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amari_zTitle: Prelude
Notes: Written for the fabulous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b on her birthday. Ash, may your day be yummy and the next year full of delights. I wasn’t brave enough to write in your ‘verse, but I hope you like this anyway.
Summary: Before the beginning. Not connected to any series. A/L
Warnings: Slash. Also, written with unfortunate haste at airport terminals. I really wish I had more time to spend on it, but time and birthdays wait for no woman.
Arthur sat slumped in a dark corner of the tavern, as indifferent to the soldiers carousing around him as they were to him.
After his meeting with Aurelius, he had returned to the guest quarters and, in a fit of anger, had stripped off his red cloak, his armor, and every sign that marked him as an officer of the Roman army. As night was falling, he had left the army's headquarters and crossed the Ouse to the colonia on the west bank. There, he had lost himself in the streets until they had become narrow and crooked. This tavern seemed as far from the ordered straight lines of the center of the city as one could get.
Dimly lit, smoky and smelling as if it had not been aired out since the days of Septimus Severus, the tavern was not a place where an officer would normally have been welcome. It appeared to be favored by the more disreputable of the common soldiers and civilians of a less than law-abiding character. Still, no one had given Arthur much of a second look, dressed as he was. That suited Arthur fine.
He took another gulp from the dubiously clean mug before him and was surprised to find himself once more drinking down the dregs. A greasy haired girl refilled his mug but did not pause to linger—Arthur had already made his lack of interest in her attentions quite plain.
Things grew increasingly raucous as the night deepened, but Arthur was oblivious to all but the cup before him and the darkness of his own thoughts. He had reached Eboracum yesterday, full of confidence. It had seemed a sign from Heaven that, just as Arthur had received his own promotion, his father's old friend Aurelius had been named dux. Certain that Aurelius would help him, Arthur had taken leave from his new command and journeyed here from Gaul—where, despite his many requests for a transfer, he had been posted since he had joined the army.
"Your father was a great man, but his obsessions left him rotting his life away among the barbarians at the arse crack of the world. I'd be a poor friend to him if I let his son walk that same path.
Arthur grimaced and took another gulp from his cup, ignoring the way the cheap wine burned his throat.
You think that these barbarians are noble savages, but what do you really remember of them, Artorius? You were only a babe when Uther died. And whatever tales you heard, they were only that—tales. I tell you now, as one who knows, there is no glory, no honor in dealing with these barbarians. They hate us. Given the barest chance, they would sooner kill Romans than British rebels. Only a firm hand keeps them in line. Better by far for you to serve in an established legion—a place with a tradition of victory and loyalty. Do you realize that it's no coincidence you've received the posting that you have—despite all you efforts to sabotage yourself? I've been looking out for Uther's boy, and I'm not the only one. "
The mug was empty again. When the serving girl passed by, he found himself placing his hand over the mouth of the cup and asking for a jug. He would take it back to his room. He was not done drinking, but he had no particular wish to wake up in a gutter. When she had brought the jug, he rose and dropped a handful of coin on the table. It was far too much, but he did not care. Money had never been the problem, not with his bloodline and the vast family estates outside of Rome.
Perhaps it was time to go back to Rome after all. He had believed he could serve as his father had, that it was his heritage to live and fight besides the eastern horsemen that his father had commanded, but perhaps, as Aurelius had chided, that was only a child's fancy after all. Perhaps his place was in Rome, not in this land that, while it had brought him life, had brought him little else but loss and pain.
And perhaps it was just sinful pride that led him to think that he was needed. Aurelius had made himself quite clear on that point. Marcellus is a fine commander, with many years of experience. He's had this command for six months now, and he's kept those barbarians well in hand and made good use of them. You're Uther's boy and as promising a young officer as I've heard tell of, but do you really think that you'll do better than a proven man such as Marcellus?"
That kindly meant reproof still ringing in his ears, Arthur walked blindly through the crooked, narrow streets. He had not planned to leave Britain so quickly—in truth, he had thought he would just be sending for his things in Gaul—but tomorrow he would turn around and begin the journey back. There was no point in staying here.
He would decide what to do next when he returned to Gaul. Aurelius's blunt refusal—indeed, his disapproval of Arthur's very goal—had shaken him down to his foundations. He had thought he understood the purpose of his life, but if he had been so very wrong, then perhaps he needed to reevaluate everything. He had spent his youth toiling to learn the skills of war, driven forward by his belief that his life had but one purpose. But perhaps he did not belong in the army at all. He could resign without much problem if he chose; his family connections would make it easy.
If nothing else, Pelagius would be pleased if Arthur returned to Rome. Pelagius, although he had never directly said so, had never quite approved of Arthur's choice to follow in his father's footsteps. In Rome, Arthur could devote his time to study—to philosophy and theology. He would not miss the army. In the six years since he had joined, he had surfeited already on blood.
And that belief that had driven him through the bloody years, the belief that he could do better than other men, he saw it now exposed for what it was. Arrogance and pride.
Loud voices pulled him out of his thoughts and he paused to look down into the alley snaking off to his left. The moon was nearly full tonight, and it illuminated a group of a half dozen legionaries confronting a single figure dressed in civilian clothing.
"Give the money over now, boy, and we'll let you alone—mostly," a voice was sneering. "So long as you admit you cheated and prettily beg my pardon."
The accented voice that answered, although softer than the legionary's, cut easily through the night air. "I can see why you'd think I'd need to cheat to win at dice when faced with such an . . . intelligent opponent such as yourself. And I can doubly see you're clever—if not particularly stout of heart—since you've prudently brought some friends with you in your pursuit of justice. But alas, you're not quite smart enough. Why ever did you bring so few to assist you?" For a moment the legionary actually sputtered, and Arthur, although he appreciated the sheer gall of the speaker, wondered if he was trying to get himself killed.
