"I Could Never" ~ Lancelot BTS, sequel to "I would have left you"
I could have sworn I had posted this earlier, but I was going through tagging all my fic and realized it wasn't here. I always remember to post to Terrific Tales, but somehow missed putting this up. *pokes self*
As usual, Ioan, Lancelot, this version of King Arthur, none belong to me. Sad, but true.
I Could Never
By Lokei
Rating: PG-13
Universe: King Arthur, Lancelot's POV
Summary: The error in her calculation was that he preferred to be the one seducing, not the seduced.
*********************************************
“I would have left you and the boy there to die.”
If you want a hero, go find Arthur.
The words hung in the air between them and Lancelot turned and walked away.
He did not want to read in her expression either hurt or worse, understanding. He knew what she wanted-a champion, someone to bring a knowledge of tactics and military skill to the undisciplined, though admittedly fierce, Woads at her command. She was looking for an ally, and she was not above a few feminine wiles to secure one.
The gods of the grasslands only knew what had prompted her to pick Lancelot.
Well no, that was a lie, the knight thought with a smirk. He had a pretty decent idea why she’d picked him. He was a good fighter, a pragmatist, and Arthur’s second in command. Any fool with one good eye, let alone her rather piercing two could see he had Arthur’s ear, at least most of the time. That, and Lancelot was certainly a more appealing object than most of his fellows, if one were determined upon seduction as a means to an end. Galahad was fair enough, but too young to lead, and Arthur was part Roman, which none of them who were not Roman could forget.
The error in her calculation, Lancelot figured as he settled his back against a tree, was that he preferred to be the one seducing, not the seduced. Besides, the Woad woman could not have come up with a sillier cause to attempt to win him to. Freedom, home, they were attractive ideas, to be sure. They kept him breathing some days, when all he could feel was the saddle and all he could smell was blood, and the palms of his hands itched to grasp anything but a blade, yet a blade was all that came to hand.
Freedom.
Home.
They were worth a fight, worth a life, worth the lives of all the men who had died here.
Or at least they would be, if only this were home.
And that was the material difference between Arthur, and himself.
Lancelot pulled the worn carving from his tunic, wrapped the laced leather around his palm as he had so many times, remembering the little blond girl who had given it to him, his sister. How beautiful she had been as a child-how beautiful she must have grown. She would have children by now, a home of her own. Did she still miss him? He had had no time to leave her a trinket of his own, no chance to even give her a hug, a farewell.
He probably wouldn’t have anyway. Boys were foolish like that, and proud of the least important things, like riding away without tears. Like riding away without farewells.
The sodden trees loomed their shadows over his head, the snow seeped through the cloak he had wrapped around his legs and threatened to chill what few remaining warm inches of skin he had, but Lancelot barely noted any of it.
The truth of it was, Lancelot could have been an Arthur, in the right place. The gods knew Lancelot admired him, stubborn and righteous as he could be, not to mention buoyed by a faith Lancelot would never understand. But Arthur loved this land, whether he saw it or not, loved the world he believed he could build and protect, loved the feeling of responsibility to the people he was sworn to protect.
With his sister’s carving in his hand, Lancelot could almost believe that he could have been an Arthur, back in Sarmatia. He could have been the hero Guenevere wanted, if she were his sister, if the home that needed protecting was the endless grassland and open sky of the horse people, if the freedom was the freedom of a people that had always been free as the hawk on the updraft, as the stallion on the plain.
He could have even had faith, then. Perhaps.
But Britain was not Sarmatia. And Lancelot was not Arthur.
His fingers tightened on the carving and he looked up to measure his thoughts against the man in the distance, his friend and leader.
Instead, he found himself distracted once more by the form of Guenevere, pale and blue in the moonlight.
She was walking past Arthur-and apparently taking no chances, Lancelot noted with a wry glance. Despite the chill in the air she had pushed back her cloak to near uselessness, so she affected the appearance of an elemental being, untouched by the cold that curled Lancelot’s hair and toes.
Go find Arthur, his glance had said. I’m not the hero you seek.
Well, apparently she had heard him, and apparently he was right, for he watched idly as his friend rose to follow her into the gloom.
Lancelot had set himself the task of watching over Arthur, who had taken a turn for the strange ever since receiving this mission. It would not do for him to be taken unawares into the heart of Woad country while following this slip of a girl out of curiosity or even sheer pigheadedness. He straightened, and then he shook his head and relaxed.
Arthur was walking to what was likely his doom, but Lancelot suspected his friend would not appreciate it if the Sarmatian decided to rescue him again. Arthur hadn’t seemed willing to listen to reason in days, and reason was the only weapon which Lancelot would ever turn on his friend.
He tucked the carving back into his pocket, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
Let Arthur deal with this one on his own, she was his problem.
Not my problem. He’s a grown man and a leader of men. He wants to chase a Woad woman who was probably Merlin’s spawn herself, it’s no concern of mine, Lancelot repeated to himself firmly.
A minute later, he banged his head in exasperation on the rough bark and opened his eyes, on his feet barely after his eyes were fully open.
“Gawain, make sure no one strays out of sight of the fires,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I’m going to look after Arthur.”
Gawain gave him a knowing glance. “Don’t let him see you.”
Lancelot’s dark face twisted into a humorous grimace. “I never do. But I would never leave him to the sole protection of his God either.”
“You would never leave him to himself, let alone to his god,” Gawain snorted.
