"That Poor Girl, Tossed by the Tides of Misfortune..."
Since Lancelot is about the only Arthurian character for whom I have not offered some kind of alternate-interpretation maybe-you-do-not-totally-suck-despite-preconceived-notions-held-by-many-authors--mainly because Lancelot is the golden boy of Arthurian re-interpretation profic and has more fans that he deserves to begin with--I present the following to remedy.
(oh, p.s. I'm on vacation right now which is why my comments have been even more sporadic than usual. bear with me, thanks. >_>)
Title: The Knight of the Star
Fandom: Arthuriana
Characters/Pairings: Lancelot, Bors, Lionel, implied Lance/Gwen
Rating: PG at worst
Notes: I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't indulge myself with pointless description. :P
The Knight of the Star
Lancelot, when he was a boy, had no closer friend than Bors, who shared his belief that heroes could not fall like overripe pears from the trees of nobility, men of only clean royal blood and in numbers as strong as a family had sons. King Ban had assured the three of them, Lancelot and Bors and Bors’ young brother Lionel, that they were all destined to be knights. In Britain, he said, where the enchanted sword waited for the rightful king to pull it forth--and then, when it had been pulled by someone else, Ban praised the young new king and swore the three of them would serve him.
But Bors always said that being a king’s son meant nothing in these days, and Lancelot believed him. If they were to go to Britain, it would be a matter of effort, and hard practise at swordsmanship, at chivalry--and always the remembrance of God, and God’s three faces. Bors was a fervent soldier of God, the first to matins, the last to linger in the chapel after compline. On days when Lancelot, for all his passion, would gladly have played truant in the countryside of King Ban’s estate, Bors followed his strict regimen of prayers, and Lancelot felt too guilty not to participate, at least until the warm sunlight eased his conscience and he slipped out to the stables for his horse.
Bors never judged him for it. That in itself was proof enough of his friendship. Lancelot tried to bear religion in his breast the way Bors did, but when there was something he wanted desperately he could never talk himself out of it, for man’s sake or God’s.
Lionel was his brother’s shadow, but he worshipped Lancelot like a supplicant. Lancelot tried not to notice him being pulled between the two of them--struggling to decide whether his loyalty should lie in the chapel with his brother or on horseback chasing down the hart with his hero. Lancelot enjoyed his company, and as much as he hated to admit it he also enjoyed Lionel’s reverence. No one looked up to Lancelot as fiercely--to be honest, no one looked up to Lancelot much at all in King Ban’s court.
One night, instead of spending the evening in the chapel, Bors sought Lancelot and Lionel out in the courtyard where they were play-jousting, spearing at each other with their blunt poles.
“Brother, cousin. I want to show you something.”
Lionel groaned under his breath, but Lancelot silenced him with a look and a gesture. “What is it?” Qu’est ce que?
“Come with me.”
He led them out on horseback into the hills. Lancelot almost forgot to be curious, turning his face into the rushing air and smelling the heady scent of summer darkness, his body drumming with the horse’s hoofbeats, his golden hair--the same colour as ripe wheatfields in July--ruffling cool against his neck. Some time later, he forgot to measure, Bors reined his horse in and dismounted, dropping easily to the ground. Lionel followed suit. Lancelot waited for a while, lying along his mare’s neck, humming to her while Bors untied a cord of wood from his saddle and gathered kindling to build a fire. Lionel hobbled his own mare and hovered by Lancelot, as if he were waiting for one of his two masters to tell him what to do.
When Bors had built the fire, he motioned for them to sit around it. Lancelot slid down and tied L’aigle to a tree, where she bent and cropped at the ground absently beside Bors’ Marie.
“We’ll be leaving Gaul soon to serve this Arthur in Britain.”
The other two listened to him in silence. Bors was the eldest, older than Lancelot by two seasons, and it gave him an authority, even over Lancelot, that meant complete attention when he asked for it.
“You’ve both been training with me for ten years now--Lionel, you’ve been my squire, and Lancelot has been my friend. You’re both skilled. You’re ready to be soldiers for a new king.” He looked at them with clear eyes across the fire, but Lancelot dropped his gaze to watch the sparks crack in the dry wood. “There’ll be many men in Britain, more than there at this court. You won’t be the best any more. You’ll have to work harder than you have ever before to be heroes for God.”
