CONSOLATION by Dea Liberty |
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Consolation And Guinevere had just come barging into their lives and done what Lancelot had been trying to do for years: draw Arthur away from Rome and open the man up to something other than his own ideals. He was engaged to her. It was as good as being married. He’d been on his deathbed – and Arthur had gotten engaged. Soon he’d be officially crowned – and officially married and, this time, he’d really be out of Lancelot’s reach. Lancelot stood on the battlements, looking out over the fields, watching shadows chase each other over the grass as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. His fingers gently touched the bandages around his chest. The wounds weren’t healed yet and, technically, he shouldn’t have been up and about – but Lancelot had always hated technicalities and he’d absolutely loathed bed rest. Arthur knew that – not that Arthur would care now. He laughed bitterly at the thought, which triggered a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes as it racked his chest. And then a cloak was gently draped over his shoulders. Lancelot recognised the scent immediately: Arthur. “You shouldn’t be up,” Arthur chided gently, appearing in the corner of Lancelot’s vision. “The doctors say that you’ve healed but you aren’t out of the woods by a long way. You’ll catch your death out here – literally.” There was a half-smile on Arthur’s lips – a knowing smile grown from years of giving the same lecture and never having his advice followed. “Come inside.” “Just a little while longer,” he bargained, wrapping Arthur’s cloak more securely around him, letting the familiar scent comfort him. Just a while longer. Let me stay by your side for a while longer. The thought that someone else would, one day, take his place at Arthur’s side hurt. It hurt a lot because it had been fifteen years and Lancelot had grown so used to it that he’d taken it for granted. He’d known – by the Gods, he’d always known – that, one day, he’d lose Arthur. But it seemed easier, somehow, to lose Arthur to a city than to a face. And Guinevere had just come barging into their lives and done what Lancelot had been trying to do for years: draw Arthur away from Rome and open the man up to something other than his own ideals. He gave a small, weary sigh – which Arthur heard and misinterpreted. An arm slipped around his waist as Arthur drew him away from the battlements and towards his temporary quarters. Lancelot leant slightly into the touch, letting himself be shepherded by the other man and allowing the contact – basking in it for the small moment he was going to be allowed it. Arthur belonged to someone else now – and Lancelot had waited fifteen years only to watch him be stolen from right in front of him. He was beyond angry at her – but, more than that, he was angry at himself. He’d never told Arthur and now he never would. He could, however, be a good friend; he’d offer Arthur the support he needed – and then he’d disappear, leaving Arthur to his new life – and his new wife. “You’re tired.” It was a statement, not a question, he directed at Arthur as he let the other man lead him to the bed, settling him comfortably underneath the covers. Arthur avoided his eyes and moved to check the fire. “There’s been a lot to do,” came the barely audible reply. “I haven’t had much time to myself.” Ah yes. Arthur was running a country now, rather than just a garrison. Here was one man who’d had enough on his shoulders as a simple commander and now, instead, he had a country that was threatening to shatter into fragments – and it was threatening to take Arthur with it. “Let Guinevere take some of the strain, Arthur,” Lancelot told him quietly, staring at the other man’s back. He had no idea what Arthur was thinking – but it didn’t matter. He could still do this for a little while longer, as it was clear that his replacement wasn’t doing her job right. “Get some rest before you wear yourself out.” Before you break. It was a little while longer before Arthur turned around and came back to the bed and Lancelot could see him again. “You’re better now,” Arthur simply said. “That makes one thing less that I have to worry about.” A hand rose and brushed back one of Lancelot’s curls – and he fought not to lean into the touch. “You can help by just concentrating on getting better, alright? Look after yourself for me.” Lancelot smirked – an instant reaction to Arthur’s concern; he couldn’t let himself think about what that could possibly mean. Arthur wasn’t available for him to claim anymore – Arthur could never mean it like that. “I’m always taking care of myself. You just worry too much.” Arthur, thankfully, smiled at that. “That’s what everyone else says.” “Well, they’re right.” His eyes were starting to close, sleep slowly taking him. His stubbornness finally had to give way to his body’s demands. “You do worry too much. I can take care of myself.” He heard faint laughter before he fell asleep – faint laughter and even fainter words. “But I never trusted anyone else to watch out for you – even yourself.” He was asleep before he could really process their meaning or feel the soft brush of lips against his own.