And then the voice went on. The mad speaker sounded as if he were enjoying himself. "But if it's an apology that you want, I suppose I can oblige you. I am rather sorry for you that you're so stupid."
This galvanized the legionary into action, and, with what sounded more like an indignant squawk than a battle cry, he attacked, his comrades joining him. At the sight of so many men in Rome's colors charging a lone man, Arthur's brooding temper snapped.
Was this what it was then? Was this the might and glory of the Roman army? This bullying use of force? Was this what he was supposed to devote himself to?
He could have announced himself and ordered the legionaries to halt, but his own frustrations drove him forward. He spun one of the men around by his cloak, ducked under a wild punch and then knocked the man straight into the alley wall. He watched the man crumple to the ground with savage satisfaction.
He turned to find another opponent, but he could only stare at the sight that met his eyes. He had expected to have to wade in and yank the soldiers off their victim, but instead he found that three other soldiers were already on the ground. As Arthur watched, mouth agape, the civilian, his wild grin glinting in the moonlight, had driven a fist into another's legionary's stomach, nearly simultaneously elbowing in the face the remaining man, who was trying to circle behind him.
The first man managed to straighten up, a dagger in his hand. The sight of drawn steel roused Arthur, and he rushed forward, mouth open to shout a warning, but before he had taken two steps, the man went down like a dropped sack of meal, the knife clattering harmlessly to the ground.
Only Arthur and the civilian remained standing. Arthur blinked at the defeated legionaries in disbelief. This slim boy had downed five trained soldiers in a few heartbeats.
He looked up and found himself pinned by glittering eyes. The other's stance was poised and wary, like a predator ready to spring. Arthur held his hands out from his body, signaling that he was no threat.
He glanced back down at the felled soldiers. "You— You can't be a civilian," Arthur found himself blurting. But the boy's plain dark leathers gave no sign of his unit, a punishable offense for a common solider. An auxiliary? Some of the auxiliary units were lax about such formalities, and there were a number of auxiliary units posted here, although the man before him seemed a little young to be a soldier. Arthur frowned at the idea of the regular legion and the auxiliary getting into fights—the two had to trust each other in battle—but then forced the thought back. Not his problem. Not here in Britain, and maybe, soon, not even in Gaul.
Some of the taut wariness of the other's stance had relaxed, although he still looked ready to move at any moment as he raked his eyes over Arthur. One of the men on the ground began to stir—the one whose nose he had broken—and without looking away from Arthur, he kicked the man casually in the head. The man promptly went limp again.
Arthur himself did not spare the legionary much of a look, but returned to studying the boy. No, not a boy. He looked young, but those fierce, compelling eyes were not those of a boy. And he had not needed Arthur's help at all. He considered the deceptively thin build and the wild, dark curls that the moonlight was gilding with silver.
"Shall I call the watch?" he offered after clearing his throat. These men deserved to spend the night confined and then face whatever punishment their officers came up with on the morrow.
A grin flashed in the moonlight. "I think they've been punished enough for the moment." His voice was smooth and unruffled, if a bit self satisfied. He moved forward then, with an easy grace that Arthur knew could erupt into violence at any moment. Arthur was careful to keep his stance relaxed.
"But—" Arthur began, his sense of justice offended.
As the other approached, he got a better look at his face, and fell silent. Fine features, framed by elegant brows. "Never mind." The mobile mouth quirked, and then the unabashed declaration: "That one, he had a right to be angry. I was cheating, after all."
Arthur opened his mouth and then shut it. Suddenly, he found himself laughing, the sound ringing in the narrow alley.
The other smiled, a real smile, not the exhilarated, battle mad smile of before, although that euphoria still glittered around the edges. Arthur, oddly, found his breath hitching as his laughter died.
The youth looked away from Arthur and glanced at the man Arthur had felled. "You stole part of my fight," he said. He paused to prod Arthur's victim with the toe of his boot, and when the man did not move, he glanced up at Arthur, eyebrows raised. "You owe me."
It was Arthur's turn to sputter, but then the other man was nodding in the direction of the jug that still hung, forgotten, in Arthur's hand. "Give that to me and we'll call it quits."
Arthur's mouth wanted badly to stretch into a wide smile. "I helped you," he protested, but was that his voice, so light and amused? Before he realized what he was saying, he made the offer: "Tell you what, I'll share it with you."
The other man's eyes narrowed and went hard, but when Arthur merely met the look, the chill faded. Another flashing smile, this one so charming that it made Arthur blink as though dazzled. "Alright, I suppose I can settle for that. Come on, I know just the place."
~
The auxiliary soldier—for that's what Arthur had decided he was, especially since he had led Arthur to one of the outlying barracks on the river's west bank–had really long, thick eyelashes. Arthur had never seen eyelashes like that on a man. He took another swallow of wine before handing the jug back to his drinking companion, who was stretched out his back, staring up at the sky. Arthur glanced up and tried to find the sky interesting, but his eyes strayed over to the edge again, and he shuddering a little. "Why," Arthur asked, not for the first time, "up here?"
The other man shrugged from his prone position—but this time he actually answered rather than smirking and asking if Arthur were afraid of a little bit of height. "I like it here. You can almost pretend you're not surrounded by walls." Arthur frowned. He liked walls. Walls were nice and snug. Walls were meant to be lived behind, just as roofs were meant to be lived under, not sat upon.
Arthur drank some more from the jug and then lay back himself, blinking up at the clear night sky. It was not a bad roof, he decided after a moment. At least it was not particularly slanted. Really, it was nearly flat. He paused to consider why on earth someone would build a flat roof, when the voice beside him lazily asked, "What's your name, anyway?"