Lancelot tried to quiet the burning in his heart. He was better than Bors and Lionel both and he knew it. The requirements of knighthood--the steady hand with a weapon, the virtue of courtliness, the ability to charm with a smile and to be generous because he could easily afford it, all those things were in his nature already. He had borne the night-long vigil in the chapel without effort, praying to God for more strength when he remembered but mostly daydreaming of future quests and beautiful ladies. His plans for Britain, though he’d never mentioned them to Bors, were to rise in the court ranks until he was the best knight in the country, and then to do all the deeds heroes had done in the days when they were plentiful (heroes and deeds both). Like Saint-Georges, he meant to slay dragons, and he would rescue and protect a never-ending stream of princesses and beautiful common women, defeat as many false knights as showed their faces. Bors talked of keeping peace on the country’s borders, guarding small villages, making political decisions if called upon. Lancelot, King Ban’s golden child, couldn’t imagine doing anything that wasn’t grand. He was no one important here in France, but in Britain he would become one of the famous.
He sighed silently. Bors was saying, “I want both of you to remember something. I know you’ve both had your vigils before you received your knighthood. But I hope this vigil will stay with you, too. You’ve been looking at the fire all the while it’s been getting darker. Now look at the sky.”
It was a clear night. Lancelot tipped his head back, staring up into the blue-black sky, feeling more than seeing Lionel do the same beside him. He could hear the soft sound of the horses cropping grass, the fire cracking as the sparks burst and the wood fell, Lionel’s quick breathing, as fast as a cat’s. There were half a dozen stars in the sky, some brighter than others, but as he kept watching more and more of them appeared, half out of nowhere. They must have been there before, but, light-blinded by the fire, he had only been able to see the brightest.
In the darkness Lionel whispered, “Oh--one fell.” Un étoile tombe.
“A bright one?” Bors’ warm baritone.
“I didn’t see it until it disappeared.”
It was summer, but a coolness filled Lancelot’s chest, coming with the very air he was breathing in. He felt awake, alert, although he had no idea what time it was and the warmth from the fire was seeping into his feet through the thick leather of his boots. Suddenly he heard Bors, speaking his name through the haze of bright pinpoint stars that had filled the entire sky like the thousands of fish in Simon-Peter’s nets, millions out of nothing.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you saw any falling.”
“No. Not me.”
“Do you understand what I’m showing you? You’re the brightest now, but away from Gaul’s fire you’ll be a handful among many. I want you to remember, always, that no matter how brightly you shine in that sky of knighthood, there’s a chance of falling. Those stars are the floor God walks upon, and even they can be cast down from that place of honour. Always be mindful of what you owe to God.”
Lionel nodded, breathless--Lancelot felt the faint movement in the air. He forced himself to look down again, to look at Bors, whose face was half-lit by the fire.
Bors was smiling, and reached out to take their hands. “You’re my brothers in Christ, as well as my family through blood. I’m proud of you. We’ll do well in Camelot.”
When Lancelot was a man, Bors began to feel less like a friend and more like a preacher. Lancelot had his own friends: charming, chivalrous Gawain, Dinadan as clever as Reynard the fox, Arthur who he loved with a love more fierce than he had ever known. His heart, always so quick to make excuses to God when it found a thing it coveted, beat out blood so hot it burnt away the memory of Bors’ sermons against Guinevere--beautiful, beautiful Guinevere, the princess he had always dreamed of back in Gaul, whose touch set him aflame and whose voice spurred him on to ever more reckless quests and demonstrations of his love. He had risen above, as he had promised himself he would. He wasn’t just Arthur’s knight; he was his friend, his right hand, looked up to now by many more than just young Lionel. It was true, that it wasn’t enough just to be a king’s son, but he had proved himself, and Bors, he thought, should have been a priest instead of a knight.
But when he was alone, or his pride slipped and he could see underneath it the man he was, thoughtless and arrogant and brave, with only that bravery and his determination to save him, he remembered the night Bors took him and Lionel out into the hills and they looked at the stars.
