FIC: Leading and Following (Lancelot/Arthur)
Lancelot's horse cantered sideways at his involuntary excited motion. "If you are, good sir," he said, "Then I beg you to joust a round with me." When the young knight hesitated, Lancelot went on in a rush, "I wish to join the king's court, to serve him and aid him--but I need to be tested and found worthy!" He leaned forward over his horse's perfectly combed, glossy black mane. "If you are a Knight of his Round Table, you are able to judge my quality--I beseech you, sir, to grant my boon. Tell me if I am worthy to serve the great and noble king"
The other man looked at him wryly for a moment. "Great and noble king, huh?" He sounded vaguely amused.
Unable to contain his curiosity and eagerness, Lancelot blurted out, "You have met him--you have spoken with him--what is the king like? I've heard that he is as glorious as an eagle, as magnificent as a lion, as--as beautiful as the dawn," he added, blushing suddenly.
"Well," said the young man on the chestnut horse, brushing his shaggy, unkempt hair away from his eyes and grimacing, "He's--well, actually he's--"
"You are speechless, unable to describe his glory. I understand," Lancelot said. "I only hope that he will find me well-favored, and spare me a glance from his high throne from time to time."
The knight's eyes sharpened for just a moment. "I think he'll find you well-favored enough," he said rather shyly, his beautiful voice low.
Lancelot granted him a dazzling smile. "That's if I pass your test," he said cheerfully, cantering his horse back a few steps. "Will you do me the honor, sir knight?"
The other man bowed from the saddle and set his lance. "As you like, sir," he answered cordially, and backed his horse away.
The first pass ended with the man from Camelot reeling in his saddle but not unhorsed. Lancelot was impressed: no one had ever remained on their horse after the first pass with him. On the second, however, he easily knocked the disoriented knight from his horse's back. The young man fell with an alarming splash directly into a large puddle of mud on the side of the road.
Lancelot dismounted hastily and ran to check on his opponent. "Are you all right, sir?"
The knight was sitting, covered with mud and weeds, looking a bit dazed. As Lancelot drew near, he started to laugh, and Lancelot stopped dead at the sound: his laugh was like music, like poetry --like love, Lancelot thought confusedly, unsure what he meant. It was beautiful and infectious and Lancelot couldn't help smiling, looking at the man covered in dirty water.
"That was magnificent!" the man said, and Lancelot felt suddenly warm at the compliment. He abruptly hoped that if he was admitted to the Round Table, he and this knight could fight side by side. Thoughts of Arthur's stern, remote, and godlike glory seemed distant compared to wanting to make this man laugh again, wanting to enjoy the way he looked at Lancelot like a comrade. "I don't even know your name," the man continued, smiling, and Lancelot started guiltily.
"How rude of me, I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm Lancelot DuLac."
"Well, Sir Lancelot, newest member of the Round Table, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name's Arthur."
Lancelot stared. Then he went to his knees in the mud, over Arthur's strenuous objections. "My liege, I beg your forgiveness for my heinous trespass!"
Arthur laughed again and Lancelot stopped apologizing to listen to it. "Get up, Lance," said Arthur. "May I call you Lance?"
"You may call me anything you desire," Lancelot said as he stood.
The Pendragon smiled up at him from the puddle. "Help me up out of here, Lance," he said.
Arthur held out his hand.
Lancelot took it and followed him.
: : :
The sky above Camlann was streaked with a sunset like blood, the battlefield eerily silent. Only the hoarse cries of the feasting ravens broke the stillness. As far as Lancelot Dulac could tell, he was the sole man alive on the field.
He stumbled over a corpse, felt the broken places inside him shift and tear. He licked cracked lips and tasted blood: soon there would be no survivors at all. He should just lie down, lie down on the churned and bloody ground, stop searching. He was too late. He had returned to Britain too late to turn the tide of battle, too late to do anything but be caught up in its crush, to be broken upon its wheel. He should just give up and join the other corpses.
But he was searching for someone, and Lancelot had never been one to give up.
His vision was graying around the edges when he finally found him, at the top of a hill, the last rays of the setting sun turning his dun-colored hair to gold, touching his face with light. Mordred's body lay nearby, twisted in death; Lancelot felt a distant pity. So it had finally come to this.
As he approached the tableau, a raven fluttered down from the sky and landed on Arthur's body, the cruel beak poised to plunge. Lancelot lurched forward, cursing, and it croaked and cocked a baleful eye at him before lifting heavily into the air.
"Lance?" The voice was as hoarse as the raven's; Lancelot looked down into beautiful brown eyes in a beloved face, free of pain.
"I'm...here, my Lord," he said softly.
"I'm glad," said Arthur simply. A cold wind swept up the hill, setting the many banners snapping in the silence. Arthur struggled to shape words. "Is Gwen...all right?"
Something closed up the back of Lancelot's throat. "She is safe, my liege," he managed. "At a convent in the south."
Arthur started to nod and stopped, wincing slightly. "Good." He looked up at Lancelot. "You came back."
"My place is at your side."
A very slight smile. Lancelot stood next to his king, feeling the world grow more distant, feeling his strength leaving him. When Arthur spoke again, his voice was very low. "It's cold, Lance. It's very cold, and I'm very tired, and I can't seem to...rest. I was wondering why, and then I realized it was because you weren't beside me." He blinked up at Lancelot. "If you were to lie beside me, Lancelot, I feel I could rest at last."
