King Arthur: Hints and Allegations (Arthur/Lancelot)
Author: Ashley
Hints And Allegations
(with apologies to Collective Soul)
Rating: light R
Fandom/Pairings: King Arthur (2004); Arthur/Lancelot
Warnings: mild slash and language.
Word count: 1967
Disclaimer: this version of the King Arthur myth does not belong to me.
Summary: What's love without hate?
Author's notes: thanks muchly to blade_and_roses for the quick beta.
Feedback would be love.
Lyrics: And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph
The pile of instructions had grown by week’s end. Lancelot wanted to use them for tinder, but each time he tried, he found himself hesitating, the heat from the brazier burning his face, the smoke wavering in the large, empty room.
Day one: Weapons inventory. Take care to get all the way to the back of the armory - I think the ala before us had a secret stash.
Please be gentle with Galahad - I know he’s been on your nerves, but he needs to be trained. You can be terrifying to those who don’t know you.
Even to those of us who do.
~A
Each day was similar. Directives, written in Arthur’s hand, for Lancelot’s eyes only while the commander was on the road.
This was one of those times Lancelot cursed the day he’d learned to read the ugly scrawl that was Latin. He’d done it so Arthur could hide nothing from him, but once Arthur realized he’d picked it up, Lancelot hadn’t seen the end of this report or that piece of post or this note from the man.
He stood in the great hall, the room empty but his hands full of Arthur’s missives. Jols had delivered one to Lancelot each day, saying “Arthur said I should keep these as you’d probably burn them.” The squire grinned each time, his smile wide enough to make Lancelot want to punch him. Perennially cheerful fucker.
Arthur apparently did not trust the men he traveled with, or else was uncertain of the possible outcome of the trip. It had seemed a routine mission - escorting a supplies wagon to Cilurnum - but at the end of each note, not missing even a one, Arthur had added a little aside that made Lancelot’s teeth ache and the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
If I should fall, do not wait for me.
Lancelot paced, the sheets of vellum in his hands making crumpling sounds that brought to mind the large bugs Bors’ children sometimes tortured to death. Those children had some problems, in Lancelot’s view.
The brazier winked at him as he circled the table. Arthur had been gone four days longer than planned. On the eighth day, Lancelot had opened his door, expecting Jols with a note, waiting with baited breath and a well-planned barb for the squire.
He’d waited for half a candlemark before he’d realized the squire wasn’t coming.
Lancelot had found him in the stables, and lost his temper at the sight of the other man placidly caring for one of Arthur’s war stallions. Jerking Jols by the collar, Lancelot dragged him from the stall, then turned his body so he could see Jols’ face.
“Where’s my letter? Or don’t you have any more bits of Castus wisdom to force feed me?”
Jols had crossed his arms and stood up straight, not shrinking from the burning wave that was Lancelot’s anger. “He thought he’d be gone for only seven days, as well you know, Lancelot. No more notes. I’m sure you can come up with some work on your own.”
He’d smiled politely. “If you’ll excuse me, lieutenant, I have chores as well. I’ll add your prayers to mine that our commander comes home safely.”
Lancelot had almost snorted fire from his nostrils as he watched the squire return to his duties. His hands flexed at his sides, but in the end, he’d merely spun around and stalked from the stables.
Gawain and Galahad had both been sorry they’d offered to spar with him that afternoon.
Lancelot stopped his pacing, and bit his lower lip. The notes in his hands suddenly felt heavy, as heavy as his own blades did, except the vellum didn’t fit comfortably in the grooves of his palms the way the swords did.
In fact, the notes felt as if they were of such strange material his fingers wanted to reject them, perhaps feeding them to the flame as his blades fed Woad blood to this earth.
“Bah!”
He spat and crumpled up all but the last note, throwing them on the brazier. They were gone in mere seconds.
Lancelot flung himself into the closest seat and with trembling hands unfolded the final note.
Day Seven: I know you’ve probably already done this, but please see to my post and make sure any incoming important messages are dealt with.