He was bright among the knight-stars of Camelot. He was bright, but he was still only a star, and a small fire could make him disappear entirely in the blue-black sky.
(oh, p.s. I'm on vacation right now which is why my comments have been even more sporadic than usual. bear with me, thanks. >_>)
Title: The Knight of the Star
Fandom: Arthuriana
Characters/Pairings: Lancelot, Bors, Lionel, implied Lance/Gwen
Rating: PG at worst
Notes: I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't indulge myself with pointless description. :P
The Knight of the Star
Lancelot, when he was a boy, had no closer friend than Bors, who shared his belief that heroes could not fall like overripe pears from the trees of nobility, men of only clean royal blood and in numbers as strong as a family had sons. King Ban had assured the three of them, Lancelot and Bors and Bors’ young brother Lionel, that they were all destined to be knights. In Britain, he said, where the enchanted sword waited for the rightful king to pull it forth--and then, when it had been pulled by someone else, Ban praised the young new king and swore the three of them would serve him.
But Bors always said that being a king’s son meant nothing in these days, and Lancelot believed him. If they were to go to Britain, it would be a matter of effort, and hard practise at swordsmanship, at chivalry--and always the remembrance of God, and God’s three faces. Bors was a fervent soldier of God, the first to matins, the last to linger in the chapel after compline. On days when Lancelot, for all his passion, would gladly have played truant in the countryside of King Ban’s estate, Bors followed his strict regimen of prayers, and Lancelot felt too guilty not to participate, at least until the warm sunlight eased his conscience and he slipped out to the stables for his horse.
Bors never judged him for it. That in itself was proof enough of his friendship. Lancelot tried to bear religion in his breast the way Bors did, but when there was something he wanted desperately he could never talk himself out of it, for man’s sake or God’s.
Lionel was his brother’s shadow, but he worshipped Lancelot like a supplicant. Lancelot tried not to notice him being pulled between the two of them--struggling to decide whether his loyalty should lie in the chapel with his brother or on horseback chasing down the hart with his hero. Lancelot enjoyed his company, and as much as he hated to admit it he also enjoyed Lionel’s reverence. No one looked up to Lancelot as fiercely--to be honest, no one looked up to Lancelot much at all in King Ban’s court.
One night, instead of spending the evening in the chapel, Bors sought Lancelot and Lionel out in the courtyard where they were play-jousting, spearing at each other with their blunt poles.
“Brother, cousin. I want to show you something.”
Lionel groaned under his breath, but Lancelot silenced him with a look and a gesture. “What is it?” Qu’est ce que?
“Come with me.”
He led them out on horseback into the hills. Lancelot almost forgot to be curious, turning his face into the rushing air and smelling the heady scent of summer darkness, his body drumming with the horse’s hoofbeats, his golden hair--the same colour as ripe wheatfields in July--ruffling cool against his neck. Some time later, he forgot to measure, Bors reined his horse in and dismounted, dropping easily to the ground. Lionel followed suit. Lancelot waited for a while, lying along his mare’s neck, humming to her while Bors untied a cord of wood from his saddle and gathered kindling to build a fire. Lionel hobbled his own mare and hovered by Lancelot, as if he were waiting for one of his two masters to tell him what to do.
When Bors had built the fire, he motioned for them to sit around it. Lancelot slid down and tied L’aigle to a tree, where she bent and cropped at the ground absently beside Bors’ Marie.
“We’ll be leaving Gaul soon to serve this Arthur in Britain.”
The other two listened to him in silence. Bors was the eldest, older than Lancelot by two seasons, and it gave him an authority, even over Lancelot, that meant complete attention when he asked for it.
“You’ve both been training with me for ten years now--Lionel, you’ve been my squire, and Lancelot has been my friend. You’re both skilled. You’re ready to be soldiers for a new king.” He looked at them with clear eyes across the fire, but Lancelot dropped his gaze to watch the sparks crack in the dry wood. “There’ll be many men in Britain, more than there at this court. You won’t be the best any more. You’ll have to work harder than you have ever before to be heroes for God.”