It was a few days later before he managed to catch up with Guinevere. He had every intention of giving her a piece of his mind about her responsibilities towards Arthur – just because he couldn’t do it himself anymore didn’t mean he’d leave the other man with no one to do it for him. It just wasn’t going to happen; not whilst Lancelot still breathed. He was sitting in Arthur’s study when she came in looking for Arthur, no doubt, and not at all expecting to see Lancelot there. “He’s gone out. Some farmers wanted to see him or something.” His tone was cold – and her answering nod was just as frosty. She turned to leave before Lancelot spoke again. “No. Guinevere. Come inside. I want to talk to you.” Mystified, she shut the door behind her, chin raised defiantly, eyes flashing angrily. “You dare to speak in that tone to me?” She questioned, stalking up to where Lancelot was sitting. He simply smirked at her and shrugged. He’d saved her life; she couldn’t touch him. “We have nothing to talk about.” She was clearly offended by his insolence and turned to go. Lancelot knew well enough that there was one thing that could get them both to stop in their tracks. “It’s about Arthur.” Predictably, she turned back around, eyes far more guarded now than they were before. “What about Arthur?” “You should take better care of him,” Lancelot stated with no preamble, twirling one of Arthur’s quills around his fingers to keep her from noticing the way his hands were shaking. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He wanted her gone – wanted her to leave the care of his former commander to him. But it wasn’t going to happen. Arthur had chosen this woman – and Lancelot had to accept that. “He’s exhausted. I thought you were supposed to be co-ruling?” He hadn’t expected Guinevere to slap him, startling him from his reverie and contemplation of Arthur’s handwriting into catching the backhand as it came back. “What the fuck?” “You fucking idiot. You selfish bastard,” she hissed, twisting in his grip until he let her loose. “You have no idea of anything.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He stood – even though he knew that it was probably a bad idea – and advanced on her, even as she held her ground. Well, at least Arthur had picked a bold one. “What don’t I know about?” “You want to know why he looks like he’s about to drop?” She commented acidly, raising an eyebrow in challenge. When Lancelot didn’t answer (he was mystified it seemed so obvious to him), she went on, hostility clear in her voice. “Because every moment I relieve him of his damned duties, he doesn’t head for his own room; he heads for yours. And he sits there – just watching you sleep. Before you woke up lucid a few days ago, he’d sit there and pray to his damned God to spare you, plead with you to come back to him.” She’d started crying – and Lancelot wasn’t sure she even noticed. It was the first time he actually saw the woman under the conniving bitch he’d always assumed she was. “Any time you stopped breathing, he would look like his entire world had crumbled – and then for days, he’d sit and watch you. The only way we could get him to leave was to have someone practically kick him out.” She swiped angrily at her eyes and turned to leave. “It’s you that doesn’t understand, Lancelot. These past weeks since Badon Hill, you’ve seen him more than me and the country combined – and you don’t even know it. You’re the reason he’s so tired. He’d just never admit it to you.” And then the door slammed shut and Lancelot was left to crumple to the floor, stunned and tired and beyond confused, alone.
