Ficlet: Heaviest
Author: Ashley
Heaviest
warnings: implied slash
disclaimer: not my version.
summary: What holds him here?
author's notes: the quote that inspired me to write this was NOT written by me, and I claim no creation rights or ownership of it. that said, I am thankful to the anonymous author that came up with it, because it slays me every time I read it. thank you, author, and if anyone knows who wrote it, let me know so I can credit them properly.
I am struggling off and on to write as my brain function isn't so good and I'm exhausted all the time. I am thankful for the inspiration to do this even though I did have to push it.
I forced myself to write this last night so any feedback would be awesome.
I always forgot to ask whether or not you thought of your own freedom. Because I swear, of all of us, you were the one with the heaviest chains.
~anonymous
Arthur dreams.
Not of blood and gore or fights or patrol or death or of his parents, but of calm, quiet rooms, crackling fires, food and wine, and soft nights of passion that threaten to take him some place he’s never quite sure of. He knows it’s a place he should want to go, and when he gets there, the dark eyes that follow him everywhere are at his side, alive and well, the body they belong with angles and bones and heat and love and he wakes, grasping at his chest, the heavy cross he wears there tangled and choking.
This is the offer of lifetime, Castus.
I am aware and grateful, sir. I just feel I haven’t done what I can to help Camboglanna, yet.
The other men will think you a fool, Commander. Aquae Sulis is large and bustling and busy and an important seat for any and all things Roman. You would be perfect for our garrison. Your father would be proud of you for accepting the job. We all need you there.
And I am needed here, General Magnus. Do not think I don’t appreciate the offer, please; I am beyond flattered. But my men need me and my guidance and protection and I cannot leave them to an unknown fate. I made a promise a long time ago - and I intend to keep it.
You will die on a muddy battlefield with a Woad sword in your guts, Castus. Don’t forget that. You could retire in splendor and riches, with a wife and loads of children and a huge villa at your disposal.
I can still do that, General.
…as you say, Commander.
The moon is a sliver that barely lights his chambers, and he rises, sweating and shaking, and untangles the cross’s leather thong that wraps around his neck. Wiping a trembling hand over his face and hair he sits carefully at his desk, tugging a discarded old tunic on over his bare body. He uncorks the wine sitting at his right elbow, and swigs straight from the bottle, the feeling of the dream still surrounding him, swaddling him, covering him in ghostly fabric and feeling that sets his teeth on edge, mouth unsmiling, tight.
Normally he’s able to let any dream disappate easily, his job and his life soon overwhelming thoughts of fantasy deaths that are almost worse than the real ones he sees almost every day. But this, this one he’s had three times since General Magnus and his party had left, this one is different.
This one invades and tugs and winds itself around his heart, draining into his blood vessels, black poison that has him waking and trembling each time. Black poison disguised as happiness he can never have.
It’s a pleasant dream, life after this and yet he’s more damaged by the thought of serenity after blood and war than he is by the idea of gore and viscosity and open, staring eyes, red stuff staining the black curls that surround the dead man’s face.
What will you do, Arthur, when you return to your beloved Rome?
“I have no idea,” he whispers into the black of his rooms, the coal brazier banked and quiet, its snap long since ceased. He absentmindedly pulls a scroll toward him, eyes automatically going to it, but the thought is there and he can’t stop imagining and his head pounds and he holds his forehead in his thick, sword marked fingers and closes his eyes.
He knows he can’t leave this place. No matter the offers, no matter his “rightness” for any other job, he can’t leave Camboglanna, and he can’t leave his men. He can’t leave Lancelot to be killed by the legionaries that eye him with distaste and hate, their hands clutching at their gladius’ as the knight passes, leather clothing surrounding him, a living shadow of sinuous death and destruction. Were Arthur not there - he shudders, the thought of what would become of his foreign conscripts forcing the bile in his gut to rise.
He cannot leave. And that is the worst form of bondage he could ever think of. Worse than forced duty, although he would never say that aloud. He could leave, and be free of the pain of this place - but he cannot.
And so he dreams of a place where he can leave, and his men are free, and he and the obstinate knight he’s come to love - God have mercy on his soul - are free to wander the earth as they desire, living as they chose and living wild and happy and Arthur stands up and returns to his bed, where hopefully the dream he’s left will return to him. He lays down and pulls the furs to his chin, body turned on its side, hand under his chin, stubble scratching his skin, eyes blazing into the dark room as he tries to recapture the place he’s been in his sleep.
I made a promise, Lancelot. I will see you men free.
You’d best do that, Arthur. For otherwise one day you’ll wake and all of us will be gone, deserters, and you’ll have to come and kill us yourself.
A bright laugh had followed, and Arthur hears it, screaming in his head, a bat fluttering and ripping at him with its leathery wings, dark eyes staring and cold and he sleeps, his burden heaviest because he’s the only one that knows it.
