(no subject)
untitled
Author: EmilyBored
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Guinevere/Arthur/Lancelot
“I don’t want to argue about this anymore, Lancelot,” Arthur barked at the figure loitering in the hall beyond his door.
“Did you argue before?” Guinevere asked, taking it as permission to enter.
“Yes,” he said, turning back to his maps and papers.
“Is that why you cannot sleep?”
“I cannot sleep,” he said, irritated, before pausing to moderate both his voice and words. “I cannot sleep because I am used to having him by my side before war.”
She walked farther into the room at sat down on his bed.
“In what manner?” she asked neutrally. She knew none of these men well, and for both that and her world it was a neutral question, but Arthur looked at her sharply.
“You two are very much alike,” he said, acknowledging her question no further. “I have six, maybe seven summers on him, and when he came here, we were both very young, but I had been trained in Rome and this was my command. He was a child, although he should not have been. He could fight well… ride exceptionally. And he was a stubborn arrogant fool -“
“Much like now,” she muttered darkly. Arthur chose to ignore her.
“To get stronger,” he said with an incredulous laugh, “he’d fight Bors, who has not changed one bit. Lancelot had no time for shields, something you’d do well to note about him, but far from that much strength in his weaker arm. He dislocated his shoulder. I had to put it back.” He finished with a shrug.
“Why you? If you were commander here...” She asked.
“Because he trusted me.”
“Why?”
“I have never known,” he said gently. “Least of all tonight,” he added with some bite, before shuffling at his papers again.
“You should sleep, Arthur. This agitation will do you no good.”
“I would have to be cursed or lured to it,” he said, still sharp, and moments from ordering her to go.
“My people have taught me to do both.”
Arthur laughed in startlement as much as anything else and walked over to her, grabbing her arm roughly and pulling her to her feet.
“What is it you seek here?”
“Sleep for you, and pleasure for me.”
“And what else?”
“Surely you understand alliances made in spit, and in blood, and in seed,” she said, jutting her chin out in challenge.
“Maybe not as well as anyone here seems to think,” he said bitterly, before kissing her roughly. It was sleep certainly. Perhaps a moment’s ease, and somewhere to place the hatred and the ache both she and Lancelot had managed to inspire in him this day.
Lancelot had paced everything there was to pace. Along the watch, through the stables, and around Arthur’s damned accursed table. At first he had been heartsick at the thought of losing his friend not to Rome, but to war and a woman. Then he had been angry, and finally, he had simply been scared and sick and frustrated because he could not and would not sleep without being by Arthur’s side, as had been his habit before battle all these fifteen years. At first it had been terror, then loyalty, then camaraderie and finally the realization that the other man was simply also himself. Many believed that to fight well one had to leave the body and its thought, but Lancelot, who well knew he would never take up as much space on this earth as Bors, knew that to separate in such a way from himself would be deadly, and to be away from Arthur on such a night, felt and was the same.
Cursing, and finding no comfort in the fact that he would have to apologize to satisfy the superstitious and romantic notions Arthur should have killed in him as a younger man, he stalked off to his master’s quarters.
When Guinevere allowed him to roll on top of her, he felt the calculation. Many men had had this woman, and the position was not a comfort she would ordinarily choose to provide. Mentally, he corrected himself. Many men, had this woman had.
It was only his scars that she touched shyly and he had to bite at her throat and shoulder to not tell their stories. Wounds Lancelot had saved him from by being merciless, a character trait that had allowed him enough room for the foolishness or faith that had brought this strange woman to his bed.
He was efficient, wanting the quiet of sleep above all else that was attainable.
She leaned up against the wall, bedding across her and Arthur’s head pillowed on her shoulder.
“Did you ever…?” she asked and trailed off with a hand gesture. She was tired, and Arthur might be more prone to answering without the perceived insult of specificity.
He let out a puff of air that was nearly a laugh. “We have shared women, we have shared each other, we have shared horses, we have shared blood and it is hardly the most important thing between us, this thing you ask. He is my brother, and I will find a way to hate you for taking me from him.”
“Rome would have done the same.”
“The Rome in my heart would have conquered him.”
“You build it here then.”
He laughed, incredulous and outraged and started to sit up. She pressed his head back down. “You do not understand what they have wrought over centuries of thought, and labor and science and faith. It is impossible.”
