"Fecund Knight" banner

FIC: "Fecund Knight" (3/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: September 14, 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
SUMMARY: The Knights go on a final mission for Rome, and Arthur meets Guinevere. (We're now up to the events in the movie, and things are getting a little angsty.)
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
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 Three

"Why do you always talk to God and not to me?" Lancelot asked, not caring that the question was unfair and, after these past weeks of intimacy, untrue.

Arthur looked over at Lancelot, his expression unreadable. After informing the Sarmatian Knights that Rome would send them on one more deadly mission, he was evidently shaken enough to have sought refuge in the stables to be alone and to pray.

The prayer had a ring of desperation to Lancelot.

"I have always found solace in my religion, Lancelot. Do not begrudge me this."

Lancelot felt exasperation growing in him. How had they come to this impasse, after the past few weeks of their growing closeness?

"I always believed I would die in battle . . . until these recent times," he said. "And now, when I have everything to live for, you ask for this!" He reached out and grasped the chest-high wooden rest that held their saddles. Arthur stood just on the other side, the rail between them suddenly both a physical and psychological barrier.

"Do you believe in this mission?" Lancelot asked.

"I have a duty to perform, Lancelot, and it has nothing to do with you and me and our child! It has to do with helping a family who needs us, and, more so, it has to do with making sure you and the knights get your freedom from Rome!"

The conversation seemed to go round and round, with Arthur professing his duty and Lancelot doing everything but explicitly reminding him of the ultimate responsibility he owed -- the one to Lancelot and his child. How could this man who had been so solicitous in the days before now expect Lancelot to risk his life and that of his child to take on one more mission for the Empire? Just the night before they had huddled together in Arthur's bed, anticipating the arrival of Bishop Germanus with the knights' official discharge papers, discussing whether it would be better to go immediately to Rome and risk having Lancelot's condition observed, or whether they should plan on spending the next several months at Badon Hill. Finally deciding they would stay on for the winter, they had laughed over the thought of keeping Jols with them, speculating on what sort of a mid-wife he might make. He had certainly helped deliver plenty of foals!

Then they had made love, slowly and gently, before finally fading to sleep in the hour just before dawn, limbs entwined. Now they stood facing off, completely at odds for the first time in their 15-year friendship.

Arthur gave a heavy sigh. "I don't expect you to go. I'll find some way for you to stay here."

His mind still lingering on the events of the past night, Arthur's words jarred Lancelot into the present. "What did you say?"

"I don't want you to go on this mission. It was bad enough knowing your life was at risk today. I won't go through that again."

Lancelot threw up his hands. "You're out of your mind! I won't stay here while you and the other knights go north! If you go, I go."

Arthur leveled steely eyes on Lancelot, shaking his head. "My mind is made up. I won't listen to any arguments."

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Lancelot fought the desire to leap across the rail and strike Arthur. He shook with fury, but he worked to keep his face as calm as possible.

"I'll not argue. But I'm going."

They stood silently for a moment, staring into one another's eyes.

Finally, Lancelot took a deep breath and tried to force an ironic smile. "And Arthur, if I fall in the battle to come -- for it is coming, I can see that -- do me one favor. Don't bury me in our sorry little cemetery. Burn my quickened body and cast my ashes and those of my child to a strong east wind! Perhaps the magic in me now will find its way to some other man who is more lucky in this venture than I have been."

He turned quickly and nearly ran from the stables, not waiting to hear Arthur's reply. His eyes suddenly stung, and he cursed himself for his weakness. In recent weeks, his nausea and mood swings had lessened, and with the exception of an occasional light-headedness and a slightly expanded waistline, his condition seemed to offer no ill effects. But now he blamed this unwanted emotion on the pregnancy and the womanly qualities it necessitated.

He was damned if he would give Arthur the satisfaction of knowing just how hurt he was. He would rather Arthur had risked the wrath of Rome and the Church and refused this last charge than put the knights -- and his own child -- in danger. Arthur's stoic compliance with Germanus' outrageous order was more infuriating than the mission itself.

