Possession: I
May. 12th, 2005 02:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deawritesTitle: Possession
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dea_liberty
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: 16+
A/N: Post-movie AU where Lancelot survives Badon Hill and returns to Sarmatia.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.
Summary: Arthur wanted Lancelot to know freedom; instead, he finds himself forced to teach him what it truly means to be a slave to Rome.
Two long, lonely years since he'd said goodbye and watched part of himself turn his back and walk away.
Lips, warm and pliant and yielding; a body under his, arching, battle-worn but perfection in its own way; hot breath in his ear, panting and moaning his name; hands, callous and strong and sinfully clever.
Pain.
Fighting - both with words and, later with weaponry - and a crossbow arrow two inches below the heart. Infection, fevered nightmares and constant silent vigils.
Pain.
Post-war Britain and propositions of kingship - and marriage. More words, angered and hurt and confused and no answers.
Pain.
A goodbye. Cold, devoid of familiarity - but with finality.
Lancelot.
Arthur started, bolting upright, consciousness flooding into his body as pain flared in old wounds (in both body and spirit), sweating and panting and seeking out a body that wasn't there - that never would be there again - and one name echoing in his mind.
Lancelot.
Two years. Two long, lonely years since he'd said goodbye and watched part of himself turn his back and walk away. Two years since he hadn't been able to find the words to express just what that young man had meant to him.
Two more months in Britain, with solitude and memories for companions, and they had proposed that he marry Guinevere and take up the place he had earned as their king - again. He'd fled Britain and returned to Rome. He had no desire to be king and, most of all, no desire to be married - he wasn't sure he could touch another person like that again. And he'd never understood himself for it.
He'd tried since (God knew he'd tried so hard to force himself to allow for that kind of intimacy again) but every time someone had touched him, he didn't see them; just saw spirited, taunting brown eyes and battle-worn skin - and that almost condescending smirk. And he'd felt guilt flood through him - felt a tugging in his heart (that he didn't quite understand) that hurt more than any wound he'd sustained. He'd tense up and not relax, even under professional, careful ministrations - because he'd never let anyone so close, always felt as if they were too dangerous, hadn't be able to relax.
And they'd given up - he'd given up long before they'd come to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained from courting him.
He ran a hand through his hair, knowing that it was useless to try and sleep again. Those dreams and memories had never stopped plaguing him - every night, for two years - and he didn't know whether to count it a blessing (no matter what, he still loved that tiny reminder of what his knight looked like, lest he forgot) or a curse.
Slipping out of bed, he washed the tiredness from his features as much as he could, since his sleep had not been restful (not since before) and dressed, strapping Excalibur in its place by his side.
And his hand went up to the pendant around his neck; the last tiny piece of intimacy - his last memory. He'd found it after the words "goodbye" - and it had been too late to know, for certain, that it had been a mistake. Someone had once told him that the day he could take the pendant off and not feel bereft would be the day he found happiness again; he'd have forgotten his past enough to live in the present.
He'd laughed as if it were a joke - because he knew he'd never be able to let it go. Without knowing it, Arthur really had given everything to his first knight, and he wasn't so sure he wanted it all back again.
He passed the kitchen, greeting the people that worked in his manor with the same courtesy he'd always granted everyone; unlike other high ranking former Roman commanders, Arthur didn't own slaves (for obvious reasons) and, instead, hired people to do the chores - as he had done in Britain. Jols managed all of that (he took care of everything for Arthur) - because Jols had refused to leave Arthur's side even after it was all over. And Arthur had let him stay, happily accepted his services.
He hadn't made the same mistake he did with Lancelot; even though he had seen the hope in Lancelot's eyes, he hadn't been able to say the words.
And Lancelot had left.
Arthur shook his head, as if the action could dispel his thoughts (and regrets) and pushed the doors leading into the courtyard open. He smiled at Jols as the man trotted up to him.
"Anything I can help you with, Arthur?"