“It would appeal to him,” she said.
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
“He doesn’t like me. But I need you both if I am to save my people for four hundred years, instead of merely forty.”
“I am afraid of you,” Arthur whispered after a long silence.
“Arthur… look… I’m sorry, I just -oh, I am a fool,” Lancelot said with a low laugh as he registered what he had walked into, and turned to go, quietly stunned at how he had probably just made the rift between them larger.
“Only if you leave,” Guinevere said quietly as Arthur sat up.
Lancelot turned and looked at her sharply. “I do not know what you play at -“
“She doesn’t play, Lancelot.”
“Do you, Arthur?”
He stood, oblivious to his nudity that was only serving to make the situation more ridiculous. “I do not play with you. I have never, no matter what you may think, for a moment, played with you. I need you here on whatever terms you are willing to be here.”
Lancelot smirked.
“He says he can’t sleep without you,” Guinevere said dryly.
He looked between then several times and laughed. “Get back in bed, Arthur, the cold does you no favours,” he said glancing down his body and smiling smugly.
“I have never been so relieved to have you be cruel to me,” he replied, doing just that.
Lancelot perched against the corner of Arthur’s desk. “What happens after tomorrow?”
Arthur shook his head. He didn’t like for people to talk about a life that may not exist after a fight.
“What happens?!” Lancelot demanded, stopping himself at the last moment from slamming his hand down on Arthur’s desk.
“You would have loved Rome,” he said quietly.
“And you would love my home,” Lancelot said tightly, fighting back far too many emotions for so few words. While he did not yet know how, he knew then with all certainty that he would never see it again.
“We build a new Rome, here, on Arthur’s ideals,” she said quietly.
Lancelot’s eyes locked on her as he leaned over to make his point as clear and as unpleasant as he possibly could. “Arthur lives in a dream world, my fair maiden.”
“Would you have him live there alone?”
He looked back to Arthur, before this discussion of him got stranger. “These things end in tears my friend.”
“I would barter that for the blood,” he said and reached out to Lancelot, who extended his arm to clasp his friend’s hand with desperate force.
Arthur yanked then, and pulled him closer.
Author: EmilyBored
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Guinevere/Arthur/Lancelot
“I don’t want to argue about this anymore, Lancelot,” Arthur barked at the figure loitering in the hall beyond his door.
“Did you argue before?” Guinevere asked, taking it as permission to enter.
“Yes,” he said, turning back to his maps and papers.
“Is that why you cannot sleep?”
“I cannot sleep,” he said, irritated, before pausing to moderate both his voice and words. “I cannot sleep because I am used to having him by my side before war.”
She walked farther into the room at sat down on his bed.
“In what manner?” she asked neutrally. She knew none of these men well, and for both that and her world it was a neutral question, but Arthur looked at her sharply.
“You two are very much alike,” he said, acknowledging her question no further. “I have six, maybe seven summers on him, and when he came here, we were both very young, but I had been trained in Rome and this was my command. He was a child, although he should not have been. He could fight well… ride exceptionally. And he was a stubborn arrogant fool -“
“Much like now,” she muttered darkly. Arthur chose to ignore her.
“To get stronger,” he said with an incredulous laugh, “he’d fight Bors, who has not changed one bit. Lancelot had no time for shields, something you’d do well to note about him, but far from that much strength in his weaker arm. He dislocated his shoulder. I had to put it back.” He finished with a shrug.
“Why you? If you were commander here...” She asked.
“Because he trusted me.”
“Why?”
“I have never known,” he said gently. “Least of all tonight,” he added with some bite, before shuffling at his papers again.
“You should sleep, Arthur. This agitation will do you no good.”
“I would have to be cursed or lured to it,” he said, still sharp, and moments from ordering her to go.
“My people have taught me to do both.”
Arthur laughed in startlement as much as anything else and walked over to her, grabbing her arm roughly and pulling her to her feet.
“What is it you seek here?”
“Sleep for you, and pleasure for me.”
“And what else?”
“Surely you understand alliances made in spit, and in blood, and in seed,” she said, jutting her chin out in challenge.
“Maybe not as well as anyone here seems to think,” he said bitterly, before kissing her roughly. It was sleep certainly. Perhaps a moment’s ease, and somewhere to place the hatred and the ache both she and Lancelot had managed to inspire in him this day.
