Fic: Unnamed Thing
Author: Ashley
Unnamed Thing
warning: language, implied slash
summary: Lancelot does not take to gifts.
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version.
author's notes: just trying to write when the muse hits. I caught a glimpse of my KA poster when I came home this evening and L was there. ;) I am also working on a new TWD piece, so hopefully that will be done soon. Feedback is love.
Snow fell, thick and heavy and cold and when it dripped down Lancelot's neck and behind his leather collar, he cursed out loud, his native tongue musical despite the ugliness of the word. He shifted from one foot to the other and the leathers he wore, old and creased and too loose, groaned as he moved. He thought to join in the noise but closed his mouth when Arthur appeared next to him, silent as the dark colored shirts and trousers both of them wore. Of course Arthur's trousers and shirt (and cloak; Lancelot had none) were in much better shape than the rags his lieutenant wore. Lancelot's eyes canted to the left as Arthur cleared his throat, the other man's left hand resting on the butt of Excalibur; it was sheathed just as Lancelot's own blades were. The Woads were quiet, the garrison was quiet, and Lancelot had really hoped for quiet on the battlements as well.
No such luck.
"You need a cloak out here," Arthur spoke after a moment of unusual silence. Lancelot allowed a long stream of wispy white breath to escape, his eyes closing slowly, crystals forming easily on his wet lashes. It was fucking cold.
"Really, Commander."
He touched the tip of the blade on his right hip and flexed chilled fingers. He did wear a dark green padded jacket, after all, and for him that was plenty. He lifted a hand to his hair and scrubbed at the messy length, ice breaking from it and falling in a pretty pattern around his shoulders and feet, tinkling like fairy's bells from some stupid tale his mother had told him aeons ago.
"I'll see to it the watch captain finds you one - "
"Don't bother. They impede movement and besides, I don't need a swirly bright red target around my neck to make me killable." He snorted and tilted his head back, breath streaming out again, thick snow filled clouds fat in the sky, blocking any light that the moon might have given. "I can be killed just fine without one, thank you."
Arthur's eyes on him were chips of green jade, frozen in his face, wide forehead and lank hair dark against the winter white of Arthur's skin. Lancelot did not turn; he wasn't afraid of this particular Roman least of all. All bluster and no bite -
"You choose the worst possible reasons to be obstinate, knight," Arthur stated evenly, but Lancelot could feel the anger in his tone. "I am merely trying to hel-"
Lancelot did turn then.
"I don't need your help, Artos, Commander of Cambloganna Garrison. I need you to leave me alone with my thoughts and my weapons and my watch time. If that's all, then."
He turned back and stiffened his posture and cursed again as the snow came hard then, coating his hair and his lashes and his highborn cheekbones and his thin, poor clothing. He refrained from raising his frozen hands to blow on them, instead flexing his fingers against his back where Arthur could not see them. The clouds seemed to thicken before his eyes and the wet white stuff flew through the air on better wings than birds had.
Arthur sucked in a breath and Lancelot waited for the argument. He was ready for it, itching for it, wanted it with every freezing icy breath he drew in. He loved it. He loved arguing with Arthur, because it was easier than the gentleness he couldn't abide anymore, for he knew that particular thing wouldn't last.
I can be killed same as anyone.
Arthur breathed out and Lancelot looked at him, lips partially open in anticipation of the fight he lived for -
Arthur lifted a hand and brushed gloved fingers through Lancelot's hair, dislodging new snow and ice. It flew around them both this time, an arc of light reflecting particles that turned Arthur's eyes to green fire and Lancelot's white skin to marble. The Sarmatian reached his right hand toward his right hip, the dagger he held there calling for him, but Arthur merely lowered his fingers and smiled - a tiny smile that held no trace of blackness or the darkness that Lancelot drank of every day and dreamed of every night.
"Report to me when you finish your watch, Lieutenant," Arthur's voice was soft and full of the emotion Lancelot couldn't name, hated that he couldn't name.
"Lancelot."
Arthur turned and left him on the battlements and Lancelot's eyes squeezed shut with the force of whatever the thing was that rose and took his spine and heart and shook them like a dog rattles a bone, violent and viscous and he bit his lip until it bled and he followed Arthur after a short inhalation that seemed warmer than the last.
*
He rolled over early in the morning, Arthur's quarters still dark and warm with the heat of the banked brazier and found himself alone in the bed that held furs fit for a king. No matter how early Lancelot rose Arthur always beat him; the poison of being in a high position. Lancelot thanked every god that he wasn't in that position, for the whole garrison would most likely not survive his reign.
He sat up and rubbed his scalp with a quick motion that had him groaning - his body ached and there was a new set of bruises along his jawline that he'd wear with no worries and with pride for the next few days - until they faded. He was certain there'd be more by that point at any rate, so why fret? He was Lancelot and he didn't care about a few bruises, be they from the tavern wench he sometimes fucked in the alley behind the stables or from the man that was most certainly outside in the morning snow, checking his post and making sure the horses had survived the winter's night.