"My horse, please, Jols; I'm going into the city." Maybe the noisy chatter of the people in the market place would be loud enough to drown out Lancelot's voice. Nevertheless, having to avoid walking into people as he navigated the streets of the city would keep him occupied for a little while, at least.
The horse he rode, Komosarya (a combination of mare and dawn, in Sarmatian - Lancelot had named her when she'd been born), was the same mare that had weathered the later years in Britain with him - the same mare that had seen the bloodshed, protected him - the only one, save Jols (and even then, not really), who had seen almost every side of him.
The mare that had always walked next to Lancelot's stallion - the same one that had loved the younger knight so much, and the knight had loved in return.
It didn't take long to ride to the city - he lived on the outskirts of it, had chosen to do so for a little piece and quiet, and to be away from the prying eyes of the senate and everyone else who seemed to be so curious as to the life of the commander that had survived Britain - and from the people that wanted to see him live the life of every other Roman.
The market place seemed more crowded than usual; the throng of people like a living sea of dirt and noise and smell, one person almost indistinguishable from the next, flowing from one place to another in an endless mass. He navigated through it slowly, relaxing in one manner and tensing in another as he heard a few whisper his name. But, for the moment, he could bear with it - he didn't want to have time to think of other things brought forward and to frightening clarity by his dream.
And suddenly (as he glanced right), he found the sources of the crowd: slave traders. Sickened immediately by the sight of people trading others as if they were horseflesh (the same defeated look in eyes, the slump in shoulders - the bruises and cuts of those who had once been too proud but now yielded like any animal), Arthur turned away, wanting to make for the exit - perhaps to quiet parts of the city; he couldn't be in this crowd and keep his temper and his sanity.
He urged Komosarya to turn around. And she refused to move.
Startled, Arthur stopped completely and looked in the same direction she was looking in - at a particularly large crowd where slave auctions had already started to take place.
"What is it, girl?" She stamped her feet, trying to pull him in that direction, shaking her head and neighing quietly, almost longingly.
Confused, Arthur slipped off her back and tied her to the railings securely before making for the crowd, footsteps heavy but interest perked by his mare's (who had never refused an order) odd behaviour and insistence.
He pushed past a few people gathered there, making his way to where he could see the centre properly - the way parting quite easily at seeing his clothing - before he stopped, a few rows from the front. He turned to the lady standing next to him, looking on with a frighteningly satisfied look on her face that disgusted him slightly - he too could hear the sounds of flesh being beaten and the muffled groans of humans as they futilely tried to curl from their tormentors.
"What's going on here?" He asked her, having to raise his voice above the din that had just risen.
"Slave auction," she began, but elaborated when she saw his look (he wanted to know why there was such a huge crowd). "Slaves, captured from the East - the nomadic tribes. It's rumoured they're very strong fighters - lots of prospects for gladiators here - and everyone wants to get a good look before they're in the arenas."
Sarmatians.
The thought made Arthur's blood run cold; no wonder his mare had been so eager to come in this direction - she must have been used to something about the Sarmatians, and these ones had probably reminded her of those Arthur would never see again.
"They're stubborn too," the lady went on. "I heard some haven't really given in; they're still beating obedience into them and, I hear, there are some who still don't seem to get it - those will probably be brought as gladiators."
Bought to fight. Bought to die for nothing but enjoyment of a crowd who lusted for blood.
Arthur made a small, disgusted noise and bade her thank you, turning with every intention of leaving.
"Fucking Roman, sons of whores." The crack of a whip, the slap as it hit flesh and a grunt of pain.
Arthur froze.
The dialect he was familiar with - he'd had conscripts from all over Sarmatia, after all - but, frighteningly, so was the slight lilt of an accent in the almost broken (but spirited) voice. So was the voice itself.
Lancelot.
He spun around, eyes immediately finding the figures on the podium (the slave trader standing over the intended slave, who knelt on the floor, face turned upwards) before his eyes dropped to the man's back.
Scarred - which wasn't really a wonder, seeing as the trader seemed to have no qualms about bringing the whip down again - but under the blood…there was some that were much older.