Hrm. Perhaps you won’t have done this. Perhaps you’ll have shoved the post aside as you sat down at my desk, placed your muddy boots on the surface, and ate your lunch while lording it over the other knights.
I think that’s more realistic, don’t you?
I hope to see you upon the morrow, and then you won’t have to deal with any more silly messages from me. I am aware that my handwriting is atrocious.
Dagonet should be allowed to travel the two days to Vindolanda to pick up the extra shipment of arrows that came in. Do not give him Hell about this, Lancelot, as I asked him myself to get them.
And have you been going easy on Galahad?
This trip…it worries me. The men I am to travel with are soldiers, yes, but … I feel we are best at knowing the Woad and how he acts in this area. Infantry serves a purpose. But we knights are -
I digress. There is nothing to worry about. Please just continue to do your duty and I know I will be happy with the results when I return.
I -
Yes.
I remain,
Arthur.
And there on the back, in tiny handwriting almost unreadable, although unmistakably Arthur’s, were the nine words that had been confounding and haunting and angering Lancelot for the past eleven days.
What had the man meant, exactly?
Gods damn him to the eternal land of Limbo if he didn’t return, and Lancelot had to live the rest of his days in this pisshole without an explanation -
The doors to the hall creaked open, and Lancelot crumpled the last note as he looked up, a snarl on his lips, vicious words ready for any who dared to interrupt his thinking.
Arthur walked to the chair next to Lancelot and dropped into it, more zombie than man. Lancelot’s mouth flopped a few times, the fire of rage that had sustained him the whole time Arthur had been gone burning out quickly.
“The supplies have been delivered,” Arthur stated; his voice sounded rusty and raw to Lancelot. He coughed and reached for the wine service that sat on the table, pouring himself a generous amount.
Lancelot raised his legs and rested the heels of his boots on the table, setting them down with a hard thunk that made Arthur’s eyes fix on him as he drank the wine.
“That scores the wood,” he said hoarsely, frowning. He cleared his throat. “Especially when you slam your feet down like that.”
A low laugh broke free of Lancelot’s throat, but he did not remove his feet. “I see you are unchanged for your experience, Arthur.” His voice was steady; the only concession to his mood the licking of his dry lips. “Everything worked out? What kept you the extra time?”
Each word was bitten off, and Lancelot could tell by Arthur’s expression that the other man was well aware of Lancelot’s mood. The commander poured more wine and took another sip.
“Release papers. It turns out the people in charge at Cilurnum aren’t quite as efficient as our supplies master here.”
“You expect too much, commander,” Lancelot retorted. “And what the fuck do you mean by ‘if I should fall, do not wait for me?’”
The words erupted out of Lancelot; he hadn’t expected to voice them in quite that way, but there it was. He lowered his legs from the table, and crossed them as he sat up straighter, his gaze meeting Arthur’s evenly.
Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it. He fiddled with his goblet and looked away from Lancelot. When Arthur turned his eyes back, Lancelot swore.
“I - I didn’t want you to do anything you felt - improper, should I not make it back,” Arthur said hesitantly. Lancelot barked another laugh.
“What in the fuck does that mean? Although knowing you as I do, I understand your twisty non-committal speak, but if you think I’m letting you get away with this, you’re as stupid as you look right now. You left me cryptic messages and little piecemeal instructions, writing as if you were leaning over my shoulder and directing me. And then, ‘do not wait for me.’ Spit it out. Tell me the heart of it, Arthur.”
Lancelot’s face was flushed, and not from the heat of the brazier this time. He stood and moved directly in front of Arthur. He sat casually on the table, but his body was stiff and his hands clenched once, then twice, helplessly. At last he laced his fingers together.
“I - damn it, Lancelot,” Arthur sighed. He raked his hands through his dirty hair, the stubble on his face almost a beard. Lancelot could smell the road on the man, and knew from experience just how tired Arthur had to be.
Funny how he couldn’t seem to care.