He shivered as the memories of what had caused the bruises made his body come alive again, and he lay back in the bed and cursed for the hundredth time and covered his eyes with his arm.
He was dressed when a banging came at the door; he hesitated before opening it, but if it was anyone other than Jols he had every right to be in Arthur's chambers as he was the man's second after all, and he was just doing his job as lieutenant.
It was Jols, though, and if Lancelot felt a slight loosening in his shoulders he wouldn't admit it.
The manservant was saying something about commander sent this for you and he wanted to make sure it fit but Lancelot took the bundle of fabric from Jols' hands and promptly shoved the other man out of the room, closing the door with his booted foot. He crossed the small front room and sat at the table, picking up the bottle of wine he'd almost drunk all of last night and finished it off as he unfolded the things Jols had brought.
A black cloak, a dark brown linen tunic, another pair of leathers, a small dagger, a finely tooled belt.
He rested his chin in his hand, fingers cupping his lips, pulling at them as he thought -
he stood abruptly and gathered the clothing and made his way into Arthur's bedchamber and set the outfit down on the unmade bed. He turned quickly, leaving the gift of fabric there, and when he passed by the table he'd been sat at he scooped up the dagger and the sheath it was carried in and opened the door, picking up his blades and slinging them over his shoulder. He closed Arthur's door without regard for the lit candles or the slowly burning brazier.
The torches that guttered on the walls did nothing to warm the hallway and he breathed in the smoke they spit out, smelly soot dirtying his lungs. Castle walls and dank pathways and inclosed spaces and Arthur and his gentle gods damned touch filled his brain and he felt that unnamed emotion rise again but this time he did not curse, for the thing he could not understand did not deserve that much feeling from him.
He passed by Arthur and Dagonet in the courtyard on the way to his own quarters and did not spare either one of them a glance, even though he could feel Arthur's eyes following him. The snow was falling softly, prettily, but Lancelot knew better, understood this thing he felt as he was chilled to the bone by the winter Britain could bring so easily.
He dressed in an old linen cream colored tunic and not so old leathers, sliding his hauberk on quickly, the padded black studded vest going over it. He strapped a short Spanish blade to his left hip and left his prize beauties behind, placing them correctly in the cabinet he'd had made specifically for them.
Weak light filtered through his windows and he blinked slowly, flipping the new dagger from hilt to tip and back again, feeling the weight, testing it for balance.
He slammed it home into the pocket in his knee high boots, the heaviness of the thing comforting and familiar.
A piece of Arthur he could carry on himself, a piece he could accept.
He left his rooms dark and cold and went to join the other Sarmatians and their Roman commander in the courtyard.
Unnamed Thing
warning: language, implied slash
summary: Lancelot does not take to gifts.
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version.
author's notes: just trying to write when the muse hits. I caught a glimpse of my KA poster when I came home this evening and L was there. ;) I am also working on a new TWD piece, so hopefully that will be done soon. Feedback is love.
Snow fell, thick and heavy and cold and when it dripped down Lancelot's neck and behind his leather collar, he cursed out loud, his native tongue musical despite the ugliness of the word. He shifted from one foot to the other and the leathers he wore, old and creased and too loose, groaned as he moved. He thought to join in the noise but closed his mouth when Arthur appeared next to him, silent as the dark colored shirts and trousers both of them wore. Of course Arthur's trousers and shirt (and cloak; Lancelot had none) were in much better shape than the rags his lieutenant wore. Lancelot's eyes canted to the left as Arthur cleared his throat, the other man's left hand resting on the butt of Excalibur; it was sheathed just as Lancelot's own blades were. The Woads were quiet, the garrison was quiet, and Lancelot had really hoped for quiet on the battlements as well.
No such luck.
"You need a cloak out here," Arthur spoke after a moment of unusual silence. Lancelot allowed a long stream of wispy white breath to escape, his eyes closing slowly, crystals forming easily on his wet lashes. It was fucking cold.
"Really, Commander."
He touched the tip of the blade on his right hip and flexed chilled fingers. He did wear a dark green padded jacket, after all, and for him that was plenty. He lifted a hand to his hair and scrubbed at the messy length, ice breaking from it and falling in a pretty pattern around his shoulders and feet, tinkling like fairy's bells from some stupid tale his mother had told him aeons ago.
"I'll see to it the watch captain finds you one - "
"Don't bother. They impede movement and besides, I don't need a swirly bright red target around my neck to make me killable." He snorted and tilted his head back, breath streaming out again, thick snow filled clouds fat in the sky, blocking any light that the moon might have given. "I can be killed just fine without one, thank you."
Arthur's eyes on him were chips of green jade, frozen in his face, wide forehead and lank hair dark against the winter white of Arthur's skin. Lancelot did not turn; he wasn't afraid of this particular Roman least of all. All bluster and no bite -
"You choose the worst possible reasons to be obstinate, knight," Arthur stated evenly, but Lancelot could feel the anger in his tone. "I am merely trying to hel-"
Lancelot did turn then.
"I don't need your help, Artos, Commander of Cambloganna Garrison. I need you to leave me alone with my thoughts and my weapons and my watch time. If that's all, then."