Some that Arthur recognised.
He recognised the crouch, the slight ripple of a flinch as the whip was brought down again, the half-curled, half-straightened look that could drive superiors up walls, that snarl of haughtiness - and Arthur's gut twisted even further as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
The trader's hand lifted, slapping the man hard, causing him to hit the floor (hands and legs bound by chains, body weakened by malnutrition and abuse), head turning from the force of the blow as he did so.
And his eyes met Arthur's (by chance), widening slightly in surprise and a huge variety of other emotions as he froze (as time seemed to freeze), before he was yanked up again by his hair - and the surprise turned to pain. Pain that only Arthur had ever been able to detect.
Lancelot.
And Arthur knew, without a doubt (no one had ever had that same intensity in their eyes, no one had ever been able to convey so much to Arthur in just one look) that he hadn't been mistaken.
His mare had known and he now knew too.
The man was jerked upright and turned to face the gathered crowd, kicked once and then tied to the bar that was there, and the slaver announced the start of the auction as a ripple of "for the amphitheatre" made its way through the crowd.
His eyes found Arthur's again - and held them (horrified and unbelieving - not wanting Arthur to see him in such a state and yet…they were so conflicted and Arthur didn't have time to figure it all out).
"Fighter…" Arthur heard and it seemed he was hearing everything from under water because he couldn't figure it out, couldn't work past his shock and fear and dread and the tiny glint of relief. "Stubborn, strong…." That sounded like Lancelot, alright - there was no mistaking it. "Trained… Good investment for a gladiator - he won't disappoint. Who'll take this one to the Coliseum?"
Those words broke Arthur from whatever had held him still - and he made himself look away from the man he'd never thought he'd see again - and never thought he'd see like this - to listen to the bids already offered, as he forced himself to focus on the numbers and not the man.
And, gritting his teeth against the knowledge that he was doing what he'd condemned, trying to ignore the fact that this was Lancelot he was buying (he would deal with the consequences later), Arthur joined in the bidding - knowing that, whatever the cost, he wouldn't - couldn't - lose.
Author:
dea_libertyPairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: 16+
A/N: Post-movie AU where Lancelot survives Badon Hill and returns to Sarmatia.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.
Summary: Arthur wanted Lancelot to know freedom; instead, he finds himself forced to teach him what it truly means to be a slave to Rome.
Two long, lonely years since he'd said goodbye and watched part of himself turn his back and walk away.
Lips, warm and pliant and yielding; a body under his, arching, battle-worn but perfection in its own way; hot breath in his ear, panting and moaning his name; hands, callous and strong and sinfully clever.
Pain.
Fighting - both with words and, later with weaponry - and a crossbow arrow two inches below the heart. Infection, fevered nightmares and constant silent vigils.
Pain.
Post-war Britain and propositions of kingship - and marriage. More words, angered and hurt and confused and no answers.
Pain.
A goodbye. Cold, devoid of familiarity - but with finality.
Lancelot.
Arthur started, bolting upright, consciousness flooding into his body as pain flared in old wounds (in both body and spirit), sweating and panting and seeking out a body that wasn't there - that never would be there again - and one name echoing in his mind.
Lancelot.
Two years. Two long, lonely years since he'd said goodbye and watched part of himself turn his back and walk away. Two years since he hadn't been able to find the words to express just what that young man had meant to him.
Two more months in Britain, with solitude and memories for companions, and they had proposed that he marry Guinevere and take up the place he had earned as their king - again. He'd fled Britain and returned to Rome. He had no desire to be king and, most of all, no desire to be married - he wasn't sure he could touch another person like that again. And he'd never understood himself for it.
He'd tried since (God knew he'd tried so hard to force himself to allow for that kind of intimacy again) but every time someone had touched him, he didn't see them; just saw spirited, taunting brown eyes and battle-worn skin - and that almost condescending smirk. And he'd felt guilt flood through him - felt a tugging in his heart (that he didn't quite understand) that hurt more than any wound he'd sustained. He'd tense up and not relax, even under professional, careful ministrations - because he'd never let anyone so close, always felt as if they were too dangerous, hadn't be able to relax.
