King Arthur fic - See Me - PG-13
Title: See Me
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, one-sided Tristian/Arthur.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tristan's last thoughts
Warnings: Spoilers for film and angst.
Dedicated to deannawol who spawned this and many other plot-tribbles and so has to read them all.
Yes, I'm evil.
Tristan, the hawk-eyed. The finest scout that any Roman army was blessed with. So you told me, every month for the last fifteen years. Perhaps you were right. Certainly I was the first to see Lancelot's resentment turn to something else entirely. He was always the most forward of us.
Do you know that I can still remember the day the centurion brought us to you? I wonder how we must have seemed to you - a cluster of resentful youths, isolated and clinging to each other. We had spent the entire journey with only ourselves to rely on. For all that you preach of free will and equality, your once-fellow citizens never lost a chance to drum in the shame that had brought us as little better than slaves.
You were different from the very first moment. I do not think I would have had your confidence. You sparred with us - overmastering us and showing us the folly of our pride. Then before we could truly resent your superiority, you praised us and told us how proud you would be to fight with us. Not command us. Fight with us.
I think now that it was that moment that you had us. I am nearly sure that is the moment I was lost. You were everything I admired, everything I wished to be. And so, I watched you, day and night for fifteen years. I have watched you and I have watched Lancelot. You and he clashed so often. I could see what he wanted - for you to react to him. At first, he would have been happy merely to hold your attention. To have you look at him rather than us.
He was frustrated in that. You encouraged and supported us. You taught me to scout, to listen to the rhythm of the forest. Even now, I treasure those days spent in dripping wet camps with only you and your dreams as company. Lancelot resented my claim on your time and that resentment flared into scuffles. He was starting to see.
Then as he grew to manhood and your lover left for Rome, he began to concieve of what he truly wanted. Lancelot began to pursue you. I watched and I wanted to hate him. Hate him for the courage I lacked. Hate him for suceeding where I failed to even try. But that would have hurt you and so I remained, watching you draw closer together and envying you both the depth and strength of your bonds.
I struggle against this Saxon but he is too strong, too confident...too much like you. I know I am beaten even as I fall. The world spins around me and I drag myself on the ground like a beast. You tear through their ranks even as a hand fists in my hair and drags me up.
I see my death approach as the Saxon spins me away and even as the blade bites deep, I feel a selfish thrill of pleasure. Lancelot is gone to rescue the Woad woman, riding recklessly into peril but it is not after him you look. As the blade tears through the muscules of my chest and I fall, you charge towards my slayer.
Lancelot is in battle. Gwain is wounded. Galad is screaming and Bor is hacking through the Saxons like a reaper through corn. But you are not looking at them. Now, at last...
Now...you see me.
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, one-sided Tristian/Arthur.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tristan's last thoughts
Warnings: Spoilers for film and angst.
Dedicated to deannawol who spawned this and many other plot-tribbles and so has to read them all.
Yes, I'm evil.
Tristan, the hawk-eyed. The finest scout that any Roman army was blessed with. So you told me, every month for the last fifteen years. Perhaps you were right. Certainly I was the first to see Lancelot's resentment turn to something else entirely. He was always the most forward of us.
Do you know that I can still remember the day the centurion brought us to you? I wonder how we must have seemed to you - a cluster of resentful youths, isolated and clinging to each other. We had spent the entire journey with only ourselves to rely on. For all that you preach of free will and equality, your once-fellow citizens never lost a chance to drum in the shame that had brought us as little better than slaves.
You were different from the very first moment. I do not think I would have had your confidence. You sparred with us - overmastering us and showing us the folly of our pride. Then before we could truly resent your superiority, you praised us and told us how proud you would be to fight with us. Not command us. Fight with us.
I think now that it was that moment that you had us. I am nearly sure that is the moment I was lost. You were everything I admired, everything I wished to be. And so, I watched you, day and night for fifteen years. I have watched you and I have watched Lancelot. You and he clashed so often. I could see what he wanted - for you to react to him. At first, he would have been happy merely to hold your attention. To have you look at him rather than us.
He was frustrated in that. You encouraged and supported us. You taught me to scout, to listen to the rhythm of the forest. Even now, I treasure those days spent in dripping wet camps with only you and your dreams as company. Lancelot resented my claim on your time and that resentment flared into scuffles. He was starting to see.
Then as he grew to manhood and your lover left for Rome, he began to concieve of what he truly wanted. Lancelot began to pursue you. I watched and I wanted to hate him. Hate him for the courage I lacked. Hate him for suceeding where I failed to even try. But that would have hurt you and so I remained, watching you draw closer together and envying you both the depth and strength of your bonds.
I struggle against this Saxon but he is too strong, too confident...too much like you. I know I am beaten even as I fall. The world spins around me and I drag myself on the ground like a beast. You tear through their ranks even as a hand fists in my hair and drags me up.
I see my death approach as the Saxon spins me away and even as the blade bites deep, I feel a selfish thrill of pleasure. Lancelot is gone to rescue the Woad woman, riding recklessly into peril but it is not after him you look. As the blade tears through the muscules of my chest and I fall, you charge towards my slayer.
Lancelot is in battle. Gwain is wounded. Galad is screaming and Bor is hacking through the Saxons like a reaper through corn. But you are not looking at them. Now, at last...
Now...you see me.