Lancelot had paced everything there was to pace. Along the watch, through the stables, and around Arthur’s damned accursed table. At first he had been heartsick at the thought of losing his friend not to Rome, but to war and a woman. Then he had been angry, and finally, he had simply been scared and sick and frustrated because he could not and would not sleep without being by Arthur’s side, as had been his habit before battle all these fifteen years. At first it had been terror, then loyalty, then camaraderie and finally the realization that the other man was simply also himself. Many believed that to fight well one had to leave the body and its thought, but Lancelot, who well knew he would never take up as much space on this earth as Bors, knew that to separate in such a way from himself would be deadly, and to be away from Arthur on such a night, felt and was the same.
Cursing, and finding no comfort in the fact that he would have to apologize to satisfy the superstitious and romantic notions Arthur should have killed in him as a younger man, he stalked off to his master’s quarters.
When Guinevere allowed him to roll on top of her, he felt the calculation. Many men had had this woman, and the position was not a comfort she would ordinarily choose to provide. Mentally, he corrected himself. Many men, had this woman had.
It was only his scars that she touched shyly and he had to bite at her throat and shoulder to not tell their stories. Wounds Lancelot had saved him from by being merciless, a character trait that had allowed him enough room for the foolishness or faith that had brought this strange woman to his bed.
He was efficient, wanting the quiet of sleep above all else that was attainable.
She leaned up against the wall, bedding across her and Arthur’s head pillowed on her shoulder.
“Did you ever…?” she asked and trailed off with a hand gesture. She was tired, and Arthur might be more prone to answering without the perceived insult of specificity.
He let out a puff of air that was nearly a laugh. “We have shared women, we have shared each other, we have shared horses, we have shared blood and it is hardly the most important thing between us, this thing you ask. He is my brother, and I will find a way to hate you for taking me from him.”
“Rome would have done the same.”
“The Rome in my heart would have conquered him.”
“You build it here then.”
He laughed, incredulous and outraged and started to sit up. She pressed his head back down. “You do not understand what they have wrought over centuries of thought, and labor and science and faith. It is impossible.”
“It would appeal to him,” she said.
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
“He doesn’t like me. But I need you both if I am to save my people for four hundred years, instead of merely forty.”
“I am afraid of you,” Arthur whispered after a long silence.
“Arthur… look… I’m sorry, I just -oh, I am a fool,” Lancelot said with a low laugh as he registered what he had walked into, and turned to go, quietly stunned at how he had probably just made the rift between them larger.
“Only if you leave,” Guinevere said quietly as Arthur sat up.
Lancelot turned and looked at her sharply. “I do not know what you play at -“
“She doesn’t play, Lancelot.”
“Do you, Arthur?”
He stood, oblivious to his nudity that was only serving to make the situation more ridiculous. “I do not play with you. I have never, no matter what you may think, for a moment, played with you. I need you here on whatever terms you are willing to be here.”
Lancelot smirked.
“He says he can’t sleep without you,” Guinevere said dryly.
He looked between then several times and laughed. “Get back in bed, Arthur, the cold does you no favours,” he said glancing down his body and smiling smugly.
“I have never been so relieved to have you be cruel to me,” he replied, doing just that.
Lancelot perched against the corner of Arthur’s desk. “What happens after tomorrow?”
Arthur shook his head. He didn’t like for people to talk about a life that may not exist after a fight.
“What happens?!” Lancelot demanded, stopping himself at the last moment from slamming his hand down on Arthur’s desk.
“You would have loved Rome,” he said quietly.
“And you would love my home,” Lancelot said tightly, fighting back far too many emotions for so few words. While he did not yet know how, he knew then with all certainty that he would never see it again.
“We build a new Rome, here, on Arthur’s ideals,” she said quietly.
Lancelot’s eyes locked on her as he leaned over to make his point as clear and as unpleasant as he possibly could. “Arthur lives in a dream world, my fair maiden.”
“Would you have him live there alone?”
He looked back to Arthur, before this discussion of him got stranger. “These things end in tears my friend.”
“I would barter that for the blood,” he said and reached out to Lancelot, who extended his arm to clasp his friend’s hand with desperate force.
Arthur yanked then, and pulled him closer.