Fic: Absurd
Author: Ashley
Absurd
warnings: slash, language, character death
summary: Lancelot does what he must.
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version.
author's notes: for cd_ward, who mentioned he liked the psychotic version of A and L. Since I don't know when your bday is, pumpkin, here is an early? late? gift.
Feedback is love.
Suicide cannot be chosen for another.
And yet Lancelot fully disagrees with this, for he's sitting atop a horse, dressed in full kit, armor shining with the sun, the smoke from the fires making his eyes burn even as he watches Arthur, watches the Roman man ride back and forth between the knights, shouting and using his golden tongue and his talent in order to get the men worked up and to get them to believe in the cause they couldn't give an ass about.
And yet here Lancelot rides, with battle face worn and weapons shining and he is death itself, come to trample Saxons and destroy an enemy he doesn't know a thing about, save they like to kill women and children and will take anything in their paths that they wish to possess.
I would have left you and the boy there to die.
When he sees the girl, bravely fighting, he abandons the man he'd been busy killing and, knocking his helmet off, speeds toward her through flame and dead bodies and blood and gore and smoke and the detritus of a life he's been bound and determined to forget for fifteen long fucking years.
His hand bleeds, and then his arm, and he fingers the little blade he carries in his boot, twisting the thing back and forth, cutting himself, not caring, the snow falling on his bare head as the winter ravens flood the sky with their shrieks and their inky black wings.
A hand touches his shoulder and he whirls without thinking, the knife blade at the other's throat, hands steady despite the blood they are coated with. The birds cease their crying and all he can hear, all he can see, is the pulse beating, one, two, three, four, in the Roman's throat. Lancelot's left hand is gripping Arthur's shoulder, a painfully tight grip that keeps the other man from moving away from the knife at his neck.
"I will go home," the knight says, bitterness in his words, anger in the blood that drips from his veins to stain the ground, the cuts forgotten as he holds the knife to his commander's throat. "I will go home, and I will not think on you or this place ever again. And you cannot stop me."
Arthur doesn't answer, staring at Lancelot, making no move to step away from the blade that's nicked his skin. His eyes, though, scream as loudly as any dying man, greengreengreen encompassing Lancelot's whole world. The ravens that fly forever through the night begin to cry again, their sounds the only thing Lancelot can hear and he drops the blade and grabs the sides of Arthur's face and pulls the Roman to him, his lips snatching at Arthur's, the blood he's drawn from his own fingers smearing on Arthur's flesh, marking him, Lancelot's lifeblood turning the tanned skin of the other man's face a bright crimson that blots out the green of Arthur's eyes as Lancelot devours the thing he should hate.
The Woad girl - Guinevere, Lancelot reminds himself, so he can remember just who he's bled for - is fighting another Saxon, trying to watch Lancelot's back, trying to get to him, as he knows she's incensed that Lancelot took her fight from her.
He manages to get away from the bald fucker for a few moments, taking on one after another after another, no rest, no end to this Mithras save me life of bloodshed and violence and he turns and the pain his chest explodes he blinks slowly hand rising to touch the arrow the absolute rage that rises blots out everything but the idea he must take this enemy down with him.
He's always been a deadly aim with his swords.
Arthur had better retrieve them; if he leaves the weapons lost on this fucking battlefield Lancelot will haunt him forever.
He finally collapses to his knees, then his side, the armor too heavy and he just doesn't care to try anymore. He can feel the girl, hear her, screaming his name and then Arthur's but the other man is across the field, doing what he does better than any (save Lancelot, but Lancelot doesn't need to prove that, he knows it). The earth is warm and wet and mushy under Lancelot's body and he murmurs to himself, his lips going numb, his head listing to one side as he at last can fucking rest.
He murmurs once more.
I will go home, and I will not think on you or this place again.
Arthur. Arthur.
He flexes his fingers, cold, stiff, but he doesn't care - he laughs, the arrow not even noticed anymore, the blood that has always stained his face draining into the grass and he closes his eyes or tries but they're dry and his hand brushes the dirtied gore painted ground and he
This is not your fight. This is not Rome's fight!
Look at me! For our friendship's sake, I beg you -
I will stay with you. Lancelot, I will.
sucks in a breath and
the smoke is drifting and obscures his vision and he
I am home, and I will not forget you. How could I?
clenches his fingers, feeling a blade of grass that is stuck to them, and he twitches his lips and
~
Absurd
warnings: slash, language, character death
summary: Lancelot does what he must.
