"Where You Go, We Go (With Daggers Come to Our Bed)" Part 1. The End
Summary, character's list, etc. can be found here.
Part 1. The End Wherein Arthur is romantically engaged and he snaps.
He was fuming; seeing red like never before, and he was afraid what he’d do if someone stopped him, now, because he didn’t know what he would do to them. Everything, a tiny voice drawled.
The servants and knights he’d passed were all scurrying away from the angry king, afraid to murmur the slightest gossip, but the distinct part of him that was born a prince and then honed as a king knew the workings of the court to realise they would start the moment he was beyond earshot.
He didn’t give a damn.
With purposeful strides he tore himself from the Camelot’s corridors, stepping out onto the walls surrounding the castle. He soon found himself in a reclusive spot, the anger deflating during the hours-long solitude.
Arthur was bitter enough to recall the beginnings, gathering every feeling of distaste for his Queen and Knight he could get from those far-away, both in time and space, as Merlin would quirkily answer, snippets.
First kiss was chaste; her lips surprised, but welcoming. Then she breathed into him, and he could feel life sneak into his limbs. Hands shaking, Arthur rose them to gently lay them on her waist. His eyes were closed, refusing to let go. Because, no matter how much he pretended and lived for that moment, it was just that: pretending. He was no commoner. He was not even an ordinary knight, proving himself in a tournament.
He was a Prince. And Uther Pendragon’s son.
The spell ended when his hands clutched tightly- once- at the fabric of Gwen’s dress and his eyelids fluttered open- many times furiously over- to reveal Camelot and the castle in the background behind Guinevere.
Arthur was still very much in love with the outspoken yet gentle creature that was his wife.
***The stone was cool naturally; but under his heated brows the coldness turned into unnatural, creeping up his spine. Arthur shivered under the onslaught, unprotected and vulnerable. Because there was more.
There was always more.
It had been a long day already when the news of King Ban’s imminent arrival reached Arthur Pendragon’s court. Everything had been made ready for the negotiations; Arthur himself was now calm and focused and firmly in control, awaiting for the honoured guest’s arrival. The still young King spared a moment’s thought at the distinct lack of Merlin by his side. Sadly, after becoming King he had very little time left for his friends- which simply accounted for his conclusion that being a king was highly overrated. Even when Merlin had been only his manservant, they had spent more quality time with each other.
Now, with Merlin as his advisor, Arthur had other menservants. Fully respectable, polite and ordinarily boring ones. He barely even saw them- and they were never late. So not what he’d got used to.
The delegation arrived; King Ban, a regal, middle-aged strong man, with a “prattish” Prince and a handful of knights, strong and wily.
And Lancelot, of course.
He was standing there, amongst the other Benwick knights, his face unreadable and eyes a hardened veil of glass. And Arthur wanted the mask to crack.
Later, with the guests mingling amongst each other, and Arthur preoccupied (seemingly) with his important guest, the King’s eyes strayed.
And narrowed.
It is a no small feat to strike a solitary figure at the table full of people, being surrounded on both sides by robust knights. Yet it seemed Lancelot managed to do exactly that, to Arthur’s eyes.
If they were alone, he’d have done something direct. Clasp the other’s arm, butt their heads together so Lancelot would wince and try to hide that (Arthur hoped), or deal a solid blow.
Instead, he settled for seldom glances over a cup and pre-negotiation talks.
There was always later.
‘Later’ proved to be the disgruntled King wandering stealthily through the corridors of his own castle, to reach the quarters assigned to Ban’s knights, one fool’s who had conveniently forgotten that he was Camelot’s knight in particular.
Arthur had seen him first (all right, so maybe Merlin had, but he didn’t count. Merlin, thank God, was not a king).
So he was going to have a talk with that certain someone. And then maybe throttle him and drag him off to... well, the particulars of his plan were still hazy, but he’d think of something.
In retrospect, he should have realised the circumstances were perfect for a kiss.
It was full of surprise; for both parties, even if later Arthur smugly told Lancelot everything had gone according to his plan.
So, surprise, teeth and slight stubble and God, if not for the guards (his guards! whoever had ever claimed that being king was fun and that you could actually command people according to your own wishes? Like ‘Leave your dignified yet horny king to his own devices and go guard somewhere else.’ Was dead wrong), it’d have been more.
By the time they sidestepped the suspicious guards, Lancelot had regained his composure and was all apologetic and ‘sire’ing’ him, his downcast eyes glancing up at Arthur every now and then. Arthur liked to imagine they held promise and coyness.
