always made Arthur look around to see what it was exactly that Lancelot was doing. "It's nothing. Just something we had printed up. In case we needed it."
"I'd like to see it," Arthur said evenly. He held out his hand.
Dagonet and Bors exchanged a glance, and then Dagonet reached inside his coat pocket and held out something.
It was a discretely elegant business card, with the words "K.R.T. Security" and a number that Arthur did not recognize."
Arthur looked back up. "K.R.T.?" he asked, voice seemingly mild.
Bors cleared his throat. "A little joke, that."
"I see." Arthur returned the card. "And the credentials?"
They exchanged another glance. Bors coughed. "You see, Arthur—" he began.
"Now."
After a moment during which no feet were actually shuffled, Dagonet reached into his jacket again and handed over a leather case. Arthur flipped it open. It listed Dagonet's name and a series of certifications that Arthur could make no sense of until he caught sight of—
"Firearms?" he demanded. "You've been carrying guns?"
Their studiously blank faces said it all.
Arthur opened his mouth and then shut it. He threw the case back at Dagonet and then spun and continued down the hall.
He could not deal with this right now.
But Lancelot was going to get better. Because then Arthur was going to kill him.
Bors and Dagonet were left staring after Arthur, relieved at the unexpected reprieve.
"I thought you said that Arthur was too preoccupied to realize what we were doing," Dagonet said in gentle mockery.
"He was," Bors protested. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "He wasn't paying attention to anything. Lancelot's right—prayer is an evil thing."
Bruenor and Bedivere had come up. Bruenor cast a look of appeal at Dagonet. "We don't really have to go after him, do we?"
Dagonet only looked back at him.
Bedivere was already heading off down the corridor, and, not before letting out a sigh, Bruenor jogged after him.
Bors was still swearing to himself. When he had run down a bit, he added, unknowingly echoing Arthur's thoughts, "Lancelot had bloody well better wake up. Cause I'll be buggered if I have to be the one to explain to Arthur all the shit he's gotten us up to."
They gathered in the private waiting room the hospital had provided for Arthur.
Bors and Dagonet were the last to arrive. Dagonet came to stand beside Kay, and Bors looked around before demanding, "Who's watching Lancelot's door?" They were not allowed into Lancelot's room—only Arthur had been let in, and, for once, they had acquiesced someone else's rules—but the hospital had given special permission to allow them to station two people at the door. Given the special circumstances.
"I called in Lucan and Urré," Gareth said. Like all of them, he looked a little different than he had this morning. Harder, sharper. The gentle older brother figure was nowhere in evidence now. This world had tilted on its axis and the new view was both strange and familiar, leaving a feeling like vertigo. Well, they had all better get over it soon, Kay thought. "We need to set up a schedule," Gareth said. "Two people with Arthur at all times, two at the door. I'll take care of it."
"Arthur's going to bloody love that," Bors muttered. Arthur, even back in the old days, had not taken kindly to any protective urges the knights exhibited. Lancelot had done a lot of yelling about Arthur's carelessness with his personal safety. Arthur seemed to think he won those fights, but in truth Lancelot had simply done whatever he wanted behind Arthur's back. Louder, Bors said, "The police don't know a fucking thing. No one saw anything and they didn't recover anything from the gunman's site."
Dinaden nodded. "From what we could see, that's true. They didn't find anything."
"What about the surveillance cameras?" Tristan asked from where he leaned against a wall, a little apart from the others.
"Nothing yet. The policeman said that they are reviewing the footage from the ones that were working. The chances of finding anything, though—" Dagonet spread his big hands. His clothes were still stained with Lancelot's blood. If Kay had been thinking, he would have brought a change of clothes with him to the hospital. The blood was going to be a bitch to wash out.
"The clever fuckers," Bors was muttering to himself.
"They recovered the bullet." Tristan's flat voice cut in.
Bors snarled, "But what will that tell us but what kind of gun was used?"
"So we don't know a bloody thing." Dinaden said, banging a fist backward into the wall he lent against on the other side of the room from Tristan. Kay took note of their positioning, but ignored it for now. "What about that fellow Arthur's running against—?"
He trailed off as Kay exchanged a look with Gareth.
"What?" Tristan demanded.
"Nothing," Kay said, meeting Tristan's eyes, unruffled.
Kay walked out into the hall and pulled out his mobile. He needed to update Gawain and Gaheris and check on what was happening at the house. The gods alone knew what the others might get up to if left to their own devices.
He was about to flip open the mobile when he realized that someone had followed him. He looked back over his shoulder.
