FIC: "Fecund Knight" (1/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: September 12, 2004
FANDOM: "King Arthur" (2004 movie)
PAIRING: Arthur / Lancelot (Clive Owen & Ioan Gruffudd)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Touchstone Pictures, to the respective actors of the Jerry Bruckheimer movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: Slash, MPreg, nothing graphic
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
SUMMARY: Lancelot gets his fortune told and it gives him pause -- a 'pregnant pause'!
AUTHOR NOTES: "Fecund" -- Capable of producing offspring; fruitful (from the Latin, "fecundus").
Written for the Arthur MPreg list I co-moderate: Arthurian-MPregs-FemPregs

Part One

Lancelot took another sip from the flagon of ale, his grin slashing across the bottom half of his handsome face. He licked his full lips, chuckling, watching his disgruntled opponent surveying the results of their latest throw.

"Another?" the man asked, slurring the word and reaching for the dice.

"I've had enough, and so have you, apparently," Lancelot said. In response, the man made a rude gesture and pushed away from the table. Lancelot laughed and shrugged. The man was courageous to be so free with a Sarmatian knight, or he was drunker than he appeared.

"Winning tonight?" asked Gawain, leaning over Lancelot's shoulder.

"It seems so."

"Use some of your winnings to pay the fortune-teller. She has an important message for you, I'm sure." Gawain caught Lancelot's eye and winked, his head cocking toward the crone in the corner who was currently holding court with two members of the Roman guard.

"Not I," Lancelot protested. "I'm not superstitious."

"It's worth it, I assure you. She told Bors he would have 20 children, but not to fear -- his horse won't die!"

Lancelot's eyebrows shot up. "What does that mean?"

Gawain shrugged. "Better than what she told Tristan. The last thing he'll ever see is the 'sight of wings soaring free.'"

Shaking his head, Lancelot stood up from the table. "Arthur wouldn't like us listening to some old witch like that."

"Arthur's not here," Gawain reminded him. Their leader had retired early, probably to pour over his books and letters. Since most of the Sarmatians could neither read nor write, Arthur's interest in these subjects was as foreign to them as his Christian religion. There were so many better ways to spend a late summer evening.

Otherwise Arthur was grooming his horse, Lancelot supposed. He never seemed to tire of this chore.

Lancelot glanced across the courtyard to the stooped form of the ancient woman Gawain indicated. She was squatting in a dark corner, her long, full skirt ballooned around her, a small brown bag with a drawstring at her feet. Her gnarled hand was grasping a coin from one of the Romans, her gash of a mouth turned up in a smile, revealing two remaining teeth. The infantryman stalked off, clearly agitated, gesturing to his companion to follow. As the men left, the woman leveled her gaze on Lancelot.

She's a Woad, Lancelot thought to himself. She must be. Only one of the wild inhabitants of the north could be so bold as to make her way into the Roman fortress and peddle her dark wares to the knights.

"What did she tell you?" Lancelot asked.

"She told me if I shaved I might be mistaken for a pretty Sarmatian woman," Gawain said, laughing. "I said that could hardly be called a fortune. She answered that it might be considered someone else's good fortune." Gawain, who hid a smooth, albeit slightly scarred face under his beard, looked less than pleased. He didn't like to be reminded he was a little younger than the other knights. "She's cheeky, I'll give you that."

Lancelot sighed. He had no desire to speak to the witch, but didn't wish to appear stand-offish to his comrades. He might as well just get it over with and then return to his quarters.

The old woman looked up at him as he approached, one hand wagging in mid-air, the other clasped over her mouth. Behind this hand, he could hear her chuckling, ready and anxious to bring down another fearless Sarmatian knight with her foreboding drivel. He had no intention of giving her the satisfaction she had already wrought from the others. He tossed a few coins at her feet.

"What do you need to study, old witch? My eyes, my palm, the knots on my head? Tell me quickly."

She muttered something behind the hand, then she reached out with it, revealing the nearly toothless maw of a mouth. "Sit down, great knight," she said, her voice indistinct and strangely accented.

Reluctantly Lancelot seated himself on a stool in front of the woman. He suppressed a shudder as she placed her hands on his knees and looked into his eyes.

"You are the greatest of these knights, are you not?" she mumbled.

"I?"

Lancelot strained to understand her mushy words as she continued. "I can see in the aura that surrounds you that you are destined to be remembered for your courage and your strength."