Lancelot tried to quiet the burning in his heart. He was better than Bors and Lionel both and he knew it. The requirements of knighthood--the steady hand with a weapon, the virtue of courtliness, the ability to charm with a smile and to be generous because he could easily afford it, all those things were in his nature already. He had borne the night-long vigil in the chapel without effort, praying to God for more strength when he remembered but mostly daydreaming of future quests and beautiful ladies. His plans for Britain, though he’d never mentioned them to Bors, were to rise in the court ranks until he was the best knight in the country, and then to do all the deeds heroes had done in the days when they were plentiful (heroes and deeds both). Like Saint-Georges, he meant to slay dragons, and he would rescue and protect a never-ending stream of princesses and beautiful common women, defeat as many false knights as showed their faces. Bors talked of keeping peace on the country’s borders, guarding small villages, making political decisions if called upon. Lancelot, King Ban’s golden child, couldn’t imagine doing anything that wasn’t grand. He was no one important here in France, but in Britain he would become one of the famous.
He sighed silently. Bors was saying, “I want both of you to remember something. I know you’ve both had your vigils before you received your knighthood. But I hope this vigil will stay with you, too. You’ve been looking at the fire all the while it’s been getting darker. Now look at the sky.”
It was a clear night. Lancelot tipped his head back, staring up into the blue-black sky, feeling more than seeing Lionel do the same beside him. He could hear the soft sound of the horses cropping grass, the fire cracking as the sparks burst and the wood fell, Lionel’s quick breathing, as fast as a cat’s. There were half a dozen stars in the sky, some brighter than others, but as he kept watching more and more of them appeared, half out of nowhere. They must have been there before, but, light-blinded by the fire, he had only been able to see the brightest.
In the darkness Lionel whispered, “Oh--one fell.” Un étoile tombe.
“A bright one?” Bors’ warm baritone.
“I didn’t see it until it disappeared.”
It was summer, but a coolness filled Lancelot’s chest, coming with the very air he was breathing in. He felt awake, alert, although he had no idea what time it was and the warmth from the fire was seeping into his feet through the thick leather of his boots. Suddenly he heard Bors, speaking his name through the haze of bright pinpoint stars that had filled the entire sky like the thousands of fish in Simon-Peter’s nets, millions out of nothing.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you saw any falling.”
“No. Not me.”
“Do you understand what I’m showing you? You’re the brightest now, but away from Gaul’s fire you’ll be a handful among many. I want you to remember, always, that no matter how brightly you shine in that sky of knighthood, there’s a chance of falling. Those stars are the floor God walks upon, and even they can be cast down from that place of honour. Always be mindful of what you owe to God.”
Lionel nodded, breathless--Lancelot felt the faint movement in the air. He forced himself to look down again, to look at Bors, whose face was half-lit by the fire.
Bors was smiling, and reached out to take their hands. “You’re my brothers in Christ, as well as my family through blood. I’m proud of you. We’ll do well in Camelot.”
When Lancelot was a man, Bors began to feel less like a friend and more like a preacher. Lancelot had his own friends: charming, chivalrous Gawain, Dinadan as clever as Reynard the fox, Arthur who he loved with a love more fierce than he had ever known. His heart, always so quick to make excuses to God when it found a thing it coveted, beat out blood so hot it burnt away the memory of Bors’ sermons against Guinevere--beautiful, beautiful Guinevere, the princess he had always dreamed of back in Gaul, whose touch set him aflame and whose voice spurred him on to ever more reckless quests and demonstrations of his love. He had risen above, as he had promised himself he would. He wasn’t just Arthur’s knight; he was his friend, his right hand, looked up to now by many more than just young Lionel. It was true, that it wasn’t enough just to be a king’s son, but he had proved himself, and Bors, he thought, should have been a priest instead of a knight.
But when he was alone, or his pride slipped and he could see underneath it the man he was, thoughtless and arrogant and brave, with only that bravery and his determination to save him, he remembered the night Bors took him and Lionel out into the hills and they looked at the stars.
He was bright among the knight-stars of Camelot. He was bright, but he was still only a star, and a small fire could make him disappear entirely in the blue-black sky.