"You're not telling us something," Tristan said flatly. His eyes were narrowed dangerously beneath the fall of his hair.
Kay was nearly amused at this. Tristan was trying to intimidate him. Or he might have been amused, if he did not have to lie. He and Gareth had discussed it, and now was not the time to be dropping any revelations. Even though they might come to regret that decision, for now, they would pursue that lead on their own, and leave Tristan and Dinaden out of it. At least until they had a chance to talk to Arthur about it.
"There are many things I don't tell you," Kay said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you referring to anything in particular, Tristan?"
Tristan just watched him, studying him carefully. But as good as Tristan was, he had never been able to track Kay. Kay had been the one who had been the one who first taught him how to hunt, after all.
After a long moment, Kay turned away and flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial for Gawain. He was aware of Tristan leaving, but he did not look up to acknowledge it. He knew this was far from over.
Arthur let Bedivere drive, quickly discarding the idea of trying to order the knights to leave him alone. He did not have the patience to argue, and he knew that they would follow him regardless.
When they pulled up in front of Merlin's house, he told them to stay in the car, and slammed the door behind him.
Merlin took his sweet time answering the door. When he finally appeared, he did not seem surprised to see Arthur. "I would have thought you would be at the hospital," was all he said. He did not smile, and so Arthur did not hit him. Instead, Arthur just pushed past him into the entryway.
Merlin shut the door and stood, waiting, his eyebrows slightly raised in mild inquiry.
He stared at the old man, and the ancient loathing rushed back over him. Murderer.
Into the silence, Merlin spoke. "And how is young Lancelot doing? Out of danger, I suppose, if you're here."
Arthur's fingers were clenched so tight, he felt the bones creaking. "You suppose wrong," was all he managed. He took a step toward the old man. "What did you do?"
"I?" Merlin barely blinked. "I have done nothing."
Arthur's fists unclenched, twitched and then bunched again. "Don't lie to me! You said—"
Despite the softness of his voice, Merlin managed to interrupt him. "Was the aim not to kill you or are the accounts incorrect? Did not your knight save you at the expense of himself? The press is already making a hero of him." He turned away and headed into the house, evidently untroubled by turning his back on Arthur. Voice dry, he continued speaking, "Surely you can't believe I am responsible. If nothing else, my boy, I've worked too hard to bring you back to want to kill you. Now come in and sit down."
Arthur stared after him, suddenly feeling deflated and weary. Merlin would not want to kill him, that he knew. And the bullet had been aimed at him, not Lancelot. Damn Lancelot! Why had he— He rubbed his hands over his face, and took a breath. After a moment, he followed Merlin into the house.
Merlin had made tea, but Arthur ignored the cup placed in front of him. He did wait until the man had settled back with his own cup before, voice still not managing to be more than a snarl, demanding, "Then who? Assassination is not exactly de rigueur in British politics."
Merlin ignored his tone. "I have been thinking on this. Arthur, there's little doubt that you'll win your seat this election and there's already talk of your appointment to a cabinet ministry." Merlin took a sip of his tea, for all the world lecturing like the professor he impersonated. Arthur clenched his teeth but kept silent, listening. "Your ideas are well known, and will act to the detriment of many powerful people. Now, as ever, the powerful do not take kindly to threats against them."
"So they would resort to murder?" Arthur's tone was scornful. "Surely there are more sophisticated ways to discredit me."
"Of course, but we've taken great care. There's little for anyone to work with, and it will be difficult to fabricate anything. I really have found you the best people, Arthur."
Arthur waved that away dismissively. "I can't believe that anyone would take such action against what is only a potential threat."
"Well, of course, there are other possibilities."
"What?"
"Arthur, your return wasn't accomplished on a whim. There's always been the possibility that there are other forces out there aligned in opposition."
"I'm in no mood for your crypticness, Merlin."
Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Did you think this was some easy thing, Arthur? Do you think men are brought back from death to do mundane things?"
The old man seemed to sigh. "Do you still think that your knights were resurrected merely to assuage your misplaced guilt at their deaths? I do not know what we face, but it is likely that it is no ordinary opponent." The old man looked at him, and the scholarly façade was gone, and in its place that was the Merlin that Arthur had hated and yet come to trust. "Make no mistake Arthur. You need to be ready."
"Ready? For what? How?"
"We no longer have time for dawdling. You need to consolidate your position, quickly. You are not engaged in a polite debate, Arthur. You know of what I'm speaking of. And, while it may be crude to say so, there will be a great deal of sympathy over today. We must capitalize on it."