The question seemed extremely funny. He bit his lip to keep from laughing, and answered. "Arthur." He unthinkingly gave his mother's British version of his name, the name of his childhood, rather than the name he was called these days. Still, he was glad when he did—tonight he did not want to be Lucius Artorius Castus, son of Roman equestrians.
"Arthur?" The name rolled off the other's tongue in a way that Arthur had never heard before. "A mongrel are you, then?"
Arthur sat up, indignant. "What are you speaking of?"
"What are you speaking of?" The other mimicked Arthur's educated Latin pronunciation with uncanny accuracy. "I was wondering—you talk like one of them, but here you are, wandering the lowest streets with the cheapest wine even I have ever drunk. But don't take insult," he continued when Arthur opened his mouth to speak, "the more mongrel you are, the better, by my mind. I was half expecting you to say 'Gaius' or 'Lucius' or something conventionally pompous like that.
Arthur winced, but then asked, "Are you a 'mongrel'"—he could not help grimacing as he said the word—"yourself?"
A snort and an airy wave of a long-boned hand. "Me? No. I'm pure blooded demon barbarian."
Arthur had to laugh at that, both at the words and at the prideful tone.
He leaned back on his side, resting on one bent elbow so he could study his companion. Dark eyes turned from contemplating the stars and met Arthur's. Arthur found himself flushing. He was thinking to himself that he had drunk too much when a warm hand grasped the back of his neck and pulled his head down. Arthur was barely aware of heat against his lips before it was over, and he pulled away, gaping down at the man looking back up at him.
"What, then?" A slight smile on those lips and Arthur found he could not look away from them. He felt something twist deep in his gut. "Why did you come up here, if not for this?"
"I don't know." This time, Arthur leaned down of his own accord. His kiss was hesitant at first, but the mouth beneath his was having none of that, and after a moment, a hand was tangled in Arthur's hair, another on his waist. In a few more moments, one of Arthur's own hands had found its way beneath cloth to touch the bare skin at the small of the other man's back, while his other hand had somehow taken to plucking at the ties to leather trousers.
Arthur was hardly inexperienced, but he did not think he had ever felt quite like this when kissing someone. A fever seemed to sweep over him, stealing his wits and leaving behind only a desperate fervor.
Luckily, his companion seemed of like disposition, and before long, Arthur lay between long legs, his palms sliding over warm flesh, even as he could not seem to release the hot mouth with its clever, maddening tongue. He rubbed himself between those legs, burning heat to burning heat. But it was not enough, and he knew what he wanted, what he had to have, and he growled as he forced the legs further apart, his fingers seeking— He had to—
He growled as teeth closed hard on his lower lip, and then, not quite knowing how it happened, he was flat on his back. He wanted to howl his frustration, but then he met the eyes boring down into his and froze at what he saw in them. Long fingers were on him, stroking hard, and with a groan, he gave in, bucking into them. While it was not what he had wanted, he was not fool enough to complain. Not when it felt so, so—
Afterward, he lay dazed and panting, aware of long limbs sprawled across him and a heavy head on his heaving chest. As he caught his breath, he dared to run his fingers through the curly hair, marveling at the feel of it. When the other man did not object, he let his hands wander more freely, feeling the strength in the long limbs and studying the way the smooth skin was interrupted by the occasional ridge of a scar. He had only gotten fleeting, heated impressions of it all before, and his hands were hungry to learn more.
After awhile, the dark head lifted, and Arthur's hands stilled, although lingering on the warm flesh. They looked at each other for a moment and Arthur found himself grinning crookedly up at the other man.
He lifted a hand to trace over a prominent cheekbone. Dark eyes continued to watch him, but Arthur did not feel uneasy under their scrutiny. Without thinking, he found himself saying, "It's my birthday tomorrow." Actually, today, since he supposed it was near dawn.
A roll of eyes. Arthur watched the expressive features, fascinated. "Birth day? You really are part Roman, aren't you?" With that, the other man sat up, and Arthur let him go reluctantly. He watched, dismayed, as the other began to hunt for his scattered clothing.
"You—" Arthur started.
"Had better get back. The others will be wondering where I've gotten to."
Arthur sat up and seized the long fingers that were lacing up a dark tunic. "Can I see you tomorrow?" He had meant to leave, but—
A quizzical raised eyebrow met Arthur expectant gaze. "I won't be here tomorrow."
"You're on duty? When will you be back?" Arthur could wait.
The man had pulled his hands away from Arthur's grip. "We're not stationed here. I won't be back." Arthur opened his mouth and shut it. He had assumed— The other man was still talking as he continued to dress. "Marcellus, the whoreson, was nervous enough bringing any of us here in the first place. Afraid we'd do something to embarrass him, I'm sure. Not that I wouldn't have loved a chance to make him look like the donkey's arse he is before his precious superiors, never mind a flogging. But he's been threatening a flogging for everyone in the escort if anything goes wrong—and, well, Bors would sit on me while Tristan cut strips from my skin if that happened."
Arthur had not registered much of this except one thing. Voice choked, he demanded, "Your officer is called Marcellus? What unit—?"
He was given an odd look. "We're conscripted cavalry stationed at the Wall. Badon Hill."
Arthur's hands clenched. Dear God. He had— How had he not known—? But, then, he had only the barest recollections of the men his father had commanded, so blurry that he was never quite sure if they were true memories or memories of boyhood tales that others had told him. This man looked nothing like his hazy memories of giants with long hair and booming voices. "You're Sarmatian," he finally said
Both black brows were lowered now, and Arthur realized his shock had been misconstrued. "Yes." A pause. "Contrary to the rumors, we don't actually eat our enemies raw, nor do we howl at the moon."