"Arthur. My heart. I will never leave your side again."
Arthur smiled and held out his hand.
Lancelot took it and followed him.
The other man looked at him wryly for a moment. "Great and noble king, huh?" He sounded vaguely amused.
Unable to contain his curiosity and eagerness, Lancelot blurted out, "You have met him--you have spoken with him--what is the king like? I've heard that he is as glorious as an eagle, as magnificent as a lion, as--as beautiful as the dawn," he added, blushing suddenly.
"Well," said the young man on the chestnut horse, brushing his shaggy, unkempt hair away from his eyes and grimacing, "He's--well, actually he's--"
"You are speechless, unable to describe his glory. I understand," Lancelot said. "I only hope that he will find me well-favored, and spare me a glance from his high throne from time to time."
The knight's eyes sharpened for just a moment. "I think he'll find you well-favored enough," he said rather shyly, his beautiful voice low.
Lancelot granted him a dazzling smile. "That's if I pass your test," he said cheerfully, cantering his horse back a few steps. "Will you do me the honor, sir knight?"
The other man bowed from the saddle and set his lance. "As you like, sir," he answered cordially, and backed his horse away.
The first pass ended with the man from Camelot reeling in his saddle but not unhorsed. Lancelot was impressed: no one had ever remained on their horse after the first pass with him. On the second, however, he easily knocked the disoriented knight from his horse's back. The young man fell with an alarming splash directly into a large puddle of mud on the side of the road.
Lancelot dismounted hastily and ran to check on his opponent. "Are you all right, sir?"
The knight was sitting, covered with mud and weeds, looking a bit dazed. As Lancelot drew near, he started to laugh, and Lancelot stopped dead at the sound: his laugh was like music, like poetry --like love, Lancelot thought confusedly, unsure what he meant. It was beautiful and infectious and Lancelot couldn't help smiling, looking at the man covered in dirty water.
"That was magnificent!" the man said, and Lancelot felt suddenly warm at the compliment. He abruptly hoped that if he was admitted to the Round Table, he and this knight could fight side by side. Thoughts of Arthur's stern, remote, and godlike glory seemed distant compared to wanting to make this man laugh again, wanting to enjoy the way he looked at Lancelot like a comrade. "I don't even know your name," the man continued, smiling, and Lancelot started guiltily.
"How rude of me, I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm Lancelot DuLac."
"Well, Sir Lancelot, newest member of the Round Table, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name's Arthur."
Lancelot stared. Then he went to his knees in the mud, over Arthur's strenuous objections. "My liege, I beg your forgiveness for my heinous trespass!"
Arthur laughed again and Lancelot stopped apologizing to listen to it. "Get up, Lance," said Arthur. "May I call you Lance?"
"You may call me anything you desire," Lancelot said as he stood.
The Pendragon smiled up at him from the puddle. "Help me up out of here, Lance," he said.
Arthur held out his hand.
Lancelot took it and followed him.
: : :
The sky above Camlann was streaked with a sunset like blood, the battlefield eerily silent. Only the hoarse cries of the feasting ravens broke the stillness. As far as Lancelot Dulac could tell, he was the sole man alive on the field.
He stumbled over a corpse, felt the broken places inside him shift and tear. He licked cracked lips and tasted blood: soon there would be no survivors at all. He should just lie down, lie down on the churned and bloody ground, stop searching. He was too late. He had returned to Britain too late to turn the tide of battle, too late to do anything but be caught up in its crush, to be broken upon its wheel. He should just give up and join the other corpses.
But he was searching for someone, and Lancelot had never been one to give up.
His vision was graying around the edges when he finally found him, at the top of a hill, the last rays of the setting sun turning his dun-colored hair to gold, touching his face with light. Mordred's body lay nearby, twisted in death; Lancelot felt a distant pity. So it had finally come to this.
As he approached the tableau, a raven fluttered down from the sky and landed on Arthur's body, the cruel beak poised to plunge. Lancelot lurched forward, cursing, and it croaked and cocked a baleful eye at him before lifting heavily into the air.
"Lance?" The voice was as hoarse as the raven's; Lancelot looked down into beautiful brown eyes in a beloved face, free of pain.
"I'm...here, my Lord," he said softly.
"I'm glad," said Arthur simply. A cold wind swept up the hill, setting the many banners snapping in the silence. Arthur struggled to shape words. "Is Gwen...all right?"
Something closed up the back of Lancelot's throat. "She is safe, my liege," he managed. "At a convent in the south."
Arthur started to nod and stopped, wincing slightly. "Good." He looked up at Lancelot. "You came back."
"My place is at your side."
A very slight smile. Lancelot stood next to his king, feeling the world grow more distant, feeling his strength leaving him. When Arthur spoke again, his voice was very low. "It's cold, Lance. It's very cold, and I'm very tired, and I can't seem to...rest. I was wondering why, and then I realized it was because you weren't beside me." He blinked up at Lancelot. "If you were to lie beside me, Lancelot, I feel I could rest at last."
"Arthur. My heart. I will never leave your side again."
Arthur smiled and held out his hand.
Lancelot took it and followed him.