And they'd given up - he'd given up long before they'd come to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained from courting him.
He ran a hand through his hair, knowing that it was useless to try and sleep again. Those dreams and memories had never stopped plaguing him - every night, for two years - and he didn't know whether to count it a blessing (no matter what, he still loved that tiny reminder of what his knight looked like, lest he forgot) or a curse.
Slipping out of bed, he washed the tiredness from his features as much as he could, since his sleep had not been restful (not since before) and dressed, strapping Excalibur in its place by his side.
And his hand went up to the pendant around his neck; the last tiny piece of intimacy - his last memory. He'd found it after the words "goodbye" - and it had been too late to know, for certain, that it had been a mistake. Someone had once told him that the day he could take the pendant off and not feel bereft would be the day he found happiness again; he'd have forgotten his past enough to live in the present.
He'd laughed as if it were a joke - because he knew he'd never be able to let it go. Without knowing it, Arthur really had given everything to his first knight, and he wasn't so sure he wanted it all back again.
He passed the kitchen, greeting the people that worked in his manor with the same courtesy he'd always granted everyone; unlike other high ranking former Roman commanders, Arthur didn't own slaves (for obvious reasons) and, instead, hired people to do the chores - as he had done in Britain. Jols managed all of that (he took care of everything for Arthur) - because Jols had refused to leave Arthur's side even after it was all over. And Arthur had let him stay, happily accepted his services.
He hadn't made the same mistake he did with Lancelot; even though he had seen the hope in Lancelot's eyes, he hadn't been able to say the words.
And Lancelot had left.
Arthur shook his head, as if the action could dispel his thoughts (and regrets) and pushed the doors leading into the courtyard open. He smiled at Jols as the man trotted up to him.
"Anything I can help you with, Arthur?"
"My horse, please, Jols; I'm going into the city." Maybe the noisy chatter of the people in the market place would be loud enough to drown out Lancelot's voice. Nevertheless, having to avoid walking into people as he navigated the streets of the city would keep him occupied for a little while, at least.
The horse he rode, Komosarya (a combination of mare and dawn, in Sarmatian - Lancelot had named her when she'd been born), was the same mare that had weathered the later years in Britain with him - the same mare that had seen the bloodshed, protected him - the only one, save Jols (and even then, not really), who had seen almost every side of him.
The mare that had always walked next to Lancelot's stallion - the same one that had loved the younger knight so much, and the knight had loved in return.
It didn't take long to ride to the city - he lived on the outskirts of it, had chosen to do so for a little piece and quiet, and to be away from the prying eyes of the senate and everyone else who seemed to be so curious as to the life of the commander that had survived Britain - and from the people that wanted to see him live the life of every other Roman.
The market place seemed more crowded than usual; the throng of people like a living sea of dirt and noise and smell, one person almost indistinguishable from the next, flowing from one place to another in an endless mass. He navigated through it slowly, relaxing in one manner and tensing in another as he heard a few whisper his name. But, for the moment, he could bear with it - he didn't want to have time to think of other things brought forward and to frightening clarity by his dream.
And suddenly (as he glanced right), he found the sources of the crowd: slave traders. Sickened immediately by the sight of people trading others as if they were horseflesh (the same defeated look in eyes, the slump in shoulders - the bruises and cuts of those who had once been too proud but now yielded like any animal), Arthur turned away, wanting to make for the exit - perhaps to quiet parts of the city; he couldn't be in this crowd and keep his temper and his sanity.
He urged Komosarya to turn around. And she refused to move.
Startled, Arthur stopped completely and looked in the same direction she was looking in - at a particularly large crowd where slave auctions had already started to take place.
"What is it, girl?" She stamped her feet, trying to pull him in that direction, shaking her head and neighing quietly, almost longingly.
Confused, Arthur slipped off her back and tied her to the railings securely before making for the crowd, footsteps heavy but interest perked by his mare's (who had never refused an order) odd behaviour and insistence.