“True,” Lancelot acknowledged with the barest glimmer of a smile. “In good conscience, I could never do that.”
As usual, Ioan, Lancelot, this version of King Arthur, none belong to me. Sad, but true.
I Could Never
By Lokei
Rating: PG-13
Universe: King Arthur, Lancelot's POV
Summary: The error in her calculation was that he preferred to be the one seducing, not the seduced.
*********************************************
“I would have left you and the boy there to die.”
If you want a hero, go find Arthur.
The words hung in the air between them and Lancelot turned and walked away.
He did not want to read in her expression either hurt or worse, understanding. He knew what she wanted-a champion, someone to bring a knowledge of tactics and military skill to the undisciplined, though admittedly fierce, Woads at her command. She was looking for an ally, and she was not above a few feminine wiles to secure one.
The gods of the grasslands only knew what had prompted her to pick Lancelot.
Well no, that was a lie, the knight thought with a smirk. He had a pretty decent idea why she’d picked him. He was a good fighter, a pragmatist, and Arthur’s second in command. Any fool with one good eye, let alone her rather piercing two could see he had Arthur’s ear, at least most of the time. That, and Lancelot was certainly a more appealing object than most of his fellows, if one were determined upon seduction as a means to an end. Galahad was fair enough, but too young to lead, and Arthur was part Roman, which none of them who were not Roman could forget.
The error in her calculation, Lancelot figured as he settled his back against a tree, was that he preferred to be the one seducing, not the seduced. Besides, the Woad woman could not have come up with a sillier cause to attempt to win him to. Freedom, home, they were attractive ideas, to be sure. They kept him breathing some days, when all he could feel was the saddle and all he could smell was blood, and the palms of his hands itched to grasp anything but a blade, yet a blade was all that came to hand.
Freedom.
Home.
They were worth a fight, worth a life, worth the lives of all the men who had died here.
Or at least they would be, if only this were home.
And that was the material difference between Arthur, and himself.
Lancelot pulled the worn carving from his tunic, wrapped the laced leather around his palm as he had so many times, remembering the little blond girl who had given it to him, his sister. How beautiful she had been as a child-how beautiful she must have grown. She would have children by now, a home of her own. Did she still miss him? He had had no time to leave her a trinket of his own, no chance to even give her a hug, a farewell.
He probably wouldn’t have anyway. Boys were foolish like that, and proud of the least important things, like riding away without tears. Like riding away without farewells.
The sodden trees loomed their shadows over his head, the snow seeped through the cloak he had wrapped around his legs and threatened to chill what few remaining warm inches of skin he had, but Lancelot barely noted any of it.
The truth of it was, Lancelot could have been an Arthur, in the right place. The gods knew Lancelot admired him, stubborn and righteous as he could be, not to mention buoyed by a faith Lancelot would never understand. But Arthur loved this land, whether he saw it or not, loved the world he believed he could build and protect, loved the feeling of responsibility to the people he was sworn to protect.
With his sister’s carving in his hand, Lancelot could almost believe that he could have been an Arthur, back in Sarmatia. He could have been the hero Guenevere wanted, if she were his sister, if the home that needed protecting was the endless grassland and open sky of the horse people, if the freedom was the freedom of a people that had always been free as the hawk on the updraft, as the stallion on the plain.
He could have even had faith, then. Perhaps.
But Britain was not Sarmatia. And Lancelot was not Arthur.
His fingers tightened on the carving and he looked up to measure his thoughts against the man in the distance, his friend and leader.
Instead, he found himself distracted once more by the form of Guenevere, pale and blue in the moonlight.
She was walking past Arthur-and apparently taking no chances, Lancelot noted with a wry glance. Despite the chill in the air she had pushed back her cloak to near uselessness, so she affected the appearance of an elemental being, untouched by the cold that curled Lancelot’s hair and toes.
Go find Arthur, his glance had said. I’m not the hero you seek.
Well, apparently she had heard him, and apparently he was right, for he watched idly as his friend rose to follow her into the gloom.
Lancelot had set himself the task of watching over Arthur, who had taken a turn for the strange ever since receiving this mission. It would not do for him to be taken unawares into the heart of Woad country while following this slip of a girl out of curiosity or even sheer pigheadedness. He straightened, and then he shook his head and relaxed.
Arthur was walking to what was likely his doom, but Lancelot suspected his friend would not appreciate it if the Sarmatian decided to rescue him again. Arthur hadn’t seemed willing to listen to reason in days, and reason was the only weapon which Lancelot would ever turn on his friend.
He tucked the carving back into his pocket, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
Let Arthur deal with this one on his own, she was his problem.
Not my problem. He’s a grown man and a leader of men. He wants to chase a Woad woman who was probably Merlin’s spawn herself, it’s no concern of mine, Lancelot repeated to himself firmly.
A minute later, he banged his head in exasperation on the rough bark and opened his eyes, on his feet barely after his eyes were fully open.
“Gawain, make sure no one strays out of sight of the fires,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I’m going to look after Arthur.”
Gawain gave him a knowing glance. “Don’t let him see you.”
Lancelot’s dark face twisted into a humorous grimace. “I never do. But I would never leave him to the sole protection of his God either.”
“You would never leave him to himself, let alone to his god,” Gawain snorted.
“True,” Lancelot acknowledged with the barest glimmer of a smile. “In good conscience, I could never do that.”