Arthur felt sick at it, but he did not refuse. After a moment he said, "The first cannot happen until Lancelot is better. If you are worried about maintaining sympathy." He added the last with a bitter twist to his mouth.
Merlin sipped his tea and then bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. "But you will need to hold a press conference, Arthur. As soon as possible. The country is waiting to hear from you. Scott's people will set it up for tomorrow."
When he left Merlin's house, he slumped back into the car's seat and told Bedivere to take them back to the hospital.
He rubbed his hands over his face and then stared at the back of his knights' heads. There was even more at stake now. No more, he vowed.
He looked back down and caught sight of his hands. Ms. Delaney had made him change at the hospital, telling him that they would not let him in to see Lancelot in his stained clothes, and she had procured new ones for him with her usual efficiency. He had washed when he had changed, but he had not been careful about it. His eyes traced the reddish brown stains around his nails.
He clenched his eyes closed. None of them would die for him this time. None of them. He would do whatever he had to prevent that.
Just as soon as Lancelot woke up.
Lancelot was nearly asleep. Cradled in warmth, the familiar rocking motion lulled him. Best of all, Mother was humming softly, her fingers stroking lightly over his hair. There was some distant memory of pain, some ache in chest, but he must be better now. He had gotten lung fever once, when he was a baby, but that was a long time ago, and he barely remembered it.
Today, Father had let Lancelot ride his very own horse most of the day, but a little while ago, he had told Lancelot to ride with Mother. Lancelot had protested he was not sleepy and that he was not a baby anymore, and he could ride by himself now all day. Father had not been impressed. But he could have done it, he thought drowsily.
He was not so near sleep that the thunder of hooves did not have him stirring, and then twisting around eagerly to catch sight of his uncle's fast approach. He felt his mother sigh, but he ignored that, in the rush of excitement.
Mother scolded Uncle, telling him that the boy (that meant him) needed to sleep, but Uncle only laughed. Lancelot scrambled up, standing on mother's horse's back, his mother's hand restraining him. He squirmed, wanting to be free. It was not as if he could actually fall. Uncle winked and held out his arms, and Lancelot, with a brief look over his mother's shoulder to where his sister was snuggly asleep in the sling around Mother's back (babies were boring, although Father promised she would play with him soon), leaped, fearlessly sure that he would be caught.
And he was. Uncle swung him up to sit before him. Uncle was Lancelot's favorite person (along with Mother and Father, and, he supposed, the baby). He laughed a lot, never said Lancelot was too small to do things, and he would keep answering questions even when Father would get tired and tell Lancelot to go play.
And Uncle told the best stories, better even than the lore master, who was always telling Lancelot to sit still and that Lancelot should remember everything, because it was important for Lancelot to know the history of his clan, and so could make even the interesting stories boring. Uncle wasn't like that. He made even the boring stories interesting. And he told the especially good ones whenever Lancelot asked. Lancelot's favorites were the ones about how grandmother's grandmother's brother had refused to surrender to the greedy Romans. One day, Lancelot would kill Romans too. Next best, he pretended to like the stories about the old kings, since he knew Uncle liked them, but he really did not like the part about the fire. When Uncle had first starting telling Lancelot those stories, Lancelot had woken up screaming a lot. Mother had yelled at Uncle and Uncle had actually looked sorry. After that, although he still sometimes dreamed he was on fire, Lancelot tried hard to keep from screaming out loud. Uncle had even asked Lancelot, in an odd, serious voice, if he understood that those things had happened long ago and that they did not happen any more? He knew, did he not, that the days of the kings and the need for sacrifice were long past? Lancelot had insisted he understood. He was not afraid of stories.
But still, Lancelot had wanted to make sure he was really not afraid, and so he had, a couple of times, practiced moving his hands close enough to the cooking fire so that the flames nearly licked at his fingers, but then Father had caught him at it. Father had been furious.
Lancelot craned up to see Uncle's face. Uncle grinned at him, and he grinned back. People said that Lancelot looked like Uncle, and he liked that. They had the same dark, curly hair (that hurt so much when mother made him sit still so she could jerk a comb through it) so, maybe, Lancelot would grow up and be just like Uncle, and lead all the hunts and raids, laugh all the time, and be the best with a sword and lance.
Sleepiness forgotten, he demanded, "Can we run?"
Uncle raised an eyebrow at him. Lancelot tried to do that, but could not make one go up and keep the other from moving. "I don't know, why don't you see?" Lancelot twisted back around to sit straight. He stroked the strong, silky neck under his hands and leaned forward to ask. And then they were flying, and Lancelot was laughing.
He could not imagine anything better in all the world.
Continued here.