But that would be so un-Lancelot-like, right? Too chivalrous and aware of status sometimes, he was. And Arthur had spent too much time with Merlin if he was thinking that. Why again could Merlin influence him thus and he Merlin - not at all?
Arthur sighed, stepped closer to Lancelot and was thankful that the other man did not edge away; he hoped it was not just a sign of respect for the King of Camelot. Hell, even stupefaction and shock would be better than that. He stretched one hand out, fingertips ghosting shortly over the hot skin on the nape of Lancelot’s neck and the short curly hair there, and, withdrawing it, he wished the other a good night.
The next morning? ‘Twas a haze, a pleasant and unpleasant both weaved together by his chaotic mind. He was a living, breathing thing with desires and dreams, and no words and actions to supplement them.
Gwen was there. A warm Queen, a smiling woman by his side, not yet hindered by the cunning workings of the court.
Fresh-warm-smiling.
Was she even then looking to Lancelot, brightening her smiling lips upon seeing the dark knight?
When Arthur later thinks about that, pushing into a tanned hard body and sweating over quivering sinews and muscles, he knows he likes the soft-spoken lips and gentle eyes, both his lovers the disturbingly similar images of the same beauty of the world closed off. He likes the words they speak, the gentleness mixed with strength.
It didn’t start then; not for Arthur, anyway. He got down to his duties as king, doing his best for Camelot and suffering through interminable negotiations (he had to get Merlin for shrinking his duties; somewhere far away, the fool was probably laughing at Arthur being stuck in the mayhem of politicians’ smiles and their oily promises). Gwen sat next to him through those, keeping her silence and looking regal. He couldn’t believe how lovely she was, how lucky he was.
Lancelot got away from all this by going to the training fields. Someway, Arthur would get back at him for this as well, because he could imagine Lancelot and Merlin teaming up against him, both laughing at his expense, and he couldn’t let that happen; thus, the rebellion had to be nipped in the bud.
Arthur was truly a magnificent strategist.
Wishing king Ban a pleasant rest, and escaping from his over-loyal guards (Arthur suspected they were praying daily for a ruthless attack on his person so that they could sacrifice themselves for him, and really, could life become any more melodramatic in his castle?), he found himself perusing the city gardens, in a no-direct way heading towards the training fields. There was something he had to do.
It was the voices that stopped him; sounds of laughter and suggestive whispers, whispers without words as he was too far away- or the voices were too quiet- to discern any. And Arthur had always been drawn to whispers.
A researcher and adventurer in him smiled in glee when he stepped quietly forward, his curious self piqued when he knew he was hearing something that wasn’t meant for him (no, it was not proper, but Merlin was not here to gloat over him, to scold or tease him; as long as he didn’t know, no one else would dare question him; sometimes Arthur loved the authority).
“Is it what you expected, then?”
A sigh, “Why is everyone asking me this?”
“I don’t know. Wait. I’ve got it; maybe because you were talking of Camelot since you’ve joined us, Lancelot?”
If the silence could speak of blush, this one certainly did. “Tradorn.” An affronted look. And a blush.
“Lancelot.” The other, unperturbed.
“If the two of you would kindly stop glaring at each other, I’d like to move on,” a third voice interjected. “No point wasting a beautiful afternoon in a beautiful garden with two knights spoiling all the fun.”
“So. The King seems young.”
“Your point being?” Lancelot smoothly interjected, a slight thump indicating he had laid back on the grass.
“He’s younger than you or me, Lancelot. I believe it would have been strange, training under someone below my age.”
“We will never have a chance to train under him, Tradorn. We are not the knights of Camelot,” Lancelot replied in a smooth voice.
Then there was silence.
“I take it you would be happy then if you were to stay here.”
“Lamorak?” Annoyed.
“Yes, my friend Tradorn?”
“You’re not making any sense. Why the deuce would we leave Lancelot in Camelot?”
Lancelot murmured something sleepily then, and his companions laughed quietly. Arthur could hear the laughter clearly, but sadly the sleepy tone of his knight remained indiscernible.
“So. Let’s adjourn the facts; Arthur is young. According to Lancelot, he’s a great warrior. Incidentally, the bards agree with that assessment, but then again one can never trust the bards. And Lamorak wants to leave Lancelot behind. Does that make any sense?”
“I have only one conclusion; your brains are finally addled, presumably after the fight with that wyvern.”
