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Ancient Love	By : Darksong Category: G through L > King Arthur Views: 3389 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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�� We don�t
bother sticking around. This is Roman business, and we are no longer Romans.
No, that�s not quite right, we were never Romans, but their business no longer
concerns us. Arthur won�t hide anything from us should we need to know, and
arguing with the Romans is useless. We�re supposed to be free today, but the
air does not hold salvation. Something is amiss, and we can only wait to see
what Fate will bring us. Drink flows freely between us. Even with trouble on
the horizon, we will be celebrating tonight. Throwing dice at the table, I try
to ignore the putrid smell of death that follows me even here. How many have I
killed in fifteen years beneath a Roman flag? I�m not sure which of those
questions is worse, but I fear it is the latter. At Bors� urging �Nora sings,
and memories of home swell to push such horrid thoughts aside. Her softly
melodic tune allowing a breath of a place we no longer know to caress our tired
bodies and weary souls. Even this light respite can not last however.
�� I think I
am the first to notice him standing there, but I say nothing. He doesn�t meet
my eye, and I know it is bad. I see the pain in his expression as he turns to
walk away, wishing to give us at least this moment of peace; but he is stopped
before he can escape by Galahad�s incessant cries of �Arthur!� which are soon
joined by Gawain�s �you�re not completely Roman yet, are you?� as he comes
over, flask in hand, and offers it to him. Bors chimes in with his usual
greeting; but I am wary. I can see his pain as he addresses us. �We must leave
on a final mission for Rome, before
our freedom can be granted.� My heart sinks at those words, and for a moment
everything inside of me is frozen. I will never see my home again, I know this
now.
�� The
celebration is over. The knights argue with their beloved commander. I just
watch. What can I say? The Romans have broken their word, but we have the word
of Arthur, and that will have to be enough. The others storm off leaving behind
only Arthur and myself. There are no words between us now however, just a long
silence as I stare into his tragically brown eyes. He�s dieing inside, just as
we are. I know it, though he tries to hide it. Finally, he gives up and simply
brushes past me and heads for the stable. I should stop him. Should comfort him
as I have so many times before, but I simply let him go.
�� I have
nothing to say to him. He is my best friend, my brother, and my commander. We
have fought side by side for fifteen ears. I could not abandon him even if I
wanted to. There is nothing to say, but for some reason I follow him to the
stable. I expect him to be packing, but am not overly surprised to find him
otherwise disposed. On his knees, with his back to the door, he doesn�t see me.
He�s praying, like he always is. That fool. Can he not see that it is
absolutely pointless?
�� Why do you
always talk to god and not me?� I try to keep the jealousy out of my voice, and
find it rather easy with all the hate and anger that presently colors it. Even
the pain at this betrayal is hidden beneath the resentment. Good. I�m allowed
to be angry. He�ll expect angry.
�� My faith
is what protects me Lancelot, why do you challenge this? He hasn�t stood and I
don�t stop my eyes from running over him. For fifteen years I have ridden at
his side, and never had he looked as vulnerable as he did now. I would pity
him, but I�m too busy pitying myself. A smirk pulls bitterly at my lips.
�� I don�t
like anything that puts a man on his knees.� I retort, trying to keep the sneer
out of my voice. He is Arthur after all. He seems surprised for barely a
second, before countering. So certain in this god of his, he won�t listen to
anything I might say against God, or the church. He never has. I don�t bother
challenging this anymore. It has no purpose. But this mission is suicide. He
knows it as well as I, or he wouldn�t be here now. None of us should be here
now. To try and get past the Woads in the north is insanity, surely he realizes
that. It is their land there, wild and unremorseful. Does he truly believe we
can make it? How many Saxons? We don�t even know what we�re up against. It�s
suicide. I walk across the stable; he has yet to answer me. Barely a foot from
him now, but he still hasn�t moved. My eyes run over his armor-clad torso, and
for a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder how it would feel to follow the
same line with my hands.