Arthur, hearing the furious edge to the words and seeing the other, dressed now except his boots, moving toward the roof's edge, caught at his hand again. "No. Wait. I didn't mean—" He shook his head and took a breath. "Your commander, Marcellus, is he a good man?"
"Good?" The disdain in the voice was thick enough to sink teeth into. "Is there such a thing as a good Roman, then? Are you addle witted?"
Arthur ignored the insult—the insults, really—but persisted. "Is he a good officer?"
A fluid shrug, although his voice was edged with savage contempt. "He can't find his own arse with a map and a guide pointing the way, yet believes he shits pure gold. He cares for nothing but his own promotion, and the men he commands are less than animals to him. So, I'd say he was typical of his kind. What do you care?"
But Aurelius had said— What had Aurelius actually said? Arthur found himself stumbling over the words. "I— I had hoped he was treating you—with the respect and honor you deserve."
Furious eyes continued to stare at him, and Arthur felt himself flush, but the anger in them was fading. The man gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "You are a strange one, Arthur." He pulled his hand away, but not roughly.
He was by the roof edge when Arthur called, his voice ringing with certainty in night the air, "I will see you again."
"Perhaps you shall, if you ever find yourself up north. Although I don't recommend it as a destination for any who have a say in the matter." A faint, quirking smile. "Fare well, Arthur."
He disappeared over the side of the roof, and Arthur sat there, unmoving, his chest aching in a way he had never felt before. But somehow, at the same time, he felt suddenly lighter than he had in such a long time. He had, it seemed, forgotten to have faith. He would— He would. The army was only force, after all. It was only as just or as brutish as those who guided it.
"Ware!" A voice broke in from below, and then Arthur, too startled to move, was nearly hit in the head by his own boot sailing through the air. He had not even noticed that it had fallen off the roof.
A realization rose, and Arthur scrambled to the edge of the roof, nearly falling off in his desperate haste. "Wait!" The slim silhouette below paused and Arthur called—for he had to know this, and he could not wait—"You didn't tell me your name!"
A low laugh in the night. "Lancelot." And then even his shadow was gone.
Arthur remained crouched at the edge. He mouthed the strange name to himself several times. He would see him—Lancelot—again. He turned and fumbled on his clothes. He climbed down the roof hastily, his usual fear of heights passing unnoticed.
He needed to get back and wash and dress in his uniform as quickly as he could. He would be waiting to speak to Aurelius again as soon as the man was awake. He would not leave until he had what he wanted.
And he would not be leaving Britain at all.
~
Lancelot stopped to wash at the pump outside the barracks the Sarmatians had been assigned. As he lifted the bucket, he found himself pausing to inhale the scent lingering on his skin, but dismissed that fancy before it could be fully birthed, and dashed the cold water over his head.
He had been warm enough before, but he was shivering as he slipped into the room that he was sharing with Bors, Dagonet and Tristan. He took care to be silent, although he knew all the room's occupants had woken at the first creak of the door.
He put his things down and climbed into the bunk where Tristan lay. He settled down, grateful when a warm arm curved around him and pulled him close.
"What took you so long?" Bors' voice was a low grumble. "I was back hours ago."
"Not all of us are as quick at firing off as you," Lancelot retorted.
Bors called him a few impolite names, but with no particular malice. "I thought you were only interested in gambling tonight." They had gone out together, but had parted company when Lancelot had been busily scouting out potential victims and Bors had caught sight of a wide-hipped red head.
Reminded of his earlier victory, he grinned into the darkness. "I did! I won enough for two new saddles." No one in this stinking place had known to be wary of him, so it had been easier than convincing a horse to buck a Roman rider from his saddle.
"Good," Dagonet's voice joined in. "Galahad's is looking worn as well. I spoke to the leather worker. I'll buy a pair in the morning before we leave."
Lancelot grimaced and opened his mouth to protest this use of his hard won money, but Bors beat him to speaking.
"So, was she pretty?"
Lancelot snuggled further down into the warmth of Tristan's arm. "He had the greenest eyes I've ever seen."
Bors only snorted in response, and then the room settled into silence. But Lancelot felt Tristan's smile against his damp hair. Perhaps Tristan had won a bet; Lancelot rarely bedded men at their own garrison—too many possible complications and it gave the Roman bastards ideas. But when they were away, he often made a point of it for the sake of variety, if he could find someone who interested him. It suited him well that he would never see these men again.
Lancelot, safe and content for the moment, let himself drift toward sleep. He needed what he could have of it. Dawn was whispering on the horizon already and they had a long journey ahead. He had no regrets—he never allowed himself those—but although he wanted to sleep, he would not mind if he dreamed of green eyes and broad, strong hands.
They would only be dreams, after all.
Notes: Written for the fabulous
sasha_b on her birthday. Ash, may your day be yummy and the next year full of delights. I wasn’t brave enough to write in your ‘verse, but I hope you like this anyway.Summary: Before the beginning. Not connected to any series. A/L
Warnings: Slash. Also, written with unfortunate haste at airport terminals. I really wish I had more time to spend on it, but time and birthdays wait for no woman.
Arthur sat slumped in a dark corner of the tavern, as indifferent to the soldiers carousing around him as they were to him.
After his meeting with Aurelius, he had returned to the guest quarters and, in a fit of anger, had stripped off his red cloak, his armor, and every sign that marked him as an officer of the Roman army. As night was falling, he had left the army's headquarters and crossed the Ouse to the colonia on the west bank. There, he had lost himself in the streets until they had become narrow and crooked. This tavern seemed as far from the ordered straight lines of the center of the city as one could get.