“It was a basilisk!”
“Basilisks kill with their gaze,” Lancelot remarked idly. “That thing was not a basilisk.”
“How do you know that?”
“Someone told me, once.”
“Didn’t realise you knew people versed in monster’s lore,” a snort and a laugh. Arthur wondered if the man was there to give voice to his own reactions (which he couldn’t give, himself, seeing as he was eavesdropping and aiming for quiet).
“Versed in dealing with them, I’d call it,” Lancelot replied, stretching out further on the grass.
“And I’d wager there’re many things you don’t know about Lancelot,” Lamorak said matter-of-factly. “Like that he’d been to Camelot before.” The sitting knight give the dark-haired figure sprawled on the ground a knowing look.
“Come, Tradorn; let us leave our ponderous friend to his fond memories, and let’s hope the less fond ones will stop haunting him in such a beautiful place. Till later, Lancelot! And don’t fall asleep here lest any knights of Camelot decide to whisk you off somewhere so that you have to stay this time!”
With that, the two figures marched away. Leaving a thoughtful knight and a mischievous king to their own devices.
(and Lancelot was lucky Arthur was there, for there would be no time for the knight to mope too long and think of any kind of leaving, if the King had his way.
Which he would.)
Arthur Pendragon, he knew, was not a vicious man; he got no pleasure from ordinary revenge, preferring to stoically think of a just judgement, a punishment suitable to a crime. But he was fiercely protective, and he did feel easily and keenly any betrayal.
This was a double blow.
He had loved, both of them, both of them separately. He knew he couldn’t love them together, though. No matter the urgent pleas of Lancelot that Gwen should go free and he bear a punishment for the trespassing. No matter the bitter smile of Guinevere and the accusation of hypocrisy ringing in their bedchamber before she was led away, leaving the chambers once again empty and ringing in her wake.
He felt, curiously enough, as if he’d failed them both, being unable to stand up for them against the court and common beliefs. As if he’d fallen short of their expectations of a good man he was supposed to be. Arthur Pendragon, once again a prince unable to do the right thing, seeking an approval of a deceased king.
What can I do, he had asked once, as Gaius was led to his burning pyre. The king has already given the sentence.
Only now he was the King.
You can do the right thing, Arthur Pendragon. You can save an innocent man’s life.
TBC
Part 1. The End Wherein Arthur is romantically engaged and he snaps.
He was fuming; seeing red like never before, and he was afraid what he’d do if someone stopped him, now, because he didn’t know what he would do to them. Everything, a tiny voice drawled.
The servants and knights he’d passed were all scurrying away from the angry king, afraid to murmur the slightest gossip, but the distinct part of him that was born a prince and then honed as a king knew the workings of the court to realise they would start the moment he was beyond earshot.
He didn’t give a damn.
With purposeful strides he tore himself from the Camelot’s corridors, stepping out onto the walls surrounding the castle. He soon found himself in a reclusive spot, the anger deflating during the hours-long solitude.
Arthur was bitter enough to recall the beginnings, gathering every feeling of distaste for his Queen and Knight he could get from those far-away, both in time and space, as Merlin would quirkily answer, snippets.
First kiss was chaste; her lips surprised, but welcoming. Then she breathed into him, and he could feel life sneak into his limbs. Hands shaking, Arthur rose them to gently lay them on her waist. His eyes were closed, refusing to let go. Because, no matter how much he pretended and lived for that moment, it was just that: pretending. He was no commoner. He was not even an ordinary knight, proving himself in a tournament.
He was a Prince. And Uther Pendragon’s son.
The spell ended when his hands clutched tightly- once- at the fabric of Gwen’s dress and his eyelids fluttered open- many times furiously over- to reveal Camelot and the castle in the background behind Guinevere.
Arthur was still very much in love with the outspoken yet gentle creature that was his wife.
***The stone was cool naturally; but under his heated brows the coldness turned into unnatural, creeping up his spine. Arthur shivered under the onslaught, unprotected and vulnerable. Because there was more.
There was always more.
It had been a long day already when the news of King Ban’s imminent arrival reached Arthur Pendragon’s court. Everything had been made ready for the negotiations; Arthur himself was now calm and focused and firmly in control, awaiting for the honoured guest’s arrival. The still young King spared a moment’s thought at the distinct lack of Merlin by his side. Sadly, after becoming King he had very little time left for his friends- which simply accounted for his conclusion that being a king was highly overrated. Even when Merlin had been only his manservant, they had spent more quality time with each other.