�� Tell me,
do you believe in this mission?� if he would just say yes, then perhaps I could
have some peace. To know that I was marching into certain death for the man I
love, rather than the country I abhor. But he will not grant me that.
�� These
people need our help� he answers evenly.
I wonder what he is thinking, but he�s shut me out as he
never has before. I can�t take it anymore. To be so close and to feel nothing�
�� I don�t
care about your charge; and I don�t give a damn about Roman,
Britain, or this island.
If you desire to spent eternity in this place, Arthur, then so be it, but
suicide can not be chosen for another!�
�� And yet
you choose death for this family!�
�� No, I
chose life and freedom for myself and the men!� My hands knot into fists as
they pound against the wood of the nearest stall. I want to hit him; to his
something. But I settle instead for throwing myself down onto the bench. The
wood creaks angrily beneath me in protest, and the horse behind me snorts. I
can�t look at him, I might kill him just now, but he gives me no choice as he
lays his hands on my shoulders. I feel the weight of those hands, hands that I
have dreamed of feeling against my flesh for years; but I can take no comfort
from them. Nor from the heat of the body that stands behind me. I only barely
manage to not lean into him. Doesn�t he see how hopeless of a cause this is?
�� How many
times in battle have we snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat?� His voice
is stronger than he is. He doesn�t think I can hear the tremble in it. I don�t
let him know that I can. He is my king, my love, and I will not shatter that
image for him. Still, I say nothing. �Outnumbered and outflanked, but still we
triumph. With you at my side Lancelot, we can do it again!� He doesn�t say it,
but I can hear the please, the begging in that tone that I not leave him. Oh,
that I could. I don�t want to hear the barely restrained plea in his voice. I
don�t want to see him like this. As scared as the rest of us and trying so hard
not to show it. Just once I wish he�d shed the armor and just be another man.
Perhaps then I could reach him, but he never will. I�m not sure he can. He
isn�t just another man; he�s Arturius, the great Arthur Castus. He isn�t just
another man.
�� I stand and
turn to face him. However much I don�t want to, I can�t not. His hands remain
at my shoulders. �Lancelot, we are knights, what other purpose do we serve if
not this?� I can hear the plea in his voice again. The desperate need to
believe in his cause; to know that he is right. But I am not sure I can provide
that reassurance. This isn�t our fight for god�s sakes! Taking his face into my
hands, I lay my hands across his tanned cheeks, my thumbs brushing either cheekbone
once, before stilling. His eyes meet mine, and I can not look away. I long to
hold him, to press my lips to his and end his suffering, but I can not.
�� Arthur,
you fight for a world that will never exist. Never.� He crumbles slightly, I
see the light fading in his eyes and it kills me to go on, but I must. �There
will always be a battlefield� his jaw tenses and silence reigns for a long
moment before I release him and step away from his strong arms. My back to him,
I close my eyes. They�re brimming with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Not
here, not before my beloved Arturius. I mean to walk away, and yet I am still
standing here, listening to the pounding of my heart. What drives me to speak,
I don�t know, but I hear the words and know they are my own. �I will die in
battle. Of that I am certain. Hopefully, a battle of my choosing. But, if it be
this one, grant me a favor. Don�t bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me.
Burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong east wind.� I don�t hear him step
forward, but again I feel him right behind me. And again I must force myself to
remain standing, rather then press against his hard chest. Oh, to be in those
arms� A strong hand is placed on my shoulder, and I feel him squeeze lightly. I
don�t dare turn towards him, not as a tear slides down my cheek. I have to get
out of there. I can�t breathe. I don�t wait for any other response. I simply
pull away from him, and silently leave him to his prayers. But as I walk away,
I can feel those beautiful brown eyes boring into my back. Oh, if only you
knew, my beloved Arthur, what you do to me.
�� My bed has
never been so lonely, nor so cold, as it is this night as I lay beneath the
heavy furs and dream of a tragically hardened face, and unyielding brown eyes.
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Ancient Love