To go north! To go to the heavily-forested mountains where the Woads ruled! To face a deadly Saxon force of unknown size in order to rescue a few Roman nobles! It was ridiculous. It was suicide.

To Lancelot it was worse than suicide. It was abortion.

So they headed north and Lancelot went along, the barrier that had separated them in the stable now an emotional boundary that neither would cross. Lancelot rode as hard as the others, ignoring any discomfort at the long hours in the saddle, huddled at night in the rain and cold, laughing with the other knights, never spending more than a few minutes at a time at Arthur's side. If his comrades-in-arms noticed the distance between the two, they probably assumed Lancelot was angry at Arthur because of the mission or his unwavering allegiance to Rome. His condition was still unknown to his friends, and at this point, it seemed to Lancelot that it would never be more than an unfulfilled promise he and Arthur shared in secret. As they rode on, barely escaping death at the hands of the Woads, Lancelot became more and more fatalistic.

The estate of Marcus Honorarius was completely out of place in Britain. Its size, its design, even the Roman gardens still under construction smacked of arrogance bordering on hubris. Snow had begun to blow around them when they finally approached the villa, and Arthur's mood was equally chilly, clearly affected by the mission, if not by the strain in his relationship with Lancelot. Honorarius himself was a typical Roman in Lancelot's opinion -- full of himself and utterly ignorant of the real-life events taking place around him, including the approach of a Saxon hoard that would undoubtedly raze his incongruous Roman home to the rocky ground.

When Arthur started interfering in the lives of the local peasants and then forced Dagonet to knock down the bricked-up entrance to some kind of Christian torture chamber, all the knights glanced uneasily at one another. Even Tristan tried to stay Arthur with a word of warning, but it had no effect. Lancelot followed Arthur into the dark prison with raised eyebrows, on edge, a strange premonition of disaster growing in his gut. Inside the dark chamber of horrors, he suddenly felt himself threatened, and his sword went reflexively up and into the body of one of the troll-like denizens of this nether-world. He cared little that the man was seemingly some sort of Christian priest.

"Is this the work of your God?" Lancelot spat out, using his words much like his sword, a reflex against a different sort of injury.

The sights and smells inside the dungeon were horrible, even to the war-weary knights. Most of the prisoners were dead and in differing states of decomposition, but Dagonet lifted an injured boy out of a cistern who seemed to be suffering mostly from fear, a fever and a broken arm.

Lancelot glanced around, a familiar feeling of nausea growing in him. He sensed rather than saw Arthur hurrying to one on the cramped cells; he joined him and glanced inside.

He saw a young woman, alive and beautiful despite her emaciated and bedraggled state. He stood soundlessly and stared for a long moment.

It was Arthur who acted, raising his sword and striking the chain that held the cell door, the mighty clanging of Excalibur resounding in the cramped chamber. The door fell open with an even louder sound, and Arthur rushed forward.

Finally overwhelmed, Lancelot made his way out of the Roman charnel house. He rounded the corner of the brick building, bent over and vomited. When he was finished, he stood up, wiping at his mouth, disgusted but resigned at his display of weakness before the other knights.

"She's a Woad," Tristan said, watching as Arthur placed the injured woman carefully down on the frozen ground. He glanced at Lancelot strangely but didn't comment on his sickness.

"What are we doing?" Lancelot said to no one in particular, sheathing his second sword. "This is madness. We can't save all these people."

Arthur called for water, and Lancelot fervently wished for some himself, needing to wash out his mouth and clear his reeling head. He walked toward his war-horse, Vertigo, and leaned on the animal's massive neck, the irony of the action not lost on him, even in his dizziness. He willed himself to stand up straight; in doing so, he spoke for the first time to the child he was carrying.

"Be still, little one. There's nothing to fear here. We'll soon be leaving," he whispered, struck by the sense of not being alone, even in his own body.