Dimly lit, smoky and smelling as if it had not been aired out since the days of Septimus Severus, the tavern was not a place where an officer would normally have been welcome. It appeared to be favored by the more disreputable of the common soldiers and civilians of a less than law-abiding character. Still, no one had given Arthur much of a second look, dressed as he was. That suited Arthur fine.
He took another gulp from the dubiously clean mug before him and was surprised to find himself once more drinking down the dregs. A greasy haired girl refilled his mug but did not pause to linger—Arthur had already made his lack of interest in her attentions quite plain.
Things grew increasingly raucous as the night deepened, but Arthur was oblivious to all but the cup before him and the darkness of his own thoughts. He had reached Eboracum yesterday, full of confidence. It had seemed a sign from Heaven that, just as Arthur had received his own promotion, his father's old friend Aurelius had been named dux. Certain that Aurelius would help him, Arthur had taken leave from his new command and journeyed here from Gaul—where, despite his many requests for a transfer, he had been posted since he had joined the army.
"Your father was a great man, but his obsessions left him rotting his life away among the barbarians at the arse crack of the world. I'd be a poor friend to him if I let his son walk that same path.
Arthur grimaced and took another gulp from his cup, ignoring the way the cheap wine burned his throat.
You think that these barbarians are noble savages, but what do you really remember of them, Artorius? You were only a babe when Uther died. And whatever tales you heard, they were only that—tales. I tell you now, as one who knows, there is no glory, no honor in dealing with these barbarians. They hate us. Given the barest chance, they would sooner kill Romans than British rebels. Only a firm hand keeps them in line. Better by far for you to serve in an established legion—a place with a tradition of victory and loyalty. Do you realize that it's no coincidence you've received the posting that you have—despite all you efforts to sabotage yourself? I've been looking out for Uther's boy, and I'm not the only one. "
The mug was empty again. When the serving girl passed by, he found himself placing his hand over the mouth of the cup and asking for a jug. He would take it back to his room. He was not done drinking, but he had no particular wish to wake up in a gutter. When she had brought the jug, he rose and dropped a handful of coin on the table. It was far too much, but he did not care. Money had never been the problem, not with his bloodline and the vast family estates outside of Rome.
Perhaps it was time to go back to Rome after all. He had believed he could serve as his father had, that it was his heritage to live and fight besides the eastern horsemen that his father had commanded, but perhaps, as Aurelius had chided, that was only a child's fancy after all. Perhaps his place was in Rome, not in this land that, while it had brought him life, had brought him little else but loss and pain.
And perhaps it was just sinful pride that led him to think that he was needed. Aurelius had made himself quite clear on that point. Marcellus is a fine commander, with many years of experience. He's had this command for six months now, and he's kept those barbarians well in hand and made good use of them. You're Uther's boy and as promising a young officer as I've heard tell of, but do you really think that you'll do better than a proven man such as Marcellus?"
That kindly meant reproof still ringing in his ears, Arthur walked blindly through the crooked, narrow streets. He had not planned to leave Britain so quickly—in truth, he had thought he would just be sending for his things in Gaul—but tomorrow he would turn around and begin the journey back. There was no point in staying here.
He would decide what to do next when he returned to Gaul. Aurelius's blunt refusal—indeed, his disapproval of Arthur's very goal—had shaken him down to his foundations. He had thought he understood the purpose of his life, but if he had been so very wrong, then perhaps he needed to reevaluate everything. He had spent his youth toiling to learn the skills of war, driven forward by his belief that his life had but one purpose. But perhaps he did not belong in the army at all. He could resign without much problem if he chose; his family connections would make it easy.
If nothing else, Pelagius would be pleased if Arthur returned to Rome. Pelagius, although he had never directly said so, had never quite approved of Arthur's choice to follow in his father's footsteps. In Rome, Arthur could devote his time to study—to philosophy and theology. He would not miss the army. In the six years since he had joined, he had surfeited already on blood.
And that belief that had driven him through the bloody years, the belief that he could do better than other men, he saw it now exposed for what it was. Arrogance and pride.
Loud voices pulled him out of his thoughts and he paused to look down into the alley snaking off to his left. The moon was nearly full tonight, and it illuminated a group of a half dozen legionaries confronting a single figure dressed in civilian clothing.
"Give the money over now, boy, and we'll let you alone—mostly," a voice was sneering. "So long as you admit you cheated and prettily beg my pardon."
The accented voice that answered, although softer than the legionary's, cut easily through the night air. "I can see why you'd think I'd need to cheat to win at dice when faced with such an . . . intelligent opponent such as yourself. And I can doubly see you're clever—if not particularly stout of heart—since you've prudently brought some friends with you in your pursuit of justice. But alas, you're not quite smart enough. Why ever did you bring so few to assist you?" For a moment the legionary actually sputtered, and Arthur, although he appreciated the sheer gall of the speaker, wondered if he was trying to get himself killed.
And then the voice went on. The mad speaker sounded as if he were enjoying himself. "But if it's an apology that you want, I suppose I can oblige you. I am rather sorry for you that you're so stupid."
This galvanized the legionary into action, and, with what sounded more like an indignant squawk than a battle cry, he attacked, his comrades joining him. At the sight of so many men in Rome's colors charging a lone man, Arthur's brooding temper snapped.
Was this what it was then? Was this the might and glory of the Roman army? This bullying use of force? Was this what he was supposed to devote himself to?
He could have announced himself and ordered the legionaries to halt, but his own frustrations drove him forward. He spun one of the men around by his cloak, ducked under a wild punch and then knocked the man straight into the alley wall. He watched the man crumple to the ground with savage satisfaction.