Now, with Merlin as his advisor, Arthur had other menservants. Fully respectable, polite and ordinarily boring ones. He barely even saw them- and they were never late. So not what he’d got used to.
The delegation arrived; King Ban, a regal, middle-aged strong man, with a “prattish” Prince and a handful of knights, strong and wily.
And Lancelot, of course.
He was standing there, amongst the other Benwick knights, his face unreadable and eyes a hardened veil of glass. And Arthur wanted the mask to crack.
Later, with the guests mingling amongst each other, and Arthur preoccupied (seemingly) with his important guest, the King’s eyes strayed.
And narrowed.
It is a no small feat to strike a solitary figure at the table full of people, being surrounded on both sides by robust knights. Yet it seemed Lancelot managed to do exactly that, to Arthur’s eyes.
If they were alone, he’d have done something direct. Clasp the other’s arm, butt their heads together so Lancelot would wince and try to hide that (Arthur hoped), or deal a solid blow.
Instead, he settled for seldom glances over a cup and pre-negotiation talks.
There was always later.
‘Later’ proved to be the disgruntled King wandering stealthily through the corridors of his own castle, to reach the quarters assigned to Ban’s knights, one fool’s who had conveniently forgotten that he was Camelot’s knight in particular.
Arthur had seen him first (all right, so maybe Merlin had, but he didn’t count. Merlin, thank God, was not a king).
So he was going to have a talk with that certain someone. And then maybe throttle him and drag him off to... well, the particulars of his plan were still hazy, but he’d think of something.
In retrospect, he should have realised the circumstances were perfect for a kiss.
It was full of surprise; for both parties, even if later Arthur smugly told Lancelot everything had gone according to his plan.
So, surprise, teeth and slight stubble and God, if not for the guards (his guards! whoever had ever claimed that being king was fun and that you could actually command people according to your own wishes? Like ‘Leave your dignified yet horny king to his own devices and go guard somewhere else.’ Was dead wrong), it’d have been more.
By the time they sidestepped the suspicious guards, Lancelot had regained his composure and was all apologetic and ‘sire’ing’ him, his downcast eyes glancing up at Arthur every now and then. Arthur liked to imagine they held promise and coyness.
But that would be so un-Lancelot-like, right? Too chivalrous and aware of status sometimes, he was. And Arthur had spent too much time with Merlin if he was thinking that. Why again could Merlin influence him thus and he Merlin - not at all?
Arthur sighed, stepped closer to Lancelot and was thankful that the other man did not edge away; he hoped it was not just a sign of respect for the King of Camelot. Hell, even stupefaction and shock would be better than that. He stretched one hand out, fingertips ghosting shortly over the hot skin on the nape of Lancelot’s neck and the short curly hair there, and, withdrawing it, he wished the other a good night.
The next morning? ‘Twas a haze, a pleasant and unpleasant both weaved together by his chaotic mind. He was a living, breathing thing with desires and dreams, and no words and actions to supplement them.
Gwen was there. A warm Queen, a smiling woman by his side, not yet hindered by the cunning workings of the court.
Fresh-warm-smiling.
Was she even then looking to Lancelot, brightening her smiling lips upon seeing the dark knight?
When Arthur later thinks about that, pushing into a tanned hard body and sweating over quivering sinews and muscles, he knows he likes the soft-spoken lips and gentle eyes, both his lovers the disturbingly similar images of the same beauty of the world closed off. He likes the words they speak, the gentleness mixed with strength.
It didn’t start then; not for Arthur, anyway. He got down to his duties as king, doing his best for Camelot and suffering through interminable negotiations (he had to get Merlin for shrinking his duties; somewhere far away, the fool was probably laughing at Arthur being stuck in the mayhem of politicians’ smiles and their oily promises). Gwen sat next to him through those, keeping her silence and looking regal. He couldn’t believe how lovely she was, how lucky he was.
Lancelot got away from all this by going to the training fields. Someway, Arthur would get back at him for this as well, because he could imagine Lancelot and Merlin teaming up against him, both laughing at his expense, and he couldn’t let that happen; thus, the rebellion had to be nipped in the bud.
Arthur was truly a magnificent strategist.
Wishing king Ban a pleasant rest, and escaping from his over-loyal guards (Arthur suspected they were praying daily for a ruthless attack on his person so that they could sacrifice themselves for him, and really, could life become any more melodramatic in his castle?), he found himself perusing the city gardens, in a no-direct way heading towards the training fields. There was something he had to do.