It was how Arthur found him a few hours later. Arthur shouted his name in alarm, dropping everything he’d been carrying in favour of rushing to his side, slowly easing an arm under Lancelot and lifting him up, settling him on the chair he’d been sitting in before Guinevere had come in. Arthur stayed kneeling beside him, tipping Lancelot’s chin so that he was forced to meet the bright, worried green of Arthur’s eyes. “Do you need me to get the healer?” He questioned and Lancelot rapidly shook his head. No more healers. No more anyone poking at his wound. “How long were you down there? Why didn’t you call anyone?” Arthur carried on chiding before sighing quietly and resting his head against Lancelot’s shoulder, one hand slipping to run through Lancelot’s hair. “Fuck Lancelot. That was…just…not again, okay?” “So it’s true,” he murmured quietly, eyes dropping to the floor behind Arthur. He felt Arthur tense slightly, waiting for him to elaborate – but Lancelot wasn’t sure that he could. “What’s true, Lancelot?” He breathed slowly, letting Arthur’s finger tip his chin again, unable to help but obey the silent command in Arthur’s eyes. “That I’m the one making you so tired.” Arthur froze before visibly forcing himself to relax – and it was all the answer Lancelot needed. Lancelot’s shoulders fell, making his neck drop so he was simply looking into his own lap, not daring to meet Arthur’s eyes. “You should have told me. I’ll…I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll look after myself and then leave and you can go back to Guinevere and the country and – ” Lips stopped his from moving. Arthur’s lips, warm and soft and tentative on his own. Lancelot gasped and Arthur took the chance to slide his tongue into his mouth, running it slowly over Lancelot’s own. Lancelot melted into Arthur’s touch, arms going around the other man’s neck and pulling Arthur closer, opening up to the kiss as easily as if he’d been doing it all his life. His eyes drifted closed as Arthur’s hand ran lightly, wondrously, over Lancelot’s cheek, thumb brushing over his eyes – everywhere Arthur could reach. “Shut up,” Arthur finally breathed against Lancelot’s lips – and Lancelot was not inclined to disagree with him there. A part of him vaguely wondered why he would when – oh yes. Now he remembered. He opened his mouth to protest and Arthur’s lips sealed over his again. “Don’t.” His eyes fluttered open and met Arthur’s. He swallowed hard and nodded, unable to find the voice to say anything in reply to the emotions he could see so clearly in his best friend’s eyes. “I had no choice but to worry about you – but worrying about you is better than grieving you. Lancelot…I’m glad I can worry about you – because that means you’re alive. Do you understand?” Lancelot nodded again, mouth parting unconsciously, already missing the heat of Arthur’s own on his. Arthur obliged the instinctive gesture and kissed him again. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do that,” Arthur finally murmured, so quietly Lancelot almost missed it (almost). “I never thought you’d – ” Lancelot mimicked Arthur’s actions before and stopped him from saying anything else. “I do and I’ve waited for a long time for you to do that as well.” He hesitated. Did he really want to mention it? Did he truly want to break this moment and bring it up? “Lancelot. What is it?” He smiled ruefully; typical Arthur. When Lancelot didn’t actually want him to be able to read him, Arthur could – and when Lancelot needed Arthur to, the other man remained oblivious to it. “I just…” He shook his head – but Arthur had never let him get away with anything like that, so he forced himself to say the words. “I just wonder…Arthur…Guinevere. I just…There’s no place here for me anymore,” he finally finished, swallowing hard. He fought not to let the tears fall as Arthur stayed silent. A minute passed – maybe more, maybe less, but to Lancelot, it seemed like an eternity – and Arthur still said nothing. Finally, there was a sigh and Arthur’s hand again, brushing back those damned curls that refused to stay in their place. “Lancelot, look at me.” He didn’t want to see the pity in Arthur’s eyes – or the apology or anything else – but Lancelot had never been able to refuse a direct order from Arthur. He looked – and was absolutely stunned by what he saw. Arthur’s eyes showed none of the emotions that he feared to see; all he saw was relief and, brighter than anything else he’d ever seen reflected in that green, love. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Arthur’s thumb brushed away a stray tear and another – and then Arthur was slowly, methodically kissing away the stream that didn’t seem to want to stop. “There is always - always - a place for you at my side. If you will stay to take it.” “I just needed to hear you say it,” Lancelot murmured softly in reply, leaning forwards to claim Arthur’s lips once more. “I just needed you to ask. I just needed to know that you – ” “I need you, Lancelot. I want you and I need you more than anything.” Lips next to his ear, warm breath and a voice whispering three words Lancelot never thought he’d ever hear but would have died to have them whispered to him. “I love you.” A warm tongue trailing fire over his skin. “I’ve been in love with you for a very long time.” “Oh Gods, Arthur,” Lancelot breathed legs widening so that he could pull Arthur much, much closer to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve….” Nothing else mattered. It didn’t matter that Arthur would marry Guinevere and would become king. It didn’t matter that Arthur would never be able to leave this godforsaken land – and neither would Lancelot because he will not leave Arthur’s side. It didn’t even matter that he’d have to share Arthur with the rest of the country – because Arthur wanted him there. And that was all that had ever mattered.
Address comments to the Author here: Dea Liberty
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Graphics &
Layout by Wildbearies ©2006 This is a work
of fiction.
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