He turned to find another opponent, but he could only stare at the sight that met his eyes. He had expected to have to wade in and yank the soldiers off their victim, but instead he found that three other soldiers were already on the ground. As Arthur watched, mouth agape, the civilian, his wild grin glinting in the moonlight, had driven a fist into another's legionary's stomach, nearly simultaneously elbowing in the face the remaining man, who was trying to circle behind him.
The first man managed to straighten up, a dagger in his hand. The sight of drawn steel roused Arthur, and he rushed forward, mouth open to shout a warning, but before he had taken two steps, the man went down like a dropped sack of meal, the knife clattering harmlessly to the ground.
Only Arthur and the civilian remained standing. Arthur blinked at the defeated legionaries in disbelief. This slim boy had downed five trained soldiers in a few heartbeats.
He looked up and found himself pinned by glittering eyes. The other's stance was poised and wary, like a predator ready to spring. Arthur held his hands out from his body, signaling that he was no threat.
He glanced back down at the felled soldiers. "You— You can't be a civilian," Arthur found himself blurting. But the boy's plain dark leathers gave no sign of his unit, a punishable offense for a common solider. An auxiliary? Some of the auxiliary units were lax about such formalities, and there were a number of auxiliary units posted here, although the man before him seemed a little young to be a soldier. Arthur frowned at the idea of the regular legion and the auxiliary getting into fights—the two had to trust each other in battle—but then forced the thought back. Not his problem. Not here in Britain, and maybe, soon, not even in Gaul.
Some of the taut wariness of the other's stance had relaxed, although he still looked ready to move at any moment as he raked his eyes over Arthur. One of the men on the ground began to stir—the one whose nose he had broken—and without looking away from Arthur, he kicked the man casually in the head. The man promptly went limp again.
Arthur himself did not spare the legionary much of a look, but returned to studying the boy. No, not a boy. He looked young, but those fierce, compelling eyes were not those of a boy. And he had not needed Arthur's help at all. He considered the deceptively thin build and the wild, dark curls that the moonlight was gilding with silver.
"Shall I call the watch?" he offered after clearing his throat. These men deserved to spend the night confined and then face whatever punishment their officers came up with on the morrow.
A grin flashed in the moonlight. "I think they've been punished enough for the moment." His voice was smooth and unruffled, if a bit self satisfied. He moved forward then, with an easy grace that Arthur knew could erupt into violence at any moment. Arthur was careful to keep his stance relaxed.
"But—" Arthur began, his sense of justice offended.
As the other approached, he got a better look at his face, and fell silent. Fine features, framed by elegant brows. "Never mind." The mobile mouth quirked, and then the unabashed declaration: "That one, he had a right to be angry. I was cheating, after all."
Arthur opened his mouth and then shut it. Suddenly, he found himself laughing, the sound ringing in the narrow alley.
The other smiled, a real smile, not the exhilarated, battle mad smile of before, although that euphoria still glittered around the edges. Arthur, oddly, found his breath hitching as his laughter died.
The youth looked away from Arthur and glanced at the man Arthur had felled. "You stole part of my fight," he said. He paused to prod Arthur's victim with the toe of his boot, and when the man did not move, he glanced up at Arthur, eyebrows raised. "You owe me."
It was Arthur's turn to sputter, but then the other man was nodding in the direction of the jug that still hung, forgotten, in Arthur's hand. "Give that to me and we'll call it quits."
Arthur's mouth wanted badly to stretch into a wide smile. "I helped you," he protested, but was that his voice, so light and amused? Before he realized what he was saying, he made the offer: "Tell you what, I'll share it with you."
The other man's eyes narrowed and went hard, but when Arthur merely met the look, the chill faded. Another flashing smile, this one so charming that it made Arthur blink as though dazzled. "Alright, I suppose I can settle for that. Come on, I know just the place."
~
The auxiliary soldier—for that's what Arthur had decided he was, especially since he had led Arthur to one of the outlying barracks on the river's west bank–had really long, thick eyelashes. Arthur had never seen eyelashes like that on a man. He took another swallow of wine before handing the jug back to his drinking companion, who was stretched out his back, staring up at the sky. Arthur glanced up and tried to find the sky interesting, but his eyes strayed over to the edge again, and he shuddering a little. "Why," Arthur asked, not for the first time, "up here?"
The other man shrugged from his prone position—but this time he actually answered rather than smirking and asking if Arthur were afraid of a little bit of height. "I like it here. You can almost pretend you're not surrounded by walls." Arthur frowned. He liked walls. Walls were nice and snug. Walls were meant to be lived behind, just as roofs were meant to be lived under, not sat upon.
Arthur drank some more from the jug and then lay back himself, blinking up at the clear night sky. It was not a bad roof, he decided after a moment. At least it was not particularly slanted. Really, it was nearly flat. He paused to consider why on earth someone would build a flat roof, when the voice beside him lazily asked, "What's your name, anyway?"
The question seemed extremely funny. He bit his lip to keep from laughing, and answered. "Arthur." He unthinkingly gave his mother's British version of his name, the name of his childhood, rather than the name he was called these days. Still, he was glad when he did—tonight he did not want to be Lucius Artorius Castus, son of Roman equestrians.
"Arthur?" The name rolled off the other's tongue in a way that Arthur had never heard before. "A mongrel are you, then?"
Arthur sat up, indignant. "What are you speaking of?"
"What are you speaking of?" The other mimicked Arthur's educated Latin pronunciation with uncanny accuracy. "I was wondering—you talk like one of them, but here you are, wandering the lowest streets with the cheapest wine even I have ever drunk. But don't take insult," he continued when Arthur opened his mouth to speak, "the more mongrel you are, the better, by my mind. I was half expecting you to say 'Gaius' or 'Lucius' or something conventionally pompous like that.