It was the voices that stopped him; sounds of laughter and suggestive whispers, whispers without words as he was too far away- or the voices were too quiet- to discern any. And Arthur had always been drawn to whispers.
A researcher and adventurer in him smiled in glee when he stepped quietly forward, his curious self piqued when he knew he was hearing something that wasn’t meant for him (no, it was not proper, but Merlin was not here to gloat over him, to scold or tease him; as long as he didn’t know, no one else would dare question him; sometimes Arthur loved the authority).
“Is it what you expected, then?”
A sigh, “Why is everyone asking me this?”
“I don’t know. Wait. I’ve got it; maybe because you were talking of Camelot since you’ve joined us, Lancelot?”
If the silence could speak of blush, this one certainly did. “Tradorn.” An affronted look. And a blush.
“Lancelot.” The other, unperturbed.
“If the two of you would kindly stop glaring at each other, I’d like to move on,” a third voice interjected. “No point wasting a beautiful afternoon in a beautiful garden with two knights spoiling all the fun.”
“So. The King seems young.”
“Your point being?” Lancelot smoothly interjected, a slight thump indicating he had laid back on the grass.
“He’s younger than you or me, Lancelot. I believe it would have been strange, training under someone below my age.”
“We will never have a chance to train under him, Tradorn. We are not the knights of Camelot,” Lancelot replied in a smooth voice.
Then there was silence.
“I take it you would be happy then if you were to stay here.”
“Lamorak?” Annoyed.
“Yes, my friend Tradorn?”
“You’re not making any sense. Why the deuce would we leave Lancelot in Camelot?”
Lancelot murmured something sleepily then, and his companions laughed quietly. Arthur could hear the laughter clearly, but sadly the sleepy tone of his knight remained indiscernible.
“So. Let’s adjourn the facts; Arthur is young. According to Lancelot, he’s a great warrior. Incidentally, the bards agree with that assessment, but then again one can never trust the bards. And Lamorak wants to leave Lancelot behind. Does that make any sense?”
“I have only one conclusion; your brains are finally addled, presumably after the fight with that wyvern.”
“It was a basilisk!”
“Basilisks kill with their gaze,” Lancelot remarked idly. “That thing was not a basilisk.”
“How do you know that?”
“Someone told me, once.”
“Didn’t realise you knew people versed in monster’s lore,” a snort and a laugh. Arthur wondered if the man was there to give voice to his own reactions (which he couldn’t give, himself, seeing as he was eavesdropping and aiming for quiet).
“Versed in dealing with them, I’d call it,” Lancelot replied, stretching out further on the grass.
“And I’d wager there’re many things you don’t know about Lancelot,” Lamorak said matter-of-factly. “Like that he’d been to Camelot before.” The sitting knight give the dark-haired figure sprawled on the ground a knowing look.
“Come, Tradorn; let us leave our ponderous friend to his fond memories, and let’s hope the less fond ones will stop haunting him in such a beautiful place. Till later, Lancelot! And don’t fall asleep here lest any knights of Camelot decide to whisk you off somewhere so that you have to stay this time!”
With that, the two figures marched away. Leaving a thoughtful knight and a mischievous king to their own devices.
(and Lancelot was lucky Arthur was there, for there would be no time for the knight to mope too long and think of any kind of leaving, if the King had his way.
Which he would.)
Arthur Pendragon, he knew, was not a vicious man; he got no pleasure from ordinary revenge, preferring to stoically think of a just judgement, a punishment suitable to a crime. But he was fiercely protective, and he did feel easily and keenly any betrayal.
This was a double blow.
He had loved, both of them, both of them separately. He knew he couldn’t love them together, though. No matter the urgent pleas of Lancelot that Gwen should go free and he bear a punishment for the trespassing. No matter the bitter smile of Guinevere and the accusation of hypocrisy ringing in their bedchamber before she was led away, leaving the chambers once again empty and ringing in her wake.
He felt, curiously enough, as if he’d failed them both, being unable to stand up for them against the court and common beliefs. As if he’d fallen short of their expectations of a good man he was supposed to be. Arthur Pendragon, once again a prince unable to do the right thing, seeking an approval of a deceased king.
What can I do, he had asked once, as Gaius was led to his burning pyre. The king has already given the sentence.
Only now he was the King.
You can do the right thing, Arthur Pendragon. You can save an innocent man’s life.
TBC