“I didn’t want you to mourn over my loss, alright? I wanted you to move on, finish out your time - such as it may be - and then go home. No regrets. No ‘what ifs.’ No ‘what would have become of us.’” Arthur’s bloodshot eyes looked up at Lancelot, and the knight’s expression softened, if only for a moment. Then -
“You think I love you so well?”
Lancelot's words were murmured, but they dripped with ice as surely as if they had come from the frozen lake the knights passed on patrol every winter.
Arthur’s body stiffened. He rose jerkily, his breath releasing heavily. “It seems I am mistaken in my judgment of your affections.” He tossed back the rest of his wine as he stepped away from where Lancelot sat on the table.
“I’ll expect a report in the morning, lieutenant. In the meantime, a pleasant night to you.”
With that, Arthur turned and made his way to the open doors of the hall, stumbling only once over his feet.
Lancelot watched him go, his expression dark as the thunderheads that ringed the fort in the rain heavy Spring. After Arthur had left his sight, he got nimbly off of the table, his hand brushing something crackly. He looked down, and after twisting his mouth in thought, picked up the final note from Arthur and tossed it on the brazier.
His boots echoed on the stone floor in the wake of Arthur’s tread.
*
Arthur was sitting on his bed, bleary eyed, dressed in an old, long tunic, when his door was pushed open, and Lancelot strode in with no warning.
“Don’t ever accuse me of being disloyal to you again,” he hissed as he sat astride Arthur’s weary legs. Arthur waited a heartbeat for the punch that never came, and finally dropped his forehead to Lancelot’s shoulder, his face turning in to Lancelot’s neck.
His arms wrapped about Lancelot’s lean waist, and he shivered slightly as the other man clutched at him in answer. Lancelot’s hands found their way into Arthur’s road dusty hair, and if they shook once or twice, neither man said anything.
Lancelot pressed his mouth to Arthur’s temple in a kiss that felt possessive and angry, but Arthur didn’t care.
He was just glad to be back, to have Lancelot touching him and not following the final directions in his missives.
Lancelot rested his cheek against Arthur’s head, and squeezed his eyes shut, swearing for the hundredth time that this would be the last night with Arthur.
Do not wait for me.
As if he could do anything but.
~
Hints And Allegations
(with apologies to Collective Soul)
Rating: light R
Fandom/Pairings: King Arthur (2004); Arthur/Lancelot
Warnings: mild slash and language.
Word count: 1967
Disclaimer: this version of the King Arthur myth does not belong to me.
Summary: What's love without hate?
Author's notes: thanks muchly to blade_and_roses for the quick beta.
Feedback would be love.
Lyrics: And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph
The pile of instructions had grown by week’s end. Lancelot wanted to use them for tinder, but each time he tried, he found himself hesitating, the heat from the brazier burning his face, the smoke wavering in the large, empty room.
Day one: Weapons inventory. Take care to get all the way to the back of the armory - I think the ala before us had a secret stash.
Please be gentle with Galahad - I know he’s been on your nerves, but he needs to be trained. You can be terrifying to those who don’t know you.
Even to those of us who do.
~A
Each day was similar. Directives, written in Arthur’s hand, for Lancelot’s eyes only while the commander was on the road.
This was one of those times Lancelot cursed the day he’d learned to read the ugly scrawl that was Latin. He’d done it so Arthur could hide nothing from him, but once Arthur realized he’d picked it up, Lancelot hadn’t seen the end of this report or that piece of post or this note from the man.
He stood in the great hall, the room empty but his hands full of Arthur’s missives. Jols had delivered one to Lancelot each day, saying “Arthur said I should keep these as you’d probably burn them.” The squire grinned each time, his smile wide enough to make Lancelot want to punch him. Perennially cheerful fucker.
Arthur apparently did not trust the men he traveled with, or else was uncertain of the possible outcome of the trip. It had seemed a routine mission - escorting a supplies wagon to Cilurnum - but at the end of each note, not missing even a one, Arthur had added a little aside that made Lancelot’s teeth ache and the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
If I should fall, do not wait for me.
Lancelot paced, the sheets of vellum in his hands making crumpling sounds that brought to mind the large bugs Bors’ children sometimes tortured to death. Those children had some problems, in Lancelot’s view.