He turned back and stiffened his posture and cursed again as the snow came hard then, coating his hair and his lashes and his highborn cheekbones and his thin, poor clothing. He refrained from raising his frozen hands to blow on them, instead flexing his fingers against his back where Arthur could not see them. The clouds seemed to thicken before his eyes and the wet white stuff flew through the air on better wings than birds had.
Arthur sucked in a breath and Lancelot waited for the argument. He was ready for it, itching for it, wanted it with every freezing icy breath he drew in. He loved it. He loved arguing with Arthur, because it was easier than the gentleness he couldn't abide anymore, for he knew that particular thing wouldn't last.
I can be killed same as anyone.
Arthur breathed out and Lancelot looked at him, lips partially open in anticipation of the fight he lived for -
Arthur lifted a hand and brushed gloved fingers through Lancelot's hair, dislodging new snow and ice. It flew around them both this time, an arc of light reflecting particles that turned Arthur's eyes to green fire and Lancelot's white skin to marble. The Sarmatian reached his right hand toward his right hip, the dagger he held there calling for him, but Arthur merely lowered his fingers and smiled - a tiny smile that held no trace of blackness or the darkness that Lancelot drank of every day and dreamed of every night.
"Report to me when you finish your watch, Lieutenant," Arthur's voice was soft and full of the emotion Lancelot couldn't name, hated that he couldn't name.
"Lancelot."
Arthur turned and left him on the battlements and Lancelot's eyes squeezed shut with the force of whatever the thing was that rose and took his spine and heart and shook them like a dog rattles a bone, violent and viscous and he bit his lip until it bled and he followed Arthur after a short inhalation that seemed warmer than the last.
*
He rolled over early in the morning, Arthur's quarters still dark and warm with the heat of the banked brazier and found himself alone in the bed that held furs fit for a king. No matter how early Lancelot rose Arthur always beat him; the poison of being in a high position. Lancelot thanked every god that he wasn't in that position, for the whole garrison would most likely not survive his reign.
He sat up and rubbed his scalp with a quick motion that had him groaning - his body ached and there was a new set of bruises along his jawline that he'd wear with no worries and with pride for the next few days - until they faded. He was certain there'd be more by that point at any rate, so why fret? He was Lancelot and he didn't care about a few bruises, be they from the tavern wench he sometimes fucked in the alley behind the stables or from the man that was most certainly outside in the morning snow, checking his post and making sure the horses had survived the winter's night.
He shivered as the memories of what had caused the bruises made his body come alive again, and he lay back in the bed and cursed for the hundredth time and covered his eyes with his arm.
He was dressed when a banging came at the door; he hesitated before opening it, but if it was anyone other than Jols he had every right to be in Arthur's chambers as he was the man's second after all, and he was just doing his job as lieutenant.
It was Jols, though, and if Lancelot felt a slight loosening in his shoulders he wouldn't admit it.
The manservant was saying something about commander sent this for you and he wanted to make sure it fit but Lancelot took the bundle of fabric from Jols' hands and promptly shoved the other man out of the room, closing the door with his booted foot. He crossed the small front room and sat at the table, picking up the bottle of wine he'd almost drunk all of last night and finished it off as he unfolded the things Jols had brought.
A black cloak, a dark brown linen tunic, another pair of leathers, a small dagger, a finely tooled belt.
He rested his chin in his hand, fingers cupping his lips, pulling at them as he thought -
he stood abruptly and gathered the clothing and made his way into Arthur's bedchamber and set the outfit down on the unmade bed. He turned quickly, leaving the gift of fabric there, and when he passed by the table he'd been sat at he scooped up the dagger and the sheath it was carried in and opened the door, picking up his blades and slinging them over his shoulder. He closed Arthur's door without regard for the lit candles or the slowly burning brazier.
The torches that guttered on the walls did nothing to warm the hallway and he breathed in the smoke they spit out, smelly soot dirtying his lungs. Castle walls and dank pathways and inclosed spaces and Arthur and his gentle gods damned touch filled his brain and he felt that unnamed emotion rise again but this time he did not curse, for the thing he could not understand did not deserve that much feeling from him.
He passed by Arthur and Dagonet in the courtyard on the way to his own quarters and did not spare either one of them a glance, even though he could feel Arthur's eyes following him. The snow was falling softly, prettily, but Lancelot knew better, understood this thing he felt as he was chilled to the bone by the winter Britain could bring so easily.
He dressed in an old linen cream colored tunic and not so old leathers, sliding his hauberk on quickly, the padded black studded vest going over it. He strapped a short Spanish blade to his left hip and left his prize beauties behind, placing them correctly in the cabinet he'd had made specifically for them.
Weak light filtered through his windows and he blinked slowly, flipping the new dagger from hilt to tip and back again, feeling the weight, testing it for balance.
He slammed it home into the pocket in his knee high boots, the heaviness of the thing comforting and familiar.
A piece of Arthur he could carry on himself, a piece he could accept.
He left his rooms dark and cold and went to join the other Sarmatians and their Roman commander in the courtyard.