Arthur winced, but then asked, "Are you a 'mongrel'"—he could not help grimacing as he said the word—"yourself?"
A snort and an airy wave of a long-boned hand. "Me? No. I'm pure blooded demon barbarian."
Arthur had to laugh at that, both at the words and at the prideful tone.
He leaned back on his side, resting on one bent elbow so he could study his companion. Dark eyes turned from contemplating the stars and met Arthur's. Arthur found himself flushing. He was thinking to himself that he had drunk too much when a warm hand grasped the back of his neck and pulled his head down. Arthur was barely aware of heat against his lips before it was over, and he pulled away, gaping down at the man looking back up at him.
"What, then?" A slight smile on those lips and Arthur found he could not look away from them. He felt something twist deep in his gut. "Why did you come up here, if not for this?"
"I don't know." This time, Arthur leaned down of his own accord. His kiss was hesitant at first, but the mouth beneath his was having none of that, and after a moment, a hand was tangled in Arthur's hair, another on his waist. In a few more moments, one of Arthur's own hands had found its way beneath cloth to touch the bare skin at the small of the other man's back, while his other hand had somehow taken to plucking at the ties to leather trousers.
Arthur was hardly inexperienced, but he did not think he had ever felt quite like this when kissing someone. A fever seemed to sweep over him, stealing his wits and leaving behind only a desperate fervor.
Luckily, his companion seemed of like disposition, and before long, Arthur lay between long legs, his palms sliding over warm flesh, even as he could not seem to release the hot mouth with its clever, maddening tongue. He rubbed himself between those legs, burning heat to burning heat. But it was not enough, and he knew what he wanted, what he had to have, and he growled as he forced the legs further apart, his fingers seeking— He had to—
He growled as teeth closed hard on his lower lip, and then, not quite knowing how it happened, he was flat on his back. He wanted to howl his frustration, but then he met the eyes boring down into his and froze at what he saw in them. Long fingers were on him, stroking hard, and with a groan, he gave in, bucking into them. While it was not what he had wanted, he was not fool enough to complain. Not when it felt so, so—
Afterward, he lay dazed and panting, aware of long limbs sprawled across him and a heavy head on his heaving chest. As he caught his breath, he dared to run his fingers through the curly hair, marveling at the feel of it. When the other man did not object, he let his hands wander more freely, feeling the strength in the long limbs and studying the way the smooth skin was interrupted by the occasional ridge of a scar. He had only gotten fleeting, heated impressions of it all before, and his hands were hungry to learn more.
After awhile, the dark head lifted, and Arthur's hands stilled, although lingering on the warm flesh. They looked at each other for a moment and Arthur found himself grinning crookedly up at the other man.
He lifted a hand to trace over a prominent cheekbone. Dark eyes continued to watch him, but Arthur did not feel uneasy under their scrutiny. Without thinking, he found himself saying, "It's my birthday tomorrow." Actually, today, since he supposed it was near dawn.
A roll of eyes. Arthur watched the expressive features, fascinated. "Birth day? You really are part Roman, aren't you?" With that, the other man sat up, and Arthur let him go reluctantly. He watched, dismayed, as the other began to hunt for his scattered clothing.
"You—" Arthur started.
"Had better get back. The others will be wondering where I've gotten to."
Arthur sat up and seized the long fingers that were lacing up a dark tunic. "Can I see you tomorrow?" He had meant to leave, but—
A quizzical raised eyebrow met Arthur expectant gaze. "I won't be here tomorrow."
"You're on duty? When will you be back?" Arthur could wait.
The man had pulled his hands away from Arthur's grip. "We're not stationed here. I won't be back." Arthur opened his mouth and shut it. He had assumed— The other man was still talking as he continued to dress. "Marcellus, the whoreson, was nervous enough bringing any of us here in the first place. Afraid we'd do something to embarrass him, I'm sure. Not that I wouldn't have loved a chance to make him look like the donkey's arse he is before his precious superiors, never mind a flogging. But he's been threatening a flogging for everyone in the escort if anything goes wrong—and, well, Bors would sit on me while Tristan cut strips from my skin if that happened."
Arthur had not registered much of this except one thing. Voice choked, he demanded, "Your officer is called Marcellus? What unit—?"
He was given an odd look. "We're conscripted cavalry stationed at the Wall. Badon Hill."
Arthur's hands clenched. Dear God. He had— How had he not known—? But, then, he had only the barest recollections of the men his father had commanded, so blurry that he was never quite sure if they were true memories or memories of boyhood tales that others had told him. This man looked nothing like his hazy memories of giants with long hair and booming voices. "You're Sarmatian," he finally said
Both black brows were lowered now, and Arthur realized his shock had been misconstrued. "Yes." A pause. "Contrary to the rumors, we don't actually eat our enemies raw, nor do we howl at the moon."
Arthur, hearing the furious edge to the words and seeing the other, dressed now except his boots, moving toward the roof's edge, caught at his hand again. "No. Wait. I didn't mean—" He shook his head and took a breath. "Your commander, Marcellus, is he a good man?"
"Good?" The disdain in the voice was thick enough to sink teeth into. "Is there such a thing as a good Roman, then? Are you addle witted?"
Arthur ignored the insult—the insults, really—but persisted. "Is he a good officer?"
A fluid shrug, although his voice was edged with savage contempt. "He can't find his own arse with a map and a guide pointing the way, yet believes he shits pure gold. He cares for nothing but his own promotion, and the men he commands are less than animals to him. So, I'd say he was typical of his kind. What do you care?"