The brazier winked at him as he circled the table. Arthur had been gone four days longer than planned. On the eighth day, Lancelot had opened his door, expecting Jols with a note, waiting with baited breath and a well-planned barb for the squire.
He’d waited for half a candlemark before he’d realized the squire wasn’t coming.
Lancelot had found him in the stables, and lost his temper at the sight of the other man placidly caring for one of Arthur’s war stallions. Jerking Jols by the collar, Lancelot dragged him from the stall, then turned his body so he could see Jols’ face.
“Where’s my letter? Or don’t you have any more bits of Castus wisdom to force feed me?”
Jols had crossed his arms and stood up straight, not shrinking from the burning wave that was Lancelot’s anger. “He thought he’d be gone for only seven days, as well you know, Lancelot. No more notes. I’m sure you can come up with some work on your own.”
He’d smiled politely. “If you’ll excuse me, lieutenant, I have chores as well. I’ll add your prayers to mine that our commander comes home safely.”
Lancelot had almost snorted fire from his nostrils as he watched the squire return to his duties. His hands flexed at his sides, but in the end, he’d merely spun around and stalked from the stables.
Gawain and Galahad had both been sorry they’d offered to spar with him that afternoon.
Lancelot stopped his pacing, and bit his lower lip. The notes in his hands suddenly felt heavy, as heavy as his own blades did, except the vellum didn’t fit comfortably in the grooves of his palms the way the swords did.
In fact, the notes felt as if they were of such strange material his fingers wanted to reject them, perhaps feeding them to the flame as his blades fed Woad blood to this earth.
“Bah!”
He spat and crumpled up all but the last note, throwing them on the brazier. They were gone in mere seconds.
Lancelot flung himself into the closest seat and with trembling hands unfolded the final note.
Day Seven: I know you’ve probably already done this, but please see to my post and make sure any incoming important messages are dealt with.
Hrm. Perhaps you won’t have done this. Perhaps you’ll have shoved the post aside as you sat down at my desk, placed your muddy boots on the surface, and ate your lunch while lording it over the other knights.
I think that’s more realistic, don’t you?
I hope to see you upon the morrow, and then you won’t have to deal with any more silly messages from me. I am aware that my handwriting is atrocious.
Dagonet should be allowed to travel the two days to Vindolanda to pick up the extra shipment of arrows that came in. Do not give him Hell about this, Lancelot, as I asked him myself to get them.
And have you been going easy on Galahad?
This trip…it worries me. The men I am to travel with are soldiers, yes, but … I feel we are best at knowing the Woad and how he acts in this area. Infantry serves a purpose. But we knights are -
I digress. There is nothing to worry about. Please just continue to do your duty and I know I will be happy with the results when I return.
I -
Yes.
I remain,
Arthur.
And there on the back, in tiny handwriting almost unreadable, although unmistakably Arthur’s, were the nine words that had been confounding and haunting and angering Lancelot for the past eleven days.
What had the man meant, exactly?
Gods damn him to the eternal land of Limbo if he didn’t return, and Lancelot had to live the rest of his days in this pisshole without an explanation -
The doors to the hall creaked open, and Lancelot crumpled the last note as he looked up, a snarl on his lips, vicious words ready for any who dared to interrupt his thinking.
Arthur walked to the chair next to Lancelot and dropped into it, more zombie than man. Lancelot’s mouth flopped a few times, the fire of rage that had sustained him the whole time Arthur had been gone burning out quickly.
“The supplies have been delivered,” Arthur stated; his voice sounded rusty and raw to Lancelot. He coughed and reached for the wine service that sat on the table, pouring himself a generous amount.
Lancelot raised his legs and rested the heels of his boots on the table, setting them down with a hard thunk that made Arthur’s eyes fix on him as he drank the wine.
“That scores the wood,” he said hoarsely, frowning. He cleared his throat. “Especially when you slam your feet down like that.”
