FIC: "Fecund Knight" (4/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: October 17, 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: It's time for the big battle scene. Will Lancelot stay and fight? If he does, will he live?
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 Four

Before dawn, Lancelot stopped trying to sleep. A fitful night spent cradling his belly in one hand and awakening periodically from ominous dreams had left him feeling tired and hollow.

He tried to reconstruct the events of the prior day, straining to recall every word he and Arthur had exchanged. Arthur had decided to make a stand in Britain against the Saxon invasion, and he wanted Lancelot to leave to ensure the safety of the baby he carried.

To leave the man he had stood beside for fifteen years -- it seemed so unthinkable still! Even before the talisman from the Woad witch had rendered Lancelot fecund and enabled him to nurture Arthur's seed, the bond between the two men had seemed unbreakable. And since that magic quickening . . .

Lancelot's thoughts swirled.

Their plans to winter quietly together in Britain had clearly been obliterated by the arrival of the Saxon horde. If not stopped somehow, the Saxons would overrun the sorry island. But Arthur was unwilling to travel to Rome; he wanted to stand and fight. And how could he do so with nothing but a small force of stalwart locals and wild blue people from the North?

Hadn't he and Arthur somehow found victory against even the most impossible odds these past years? Together they had certainly been battered, but never beaten.

That, of course, was before Lancelot's body began to swell with new life.

Lancelot drew in his breath, his hand still cupping his belly. It occurred to him suddenly that he did not need to leave Arthur. The witch had assured him that if he gave suck from his breast, he would not take an arrow in it. She had said he would die if he didn't get a baby by Arthur -- the one who 'commanded his heart' -- and now he did, indeed, carry one.

So, if the witch were right, he should not die in the battle to come! And she had been right about his ability to conceive, so why should he not believe this prediction?

If Arthur chose to remain in Britain, Lancelot should stay with him, regardless of the danger. Where else could he go? Back to Sarmatia? Would he wander around the land, searching for his nomadic kin, then attempt to explain his strange condition to people who had not seen him for some 15 years?

The trip to Sarmatia would be fraught with danger, anyway. Saxons were not the only barbarians who invaded nearby lands. Tribes of all descriptions were encroaching on the Roman Empire, if not conquering it altogether. And winter was setting in. The journey would be long and uncomfortable for a normal man. And at this time in his life, Lancelot could not be considered 'normal.'

He needed to stay and stand with Arthur. Anything else was unthinkable.

Having decided, he sighed and got up, still fully dressed. He took a long swig of water from his nearby jug and washed his mouth, spitting into a bowl. He smoothed his tousled hair. It was time to go to Arthur, to reaffirm his love and loyalty, before the light of dawn announced the coming of this portentous day.

Arthur needed him.

He crept quietly to Arthur's chamber, encountering no one on his way. The lamps had burned low, and the hall was dim. He paused for a moment at the door, not sure of the source of his hesitation.

Then the door opened and Guinevere walked out.

They stood staring at one another. He noted her tired eyes and swollen lips.  She hadn't slept much either, clearly.

Lancelot smiled, bitterly amused at the irony of the situation. While he had tossed and turned and longed for Arthur, Guinevere had been in his bed. How many women had carried the children of men who found comfort elsewhere? It was a very old story, older than Britain, older than Rome. Lancelot had turned into a walking cliché, and now he had been caught acting the fool.

"So . . . you have him," he said.

Her large dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you plan on doing now?"

He laughed. "I plan on getting on my horse and riding the hell away from here, just as he asked me to. He doesn't need my bow. He has yours! He doesn't need me to fuck him. You seem to have that in hand, as well."

She gave him a satisfied smiled and moved away from the door. "Don't wake him. This promises to be a long day."

"Don't worry. After love-making, Arthur sleeps very soundly," Lancelot said. Then he sighed. "I should know."

"He belongs here, Lancelot. He's not a Sarmatian. He's a Briton! He knows that now." She tried to push past him.

Lancelot reached out and grabbed her shoulder. "It doesn't matter what he is. He'll die."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Only time will tell."

She pulled away from him and moved down the dark hallway. He stood and watched her, then an impulse told him to follow.

"Lady," he called out.

She turned and looked at him, her eyebrows raised. He walked closer, hands on his hips.

"When I go, I take his child with me," he said, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "I'm carrying his seed."

She stared, clearly disbelieving. "What superstitious fool do you take me for?"

"If you need proof, put your hands here," he said, touching his own belly and then his chest. "Or here." Under his leather jerkin, he could feel the swelling of his breasts.

She didn't touch him, but her gaze followed his hands. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes huge, filming over. She backed away slightly.

"What magic is this?"