Heaviest
warnings: implied slash
disclaimer: not my version.
summary: What holds him here?
author's notes: the quote that inspired me to write this was NOT written by me, and I claim no creation rights or ownership of it. that said, I am thankful to the anonymous author that came up with it, because it slays me every time I read it. thank you, author, and if anyone knows who wrote it, let me know so I can credit them properly.
I am struggling off and on to write as my brain function isn't so good and I'm exhausted all the time. I am thankful for the inspiration to do this even though I did have to push it.
I forced myself to write this last night so any feedback would be awesome.
I always forgot to ask whether or not you thought of your own freedom. Because I swear, of all of us, you were the one with the heaviest chains.
~anonymous
Arthur dreams.
Not of blood and gore or fights or patrol or death or of his parents, but of calm, quiet rooms, crackling fires, food and wine, and soft nights of passion that threaten to take him some place he’s never quite sure of. He knows it’s a place he should want to go, and when he gets there, the dark eyes that follow him everywhere are at his side, alive and well, the body they belong with angles and bones and heat and love and he wakes, grasping at his chest, the heavy cross he wears there tangled and choking.
This is the offer of lifetime, Castus.
I am aware and grateful, sir. I just feel I haven’t done what I can to help Camboglanna, yet.
The other men will think you a fool, Commander. Aquae Sulis is large and bustling and busy and an important seat for any and all things Roman. You would be perfect for our garrison. Your father would be proud of you for accepting the job. We all need you there.
And I am needed here, General Magnus. Do not think I don’t appreciate the offer, please; I am beyond flattered. But my men need me and my guidance and protection and I cannot leave them to an unknown fate. I made a promise a long time ago - and I intend to keep it.
You will die on a muddy battlefield with a Woad sword in your guts, Castus. Don’t forget that. You could retire in splendor and riches, with a wife and loads of children and a huge villa at your disposal.
I can still do that, General.
…as you say, Commander.
The moon is a sliver that barely lights his chambers, and he rises, sweating and shaking, and untangles the cross’s leather thong that wraps around his neck. Wiping a trembling hand over his face and hair he sits carefully at his desk, tugging a discarded old tunic on over his bare body. He uncorks the wine sitting at his right elbow, and swigs straight from the bottle, the feeling of the dream still surrounding him, swaddling him, covering him in ghostly fabric and feeling that sets his teeth on edge, mouth unsmiling, tight.
Normally he’s able to let any dream disappate easily, his job and his life soon overwhelming thoughts of fantasy deaths that are almost worse than the real ones he sees almost every day. But this, this one he’s had three times since General Magnus and his party had left, this one is different.
This one invades and tugs and winds itself around his heart, draining into his blood vessels, black poison that has him waking and trembling each time. Black poison disguised as happiness he can never have.
It’s a pleasant dream, life after this and yet he’s more damaged by the thought of serenity after blood and war than he is by the idea of gore and viscosity and open, staring eyes, red stuff staining the black curls that surround the dead man’s face.
What will you do, Arthur, when you return to your beloved Rome?
“I have no idea,” he whispers into the black of his rooms, the coal brazier banked and quiet, its snap long since ceased. He absentmindedly pulls a scroll toward him, eyes automatically going to it, but the thought is there and he can’t stop imagining and his head pounds and he holds his forehead in his thick, sword marked fingers and closes his eyes.
He knows he can’t leave this place. No matter the offers, no matter his “rightness” for any other job, he can’t leave Camboglanna, and he can’t leave his men. He can’t leave Lancelot to be killed by the legionaries that eye him with distaste and hate, their hands clutching at their gladius’ as the knight passes, leather clothing surrounding him, a living shadow of sinuous death and destruction. Were Arthur not there - he shudders, the thought of what would become of his foreign conscripts forcing the bile in his gut to rise.
He cannot leave. And that is the worst form of bondage he could ever think of. Worse than forced duty, although he would never say that aloud. He could leave, and be free of the pain of this place - but he cannot.
And so he dreams of a place where he can leave, and his men are free, and he and the obstinate knight he’s come to love - God have mercy on his soul - are free to wander the earth as they desire, living as they chose and living wild and happy and Arthur stands up and returns to his bed, where hopefully the dream he’s left will return to him. He lays down and pulls the furs to his chin, body turned on its side, hand under his chin, stubble scratching his skin, eyes blazing into the dark room as he tries to recapture the place he’s been in his sleep.
I made a promise, Lancelot. I will see you men free.
You’d best do that, Arthur. For otherwise one day you’ll wake and all of us will be gone, deserters, and you’ll have to come and kill us yourself.
A bright laugh had followed, and Arthur hears it, screaming in his head, a bat fluttering and ripping at him with its leathery wings, dark eyes staring and cold and he sleeps, his burden heaviest because he’s the only one that knows it.