Then he mounted Vertigo and pulled back on the reigns. The great horse responded, lifting its front legs and pawing the air, letting out a shrill cry. In the distance, the Saxon drums sounded their ominous, rhythmic march toward the Roman estate. Arthur looked up and caught Lancelot's eye, admiration plain on his expressive face. Lancelot could not suppress an answering smile as he reigned in his mount.

They were away as quickly as they could manage, the Roman nobles and their mercenary soldiers, the injured prisoners and a motley group of peasants all accompanying the nervous Sarmatian knights. Their flight was doomed, in Lancelot's opinion, and he could not help complaining to Arthur of its folly. Arthur then spoke sharply to him, advising him to save his anger for the Saxons.

"Tell that to my son!" Lancelot retorted, kicking Vertigo forward.

That night when they were camped, Lancelot caught a glimpse of the injured woman being bathed by the wife of the Roman noble. The older woman used a cloth to wipe away the Pictish symbols drawn on the slender limbs, blue designs made with paint from the woad plant that gave these wild people their common name. Her breasts were not much bigger than Lancelot's; in a few weeks, his might actually be larger than hers, he imagined. He stared at her, wondering what she would think if she knew of his condition.

She glanced over as if she had read his thoughts, catching his eye. He quickly looked away.

Another Woad witch, he thought.

Later, as he watched Arthur following the young woman into the woods, he felt as though his chest was expanding faster than his belly, a swelling in his throat resembling nausea. He could not ignore the obvious attraction between them, and he tried not to imagine their impending encounter in the woods. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the amulet with the image of the horned god, rubbing it as he remembered his own bond with Arthur. This woman could not compete with him, despite her ethereal beauty. She was no comrade. She was no warrior.

But, in fact, she was a warrior. When he saw her in the morning, standing with her bow drawn taut, having already killed the treacherous Honorarius while he held a knife to the throat of the injured boy, he nearly whistled. Hands behind his neck, holding the hilts of both of the swords crossed on his back, he offered her his most charming smile.

"Impressive, my lady," he said, his voice droll.

"My name is Guinevere," she told him, putting another arrow at the feet of one of the Roman mercenaries. Her long gown blew back in the wind, revealing surprisingly muscled arms. Lancelot had to admit there was much to admire in this wild Woad female.

Tristan rode into camp, tossing a Saxon cross-bow at Arthur's feet. Once again, they could hear the drums, not so distant now. They left camp as quickly as they could.

The trip across the frozen lake was one Lancelot would never forget. The sound all around them of the cracking ice was more frightening than the encroaching drums. When it was clear the knights would have to stop and fight, Lancelot imagined the worst.

He hoped an arrow or a Saxon hammer would find him, wishing for the end to be quick. He hated the thought of drowning in the icy water beneath his feet.

Guinevere stood with the seven knights, ready and willing to fight. Lancelot looked over at her, openly admiring her spirit. "You look worried," he said teasingly. "There are a lot of lonely men out there."

"Don't worry. I won't let them rape you," she said pointedly.

She knows, he thought.

When Dagonet made his heroic but doomed charge toward the Saxon army, Guinevere was firing arrows as quickly as the knights. Dagonet chopped at the ice with his axe, and they heard it give way. Lancelot automatically stepped back, even while he kept feeding arrows to his humming bow. It seemed like it took only seconds for the ice to start to break, for Dagonet to fall and for Arthur to charge forward to rescue him.

"No!" Lancelot shouted, his bow desperately thrumming cover for his commander and friend.

Guinevere glanced over at him with a cocked eyebrow, still firing cooly.

They both saw the Saxon arrow whiz past Arthur, skimming his exposed neck. Arthur was on the edge of the breaking ice, reaching forward to fish the now sinking form of Dagonet out of the water.

Lancelot closed his eyes for an instant, wishing he knew how to pray.

Then the frozen lake gave way, swallowing up most of Saxons. Bors ran to Dagonet while the rest kept firing until every arrow was gone.