"Woad magic or Celtic magic -- it makes no difference. Some sorcery from this island of yours, certainly."

He was surprised to see a large tear trace down her cheek; she quickly brushed it away. "Well, then," she said, "you have given him something I cannot. The Romans saw to that when they tortured me!"

They stood together in the hallway, suddenly silent. For a moment, Lancelot found himself feeling unwilling sympathy toward the wild young woman who had so blatantly pursued Arthur. He fought it back, remembering how miserable he had been all night while she held the one man who could have assuaged his pain.

"At least you'll both know this child lives inside me. Hopefully you'll remember that when you either die on the battlefield or couple afterward!"

He brushed roughly past her then, making his way to his own chamber, now ready to take his final leave of the fort, of Britain and of Arthur.

Bitterness seethed in Lancelot as the caravan of refugees slowly rode away from Badon Hill. He could taste its sour flavor, smell its acrid odor, feel its swelling nausea as they traversed the long road that led to a life he could not fathom -- one without Arthur. He refused to even glance toward Bors when the knight broke ranks, galloped a short way and shouted a tribute to their gallant, doomed leader. Lancelot was aware of Arthur's presence at the top of the hill, but the image was nothing but a silhouette glimpsed out of the corner of his right eye.

He would not turn and look at Arthur.

Never.

They rode on in silence. The other knights seemed as grim as Lancelot himself.

Then they heard the drums.

Vertigo's head went up, his nostrils flaring. The war-horses of the other knights made their feelings known, stamping and whinnying, obviously eager to join the upcoming battle. An old Sarmatian legend told of dead knights returning to life as valiant horses. If this were so, wouldn't it be better to re-enter the world as one of these brave beasts than to leave it whimpering from an old man's sickbed? Lancelot stroked Vertigo's neck and whispered to the horse, trying to calm him. He glanced over at his comrades who were looking at one another almost sheepishly. Slowly their wary expressions turned to smiles. Their eyes signaled a decision, and they motioned to Jols and then rode toward the wagon that held their weapons and armor.

Tristan stopped suddenly. He clicked his tongue at the hawk riding on his arm. "Hey," he said, "you're free." He lifted the bird skyward, and it unfolded its wings and flew up toward the clouds. Watching it go, a nagging prescience tugged at Lancelot. What had the old witch said about Tristan?

The last thing Tristan would see would be the sight of wings soaring free.

Lancelot felt a strange elation as he carried his standard up the hill toward Arthur. He was probably riding to his final battle, but he didn't feel the usual pre-war edginess. This mood was one of fatalistic joy. Why should they fear to face the enemy? It would take a miracle to win this day!

But, then, wasn't he already experiencing an even greater miracle? He smiled to himself as he felt the now-familiar flutter in his belly.

He was the first to reach his commander and friend, and their eyes exchanged a greeting that didn't require words. If Guinevere had told Arthur of their encounter in the hallway, he might never know it. And they now had to set aside thoughts of the baby and its ultimate fate and concentrate on doing what they did best -- fighting.

As all the knights arrived, Arthur mustered them with stirring words spoken in that familiar voice. "If this be our destiny, then so be it," Arthur said. "But let history remember that as free men, we chose to make it so!"

Lancelot thrust his billowing standard into the hard ground. The time had come.

They galloped forward, the hooves of their war-horses sounding like thunder on the open plain. First they fought through billowing black smoke, making their way in and out of the lines of Saxons, charging suddenly and unexpectedly, chopping and slicing and piercing the enemy. Once the first invading army was leveled, the full horde of Saxons passed through the gates of Hadrian's Wall. The knights, now black with smoke and crimson from spraying blood, then rode through amber flames fed by the pitch and oil carefully spilt across the battlefield. Screaming Woads attacked from all sides as their catapults launched flaming missiles and their archers fired flaming arrows at the field.

When Lancelot's arms ached from wielding his two swords, he switched to the bow and began to fire arrows into the Saxon lines. He saw his comrades snaking across the battleground, their war-horses unique on a plain teeming with foot soldiers. Then he saw Arthur knocked off his horse. Across the field, Guinevere was cut off from her Woad warriors and faced off alone against a familiar Saxon, the same fierce young commander who had challenged them once before when they met on the icy mountain lake.

The battlefield was bisected by a wall of fire. Lancelot spurred Vertigo forward and leaped the burning barrier to attack the flanking Saxons and go to Guinevere's aid. Arthur would be able to take care of himself, but he would never forgive himself if the woman were felled. Even this painted and bloodied Woad somehow set off a chivalrous spark in Lancelot. He leaped off his horse's back and attacked the Saxon leader, drawing both swords.