Gawain had followed to hear Lancelot's fortune told, and now he made a disgusted sound and called to Galahad and Tristan. "Just more rubbish about how great he is! It's always the same with Lancelot." He walked away, disinterested.

The old woman's red-rimmed eyes bore into Lancelot's as she squeezed his leather-clad legs. "Listen to what I say, great knight. For in three moons time, you will be dead."

Despite himself, Lancelot bent forward.

The witch pointed to his chest, one finger poking his pectoral muscle through the thick leather of his jerkin. "You either give suck to a babe with this breast, or you will take an arrow in it."

"What the hell are you saying?" Lancelot asked angrily, grabbing the woman's outstretched hand roughly and flinging it away. "Explain yourself!"

For a moment her eyes glowed with anger or pain, then they softened. "It must be your own babe, great knight, for no other will have the strength to deflect the arrow." She reached into the bag in front of her. "Take this amulet," she said. "Give it to the man who commands your heart and tell him to command your body. Otherwise you will die."

Frustration bubbled in Lancelot as he tried to understand both the words and the meaning of the old woman's prophecy. He held out his hand and allowed her to drop the small rune into his palm. He stared at it as the woman collected her money and secreted it in the recesses of her skirts. She suddenly seemed in a hurry.

Bors could be heard from across the courtyard, clearing his throat. "Arthur!" he called out. "You came to drink with us!"

Lancelot looked up to see the form of his friend and commander, Arthur Castus; Arthur's face was impassive, but his eyes were angry.

"What are you doing here, old woman? I told you not to come back!"

The crone bent over, gesturing toward Arthur. "I am leaving, great king," she crooned. "I was just going now."

"I told you not to bother my knights, and I meant what I said. Don't let me find you this close to Badon Hill again!"

She looked up at Arthur and said something in a tongue Lancelot could not understand but recognized as Pictish or Celtic. She seemed to be challenging him with her words; Arthur's eyes were grave as he watched the old woman's hurried departure.

"What did she say?" Lancelot asked, studying Arthur's face. Arthur's mother had been a Briton, and he knew the old language.

Arthur glanced around, silent. The other knights were within earshot, interested in Arthur's eviction of the old witch. "I'll tell you later," he finally answered. "And you'll tell me what she said to you."

Arthur walked back across the courtyard. "Don't stay up too long, knights! We ride out early tomorrow. Consider that an order from your 'king.'"

The men grumbled in a good natured way at Arthur's back. Lancelot collected himself and stood, taking a deep breath, the amulet clutched in one palm.

"You were right," Gawain said to him as he passed. "Arthur was angry."

"Yes. It seems so," Lancelot responded.

"Why do you suppose so many of the people here call Arthur 'king'?"

Lancelot shook his head. He had no idea why the Britons behaved as they did and little care to find out. The people mystified him, clinging to their cold, damp rock of a world with a fierceness more pronounced than any in his experience. But then, didn't all people covet their homes, regardless of the conditions? Wasn't it just as true for the knights, yearning for their hovels back in Sarmatia?

Having seemingly been ordered to Arthur's quarters in the garrison, Lancelot made his way there now. He assumed his commander and friend wanted to talk to him immediately, and he, in fact, wanted the same thing. The old woman's words had affected him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

He tapped on the door to Arthur's room, then opened it and entered. Arthur was in the curtained area of his bedchamber, removing his jerkin.

"Did you give her money?" Arthur asked. He continued undressing as Lancelot stood watching. There was no modesty between the two men who had lived, fought and often slept beside one another for nearly 15 years.

"A few coins."

Arthur pulled on a loose, long-sleeved shirt. "I'm surprised at you, Lancelot."

"It seemed harmless enough."

Arthur poured them both a goblet of his best wine. He was often gifted foodstuffs by the locals, who both revered and feared him. Lancelot took his gratefully, sitting down at the small table in Arthur's antechamber.

"Why do you care so much?"

Arthur sighed, taking the chair next to Lancelot. "I dislike the superstitions of the north, I suppose. Even though the home I was raised in was more Roman than Briton, some of the old ways were part of my boyhood."

Lancelot dropped the amulet on the table. "She gave me this. She told me to 'give it to the man who commands my heart.'"

Arthur reached over and picked up the small, carved stone. He took a deep breath as he turned it over in his hands.

"There's an ugly fellow carved on it," Lancelot said, describing the rough image on the stone of a squatting man with antlers holding what appeared to be a snake. "Is it some sort of charm?"

Arthur nodded, still studying the amulet. "Perhaps."