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version.
author's notes: for cd_ward, who mentioned he liked the psychotic version of A and L. Since I don't know when your bday is, pumpkin, here is an early? late? gift.
Feedback is love.
Suicide cannot be chosen for another.
And yet Lancelot fully disagrees with this, for he's sitting atop a horse, dressed in full kit, armor shining with the sun, the smoke from the fires making his eyes burn even as he watches Arthur, watches the Roman man ride back and forth between the knights, shouting and using his golden tongue and his talent in order to get the men worked up and to get them to believe in the cause they couldn't give an ass about.
And yet here Lancelot rides, with battle face worn and weapons shining and he is death itself, come to trample Saxons and destroy an enemy he doesn't know a thing about, save they like to kill women and children and will take anything in their paths that they wish to possess.
I would have left you and the boy there to die.
When he sees the girl, bravely fighting, he abandons the man he'd been busy killing and, knocking his helmet off, speeds toward her through flame and dead bodies and blood and gore and smoke and the detritus of a life he's been bound and determined to forget for fifteen long fucking years.
His hand bleeds, and then his arm, and he fingers the little blade he carries in his boot, twisting the thing back and forth, cutting himself, not caring, the snow falling on his bare head as the winter ravens flood the sky with their shrieks and their inky black wings.
A hand touches his shoulder and he whirls without thinking, the knife blade at the other's throat, hands steady despite the blood they are coated with. The birds cease their crying and all he can hear, all he can see, is the pulse beating, one, two, three, four, in the Roman's throat. Lancelot's left hand is gripping Arthur's shoulder, a painfully tight grip that keeps the other man from moving away from the knife at his neck.
"I will go home," the knight says, bitterness in his words, anger in the blood that drips from his veins to stain the ground, the cuts forgotten as he holds the knife to his commander's throat. "I will go home, and I will not think on you or this place ever again. And you cannot stop me."
Arthur doesn't answer, staring at Lancelot, making no move to step away from the blade that's nicked his skin. His eyes, though, scream as loudly as any dying man, greengreengreen encompassing Lancelot's whole world. The ravens that fly forever through the night begin to cry again, their sounds the only thing Lancelot can hear and he drops the blade and grabs the sides of Arthur's face and pulls the Roman to him, his lips snatching at Arthur's, the blood he's drawn from his own fingers smearing on Arthur's flesh, marking him, Lancelot's lifeblood turning the tanned skin of the other man's face a bright crimson that blots out the green of Arthur's eyes as Lancelot devours the thing he should hate.
The Woad girl - Guinevere, Lancelot reminds himself, so he can remember just who he's bled for - is fighting another Saxon, trying to watch Lancelot's back, trying to get to him, as he knows she's incensed that Lancelot took her fight from her.
He manages to get away from the bald fucker for a few moments, taking on one after another after another, no rest, no end to this Mithras save me life of bloodshed and violence and he turns and the pain his chest explodes he blinks slowly hand rising to touch the arrow the absolute rage that rises blots out everything but the idea he must take this enemy down with him.
He's always been a deadly aim with his swords.
Arthur had better retrieve them; if he leaves the weapons lost on this fucking battlefield Lancelot will haunt him forever.
He finally collapses to his knees, then his side, the armor too heavy and he just doesn't care to try anymore. He can feel the girl, hear her, screaming his name and then Arthur's but the other man is across the field, doing what he does better than any (save Lancelot, but Lancelot doesn't need to prove that, he knows it). The earth is warm and wet and mushy under Lancelot's body and he murmurs to himself, his lips going numb, his head listing to one side as he at last can fucking rest.
He murmurs once more.
I will go home, and I will not think on you or this place again.
Arthur. Arthur.
He flexes his fingers, cold, stiff, but he doesn't care - he laughs, the arrow not even noticed anymore, the blood that has always stained his face draining into the grass and he closes his eyes or tries but they're dry and his hand brushes the dirtied gore painted ground and he
This is not your fight. This is not Rome's fight!
Look at me! For our friendship's sake, I beg you -
I will stay with you. Lancelot, I will.
sucks in a breath and
the smoke is drifting and obscures his vision and he
I am home, and I will not forget you. How could I?
clenches his fingers, feeling a blade of grass that is stuck to them, and he twitches his lips and
~