Later, returning to the fortress at Badon Hill with the body of Dagonet on the back of his war-horse, Lancelot was too tired to even contemplate what would come next. The fact that most of them had escaped was nothing short of miraculous, but this did nothing to cheer them. The knights were silent in their gloom. Arthur's bloody neck had a scarf tied around the new wound; the emotional wound of having lost another knight would be slower to heal. Lancelot couldn't help thinking back to the night they had conceived the child, of his reference to the mounds of earth in the nearby cemetery covering the graves of so many knights. He, himself, had wounded Arthur with those words, and later thought to salve the hurt with the germinated seed of their passion.

What had happened to that passion?

As Lancelot now sat in his quarters holding the scroll that marked his discharge from Roman service, he tried to erase the lupine grin of the Roman bishop from his mind and replace it with the beautiful eyes and grave face of Arthur Castus. Why didn't Arthur come to him now and ease his pain in Lancelot's arms? Was the distance between them so vast?

Was he with Guinevere?

Tristan poked his head in the door, whistling. "The Saxons," he said. "Come to the wall."

Lancelot dropped the scroll on his bed and followed, dread filling him. He climbed the steps to the top of Hadrian's Wall, the amazing piece of Roman architecture that transected Britain for more than 70 miles. The sight of the countless burning campfires just a few hundred yards from the north side of the wall was nearly as awe-inspiring as it was horrifying. Thousands of men surrounded those fires. How could there be such a hoard when so many had already gone under the ice?

Arthur stepped beside him. He sighed as he took in the ominous sight, his eyes reflecting the red of the fires.

"Knights, I can't go with you," he announced, turning toward Lancelot. "Everything I've lived for has come to this moment. You must gather everyone you can and lead them away from this place."

Lancelot stared at him in disbelief. "You can't stay here. It's suicide."

Arthur's eyes pleaded, but his voice stayed calm. "I've made up my mind. You have to go." He turned and walked quickly away.

As Arthur descended the stairs, Lancelot followed him, arguing desperately. "This is what we've waited for," he shouted. "We can go to Rome! We can escape this. We're free!"

Arthur stopped and faced him. "Take the freedom you've earned and live it for the both of us!" he said passionately. "And for our child." He paused, taking a deep breath. "You must survive this, Lancelot, or everything between us has been in vain. Remember what the old witch said." His eyes were huge, his face gaunt. He was oblivious to the people standing close enough to hear them, including Guinevere.

"I won't go without you!"

Arthur reached out and grasped Lancelot's neck. "Do you believe I love you?"

Fighting back his emotions, Lancelot answered, "I want to believe it."

"Believe it," Arthur said, his hand rising to Lancelot's cheek. "Do you love me?"

Lancelot saw the shifting form of the lovely Woad woman out of the corner of his eye. He nodded at Arthur. "Yes."

"If you do, you'll never be without me. I can't run, Lancelot, and I can't see you die. You have to do this for me."

Lancelot knew he couldn't fight his threatening tears much longer. He bit his lip, nodded again and turned away. The pride that drove him to want to be the best of all the knights now drove him away from Arthur, away from Guinevere and away from anyone else who was watching.

By the time he reached his room, dizziness overcame him. He sank down on his bed, a hand over his stomach. "It's all right. We have to go," he said aloud to the life inside him. "He has to stay."

As if in answer, he felt a strange stirring in his belly. He tore at his waistband, reaching both hands around his abdomen to feel the quickened life inside. Several strange little taps vibrated his skin.

He wanted to laugh out loud. He wanted to break down and weep.

But mostly Lancelot wanted to go back out in the courtyard, hold Arthur's hand to his burgeoning belly and then kiss his commander and friend goodbye.

The End, Part Three

Part Four



Home  |  Disclaimer  |  Fandom Definitions  |  FanFic  | 
News  |  Recs--Links  |  Forum  |  Link to Us  | 
Webmasters  |  Search the Site  |



Valid HTML 4.01 Transitional

Valid CSS!