He pushed past a few people gathered there, making his way to where he could see the centre properly - the way parting quite easily at seeing his clothing - before he stopped, a few rows from the front. He turned to the lady standing next to him, looking on with a frighteningly satisfied look on her face that disgusted him slightly - he too could hear the sounds of flesh being beaten and the muffled groans of humans as they futilely tried to curl from their tormentors.
"What's going on here?" He asked her, having to raise his voice above the din that had just risen.
"Slave auction," she began, but elaborated when she saw his look (he wanted to know why there was such a huge crowd). "Slaves, captured from the East - the nomadic tribes. It's rumoured they're very strong fighters - lots of prospects for gladiators here - and everyone wants to get a good look before they're in the arenas."
Sarmatians.
The thought made Arthur's blood run cold; no wonder his mare had been so eager to come in this direction - she must have been used to something about the Sarmatians, and these ones had probably reminded her of those Arthur would never see again.
"They're stubborn too," the lady went on. "I heard some haven't really given in; they're still beating obedience into them and, I hear, there are some who still don't seem to get it - those will probably be brought as gladiators."
Bought to fight. Bought to die for nothing but enjoyment of a crowd who lusted for blood.
Arthur made a small, disgusted noise and bade her thank you, turning with every intention of leaving.
"Fucking Roman, sons of whores." The crack of a whip, the slap as it hit flesh and a grunt of pain.
Arthur froze.
The dialect he was familiar with - he'd had conscripts from all over Sarmatia, after all - but, frighteningly, so was the slight lilt of an accent in the almost broken (but spirited) voice. So was the voice itself.
Lancelot.
He spun around, eyes immediately finding the figures on the podium (the slave trader standing over the intended slave, who knelt on the floor, face turned upwards) before his eyes dropped to the man's back.
Scarred - which wasn't really a wonder, seeing as the trader seemed to have no qualms about bringing the whip down again - but under the blood…there was some that were much older.
Some that Arthur recognised.
He recognised the crouch, the slight ripple of a flinch as the whip was brought down again, the half-curled, half-straightened look that could drive superiors up walls, that snarl of haughtiness - and Arthur's gut twisted even further as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
The trader's hand lifted, slapping the man hard, causing him to hit the floor (hands and legs bound by chains, body weakened by malnutrition and abuse), head turning from the force of the blow as he did so.
And his eyes met Arthur's (by chance), widening slightly in surprise and a huge variety of other emotions as he froze (as time seemed to freeze), before he was yanked up again by his hair - and the surprise turned to pain. Pain that only Arthur had ever been able to detect.
Lancelot.
And Arthur knew, without a doubt (no one had ever had that same intensity in their eyes, no one had ever been able to convey so much to Arthur in just one look) that he hadn't been mistaken.
His mare had known and he now knew too.
The man was jerked upright and turned to face the gathered crowd, kicked once and then tied to the bar that was there, and the slaver announced the start of the auction as a ripple of "for the amphitheatre" made its way through the crowd.
His eyes found Arthur's again - and held them (horrified and unbelieving - not wanting Arthur to see him in such a state and yet…they were so conflicted and Arthur didn't have time to figure it all out).
"Fighter…" Arthur heard and it seemed he was hearing everything from under water because he couldn't figure it out, couldn't work past his shock and fear and dread and the tiny glint of relief. "Stubborn, strong…." That sounded like Lancelot, alright - there was no mistaking it. "Trained… Good investment for a gladiator - he won't disappoint. Who'll take this one to the Coliseum?"
Those words broke Arthur from whatever had held him still - and he made himself look away from the man he'd never thought he'd see again - and never thought he'd see like this - to listen to the bids already offered, as he forced himself to focus on the numbers and not the man.
And, gritting his teeth against the knowledge that he was doing what he'd condemned, trying to ignore the fact that this was Lancelot he was buying (he would deal with the consequences later), Arthur joined in the bidding - knowing that, whatever the cost, he wouldn't - couldn't - lose.