They fought fiercely, the Saxon finally going down on his back as Lancelot was forced to turn and defend himself elsewhere. He lost track of Guinevere immediately, assuming she, too, was engaged in hand-to-hand combat in the middle of the fray. Lancelot stabbed one Saxon in the gut while simultaneously cutting the throat of another, his two swords flashing. Instinct told him to turn back toward the young Saxon leader, but his breath was suddenly cut off and he doubled over in pain.

"Lancelot!" Guinevere screamed from somewhere nearby.

A whizzing arrow creased Lancelot's cheek as he looked up. The Saxon had a now-empty crossbow leveled at him.

A shriek from his right announced Guinevere's attack. She ran forward and clove the Saxon's head apart with a bloodied battle axe. Then she turned, panting, and faced the crouching Lancelot.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, hurrying toward him. She reached out and touched the scratch on his cheek.

He shook his head. "A cramp in my belly," he said. "That's all."

"I thought you were done," she said. "He had you in his sights."

Lancelot smiled, dropping one sword and pushing gingerly on his mid-section. He stood slowly. "It seems Arthur's son saw fit to warn me." He looked curiously at the wild woman. "And you saved my life."

She shook her head. "He missed. You would have killed him yourself, I'm sure, before he got off another shot."

The battle had died around them. Now they looked through the wall of smoke toward the spot where Arthur fought one-on-one with a tall Saxon.

"We are winning," Guinevere said.

"It's another miracle," Lancelot whispered.

Arthur pulled the Saxon's head up by his long hair and the man said something that neither Lancelot nor Guinevere could hear. Then Arthur finished him.

All around them the screams of the wounded and dying seemed to fade. Another sound from above caught Lancelot's attention, and he looked up. It was the screeching of a hawk.

Arthur's eyes scanned the smoking field, and when he found Lancelot and Guinevere, he ran toward them.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Uncertain of which one of them was being addressed, Lancelot answered for both. "We're alive," he said.

"This is a miraculous victory," Arthur said, his eyes wide with awe. "Their forces were vast."

"Perhaps your God had some hand in this," Lancelot said archly. "Or . . . perhaps it was a Woad witch and her prophecy."

Now, as though the memory of that prophecy had signaled it, the other knights approached; Bors' arms were shaking from the burden of carrying one of them. He bent and dropped the body of Tristan on the trampled ground at Arthur's feet. Arthur set aside the sword Excalibur, knelt down and lowered his head.

"It was my life to be taken," he said softly. "Never this." He looked up and his grimy face was streaked with tears. "The Saxon struck him down before me. He made sure I saw him fall."

Lancelot stood silently, surveying the cuts and scrapes on his comrades. Gawain seemed worst off, breathing shallowly from an arrow-wound to his chest. Lancelot, himself uninjured, watched their suffering leader; he knew there was no comfort he could offer for yet another loss.

"How will I find my way now, without my brave scout?" Arthur whispered. His shoulders shook with sobs. The knights stood around him, helplessly watching his grief.

"We must scour the field and make sure the Saxons are all dead," Guinevere said dispassionately. "We take no prisoners today. My people will do it. Go to the fort."

Arthur looked at her and nodded. He stood and picked up Excalibur. "No quarter. They all die."

The five remaining knights limped slowly across the field, picking their way through the bodies. Arthur reached out a hand to grasp Lancelot's arm and keep him close by as they led their comrades back to the fort; Galahad and Bors shared the beloved burden of the fallen Tristan, the wounded Gawain struggling just to keep up.

"I thought you were lost to me," Arthur said quietly. "I heard her call your name, even above the sounds of the battle."

"Our child saved me," Lancelot replied. "He gave me a strong kick just as the Saxon fired. I bent over and his arrow missed."

Arthur stopped for a moment, facing Lancelot. "Then the prophecy was true."

Lancelot grinned and pointed at his swelling chest. "Look. No holes. And soon I will, indeed, give suck from these breasts."

"Praise God," Arthur said, reaching over to embrace Lancelot in the middle of the carnage of the battlefield.

Bors and Galahad huffed by with the body of their friend. "What are you doing there?" Gawain asked, his breath coming in gasps.

Arthur pulled back, his gaze never leaving Lancelot's face. "I am holding the one I love -- the one who will soon give me a child of his own body."

Gawain stopped and stared. "Have you gone mad?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "This is sweet madness. We have won the day against these insurmountable odds. We have re-claimed this island without the help of the Roman Empire -- with just a handful of knights and an army of barbarian Woads. We have truly earned our freedom this day -- and all I can think of is my beloved Lancelot."

"My fecund knight."

The End, Part Four

Part Five