Taking a sip of wine, Lancelot watched Arthur through lowered eyelids. "What did she say to you, anyway?" he asked, attempting to keep his tone casual.

"She said the wife I would choose would be barren. If I want an heir, I'll have to find another way to get one."

Lancelot's brows drew together. "Bitch!"

"She's just an old woman, Lancelot. There's little reason to believe she has The Sight. If she were a true ovate, why would she be creeping around the land, begging for coins?"

Sighing, Lancelot said, "She told me I'd die in three moons if I didn't give suck to my own babe. Something about taking an arrow in the breast. This amulet is supposed to empower you to give me a child."

Arthur looked surprised. "She was trying to trick us -- telling you to get with child and telling me my wife would be barren!"

"Why would she assume you were the man who 'commands my heart'?" Lancelot asked.

"Why wouldn't she? It's not that difficult to surmise if you know much about the knights!"

Lancelot gave Arthur a small smile. "It doesn't matter. I didn't believe her, anyway."

"Tell me what she said. Her exact words."

Surprised at Arthur's vehemence, Lancelot repeated the words as he remembered them, stressing the need for the man in question to "command his body."

"Otherwise I'll die," he finished.

Arthur sat, clearly troubled. "I wish I could just laugh this off, Lancelot, but I can't. I don't like you walking around thinking you might die, even if it's a false prophecy. It could distract you when you need all your concentration."

Lancelot leaned over and touched Arthur's hand with a fingertip. "I told you, I don't believe it."

Arthur stared at him, his large green eyes unblinking.

"What?"

"I don't want to betray our friendship, Lancelot, but I can't risk your life. If it's the only way to save you, I'm willing to obey the witch's advice."

Amazed at Arthur's words, Lancelot sat back and folded his arms. "I have no objection to sharing your bed, Arthur, as we've done hundreds of times all these years. But I have no way to get a child, whether I'm destined to die or not. Even your command could not bring about this miracle. Even your God could not."

Arthur stood up so quickly, he knocked his chair over. "My God has nothing to do with this! This has to do with ancient magic, the kind that makes fire and changes shapes." Arthur's voice raised, as though he were calling the knights to battle. "The symbol on this amulet is the Horned God, a god of fertility and re-birth. I have heard him called Cernunnos, a warrior and hunter, and many of the forest people here in Britain and in Gaul worship him. Whether you believe or not, this is nothing to take lightly!"

Lancelot nearly laughed at Arthur's passionate description of a pagan god. "This can't be something you learned in Rome, then," he drolled.

Anger flashed in Arthur's eyes. He stood up and leaned over Lancelot. "I'm finished with discussing this, Lancelot. Do as I say. Go get in my bed."

Challenged, Lancelot couldn't help arguing. "You will get a child on me by your will alone? This amulet will build me a womb and your seed will sow a babe? And through this miracle you'll save me from death?"

"I will do whatever it takes to save you, Lancelot, even this. And if I cannot accomplish this miracle even with the help of Druid magic, I'll find some way to keep you from harm."

Lancelot got out of the chair and swaggered past Arthur. "All right then. I'll obey your command. But I wager you'll be more successful swelling my belly than saving my life, judging by the mounds in our cemetery." He walked into the bedchamber, ignoring the sudden hurt in Arthur's eyes.

Arthur followed slowly, pulling the curtains closed behind him. Lancelot could see he held the amulet in his fingers. "Disrobe, Lancelot, and get into bed," he said quietly. "We'll see what we can make of all this."

Lancelot bent over to pull off his boots; Arthur stood watching, silent for a time, then began to pray aloud.

"Merciful God, if by the power of this pagan symbol you can help save this loyal knight who has served me so faithfully these many years, grant that tonight he will be made fecund and will give me what no other may ever be able to give -- a son . . . a son to take up my sword and continue my fight after I am gone!"

Lancelot stood by the bed, half-naked, staring at Arthur as if transfixed. This was not just about saving his life! Arthur truly wanted Lancelot to give him a child.

Suddenly unsure of his own wishes in the matter, Lancelot sank down on the straw-filled mattress. He watched as Arthur pulled off his shirt and walked toward the bed, his rampant body clearly ready to perform the necessary ritual. An unexpected prescience brushed over Lancelot like a gauzy cloth on his bare flesh, raising gooseflesh. This night would be one that would change his life -- probably change his destiny. He would not die, at least not right away. And maybe he -- one of the most formidable killers in Britain -- would finally bring something other than death into the world.

Lancelot held his breath as Arthur approached.

The End, Part One