A low laugh broke free of Lancelot’s throat, but he did not remove his feet. “I see you are unchanged for your experience, Arthur.” His voice was steady; the only concession to his mood the licking of his dry lips. “Everything worked out? What kept you the extra time?”
Each word was bitten off, and Lancelot could tell by Arthur’s expression that the other man was well aware of Lancelot’s mood. The commander poured more wine and took another sip.
“Release papers. It turns out the people in charge at Cilurnum aren’t quite as efficient as our supplies master here.”
“You expect too much, commander,” Lancelot retorted. “And what the fuck do you mean by ‘if I should fall, do not wait for me?’”
The words erupted out of Lancelot; he hadn’t expected to voice them in quite that way, but there it was. He lowered his legs from the table, and crossed them as he sat up straighter, his gaze meeting Arthur’s evenly.
Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it. He fiddled with his goblet and looked away from Lancelot. When Arthur turned his eyes back, Lancelot swore.
“I - I didn’t want you to do anything you felt - improper, should I not make it back,” Arthur said hesitantly. Lancelot barked another laugh.
“What in the fuck does that mean? Although knowing you as I do, I understand your twisty non-committal speak, but if you think I’m letting you get away with this, you’re as stupid as you look right now. You left me cryptic messages and little piecemeal instructions, writing as if you were leaning over my shoulder and directing me. And then, ‘do not wait for me.’ Spit it out. Tell me the heart of it, Arthur.”
Lancelot’s face was flushed, and not from the heat of the brazier this time. He stood and moved directly in front of Arthur. He sat casually on the table, but his body was stiff and his hands clenched once, then twice, helplessly. At last he laced his fingers together.
“I - damn it, Lancelot,” Arthur sighed. He raked his hands through his dirty hair, the stubble on his face almost a beard. Lancelot could smell the road on the man, and knew from experience just how tired Arthur had to be.
Funny how he couldn’t seem to care.
“I didn’t want you to mourn over my loss, alright? I wanted you to move on, finish out your time - such as it may be - and then go home. No regrets. No ‘what ifs.’ No ‘what would have become of us.’” Arthur’s bloodshot eyes looked up at Lancelot, and the knight’s expression softened, if only for a moment. Then -
“You think I love you so well?”
Lancelot's words were murmured, but they dripped with ice as surely as if they had come from the frozen lake the knights passed on patrol every winter.
Arthur’s body stiffened. He rose jerkily, his breath releasing heavily. “It seems I am mistaken in my judgment of your affections.” He tossed back the rest of his wine as he stepped away from where Lancelot sat on the table.
“I’ll expect a report in the morning, lieutenant. In the meantime, a pleasant night to you.”
With that, Arthur turned and made his way to the open doors of the hall, stumbling only once over his feet.
Lancelot watched him go, his expression dark as the thunderheads that ringed the fort in the rain heavy Spring. After Arthur had left his sight, he got nimbly off of the table, his hand brushing something crackly. He looked down, and after twisting his mouth in thought, picked up the final note from Arthur and tossed it on the brazier.
His boots echoed on the stone floor in the wake of Arthur’s tread.
*
Arthur was sitting on his bed, bleary eyed, dressed in an old, long tunic, when his door was pushed open, and Lancelot strode in with no warning.
“Don’t ever accuse me of being disloyal to you again,” he hissed as he sat astride Arthur’s weary legs. Arthur waited a heartbeat for the punch that never came, and finally dropped his forehead to Lancelot’s shoulder, his face turning in to Lancelot’s neck.
His arms wrapped about Lancelot’s lean waist, and he shivered slightly as the other man clutched at him in answer. Lancelot’s hands found their way into Arthur’s road dusty hair, and if they shook once or twice, neither man said anything.
Lancelot pressed his mouth to Arthur’s temple in a kiss that felt possessive and angry, but Arthur didn’t care.
He was just glad to be back, to have Lancelot touching him and not following the final directions in his missives.
Lancelot rested his cheek against Arthur’s head, and squeezed his eyes shut, swearing for the hundredth time that this would be the last night with Arthur.
Do not wait for me.
As if he could do anything but.
~