But Aurelius had said— What had Aurelius actually said? Arthur found himself stumbling over the words. "I— I had hoped he was treating you—with the respect and honor you deserve."
Furious eyes continued to stare at him, and Arthur felt himself flush, but the anger in them was fading. The man gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "You are a strange one, Arthur." He pulled his hand away, but not roughly.
He was by the roof edge when Arthur called, his voice ringing with certainty in night the air, "I will see you again."
"Perhaps you shall, if you ever find yourself up north. Although I don't recommend it as a destination for any who have a say in the matter." A faint, quirking smile. "Fare well, Arthur."
He disappeared over the side of the roof, and Arthur sat there, unmoving, his chest aching in a way he had never felt before. But somehow, at the same time, he felt suddenly lighter than he had in such a long time. He had, it seemed, forgotten to have faith. He would— He would. The army was only force, after all. It was only as just or as brutish as those who guided it.
"Ware!" A voice broke in from below, and then Arthur, too startled to move, was nearly hit in the head by his own boot sailing through the air. He had not even noticed that it had fallen off the roof.
A realization rose, and Arthur scrambled to the edge of the roof, nearly falling off in his desperate haste. "Wait!" The slim silhouette below paused and Arthur called—for he had to know this, and he could not wait—"You didn't tell me your name!"
A low laugh in the night. "Lancelot." And then even his shadow was gone.
Arthur remained crouched at the edge. He mouthed the strange name to himself several times. He would see him—Lancelot—again. He turned and fumbled on his clothes. He climbed down the roof hastily, his usual fear of heights passing unnoticed.
He needed to get back and wash and dress in his uniform as quickly as he could. He would be waiting to speak to Aurelius again as soon as the man was awake. He would not leave until he had what he wanted.
And he would not be leaving Britain at all.
~
Lancelot stopped to wash at the pump outside the barracks the Sarmatians had been assigned. As he lifted the bucket, he found himself pausing to inhale the scent lingering on his skin, but dismissed that fancy before it could be fully birthed, and dashed the cold water over his head.
He had been warm enough before, but he was shivering as he slipped into the room that he was sharing with Bors, Dagonet and Tristan. He took care to be silent, although he knew all the room's occupants had woken at the first creak of the door.
He put his things down and climbed into the bunk where Tristan lay. He settled down, grateful when a warm arm curved around him and pulled him close.
"What took you so long?" Bors' voice was a low grumble. "I was back hours ago."
"Not all of us are as quick at firing off as you," Lancelot retorted.
Bors called him a few impolite names, but with no particular malice. "I thought you were only interested in gambling tonight." They had gone out together, but had parted company when Lancelot had been busily scouting out potential victims and Bors had caught sight of a wide-hipped red head.
Reminded of his earlier victory, he grinned into the darkness. "I did! I won enough for two new saddles." No one in this stinking place had known to be wary of him, so it had been easier than convincing a horse to buck a Roman rider from his saddle.
"Good," Dagonet's voice joined in. "Galahad's is looking worn as well. I spoke to the leather worker. I'll buy a pair in the morning before we leave."
Lancelot grimaced and opened his mouth to protest this use of his hard won money, but Bors beat him to speaking.
"So, was she pretty?"
Lancelot snuggled further down into the warmth of Tristan's arm. "He had the greenest eyes I've ever seen."
Bors only snorted in response, and then the room settled into silence. But Lancelot felt Tristan's smile against his damp hair. Perhaps Tristan had won a bet; Lancelot rarely bedded men at their own garrison—too many possible complications and it gave the Roman bastards ideas. But when they were away, he often made a point of it for the sake of variety, if he could find someone who interested him. It suited him well that he would never see these men again.
Lancelot, safe and content for the moment, let himself drift toward sleep. He needed what he could have of it. Dawn was whispering on the horizon already and they had a long journey ahead. He had no regrets—he never allowed himself those—but although he wanted to sleep, he would not mind if he dreamed of green eyes and broad, strong hands.
They would only be dreams, after all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-07-18 06:04 pm (UTC)(And also, hot!)
:-) xx
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Date: 2007-07-19 12:08 am (UTC)(And hee! on the icon.)
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Date: 2007-07-18 10:22 pm (UTC)I love that Arthur's mind is changed after meeting L. I love that Lancelot doesn't mind admitting that he did enjoy it - even though perhaps that was okay because he didn't think he'd see A again.
I cannot believe you wrote this gem despite the amount of work you had. *hugs massively* You are teh shit. Thank you so much.
And I've crossed the Ouse river, by the way. Eboracum. Hee!!!
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Date: 2007-07-19 12:17 am (UTC)So happy you liked it!
(And, as it was your fic, the location was not a coincidence. ;) )
Don't overdose on sugar, now. :p
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Date: 2007-07-19 12:25 am (UTC)I knew you'd set it there on purpose. And I still laughed. :p
I need to read this again. Too, too lovely.
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Date: 2007-07-19 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-18 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-18 10:50 pm (UTC)A very perfect gift for a great person as Ash is. My very compliment.
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Date: 2007-07-19 12:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-18 11:02 pm (UTC)"Tell you what, I'll share it with you."
Hmm, that's a pick-up line I haven't tried. Yet. ;p
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Date: 2007-07-19 12:23 am (UTC)Glad you liked it. I'd have liked a few more rounds with it, but it's probably just as well I had to post it. ;)
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Date: 2007-07-19 04:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 11:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 01:54 am (UTC)Nice icon. *mmmmmmmmmmmmmm*
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Date: 2007-07-19 01:16 am (UTC)Shelley
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Date: 2007-07-19 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 11:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 03:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-19 11:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-24 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-24 08:33 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!