FIC: "Fecund Knight" (5/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: May 21, 2005
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, birth, not too graphic
SUMMARY: After all this time, it's time for Lancelot to welcome the fruits of his labor.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
DEDICATION: This part is dedicated to TsLadyhawk at the King Arthur Fanfic list for her strong 'encouragement' to "birth that baby"!
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 Five

Lancelot leaned back and cupped his swollen belly with both hands, shifting to try to find a more comfortable position. He gave a small groan as he sat watching the pacing Arthur. Despite the mild temperature typical for early summer, his friend and commander -- and the father of his soon-to-be-born son -- was perspiring freely. Arthur's expressive green eyes held a look that might have been identified as fear if the observer didn't know the man's courageous heart as well as Lancelot did. Witnessing Arthur's discomfiture, Lancelot almost took pity on him.

But not quite.

"Just say it," Lancelot said peevishly. "Have it done."

"All right, I will," Arthur said, sighing. "I must marry her."

"Must you?"

"I must unite this land, Lancelot! The Britons have to come together against our enemies. That Saxon army at Badon Hill was not the last we'll see of barbarian invaders. Guinevere's status among her people is significant. Our marriage will seal an alliance and build a kingdom."

Lancelot gave Arthur what he hoped was an ironic glance. "A kingdom? And so you will become King Arthur."

Arthur stopped his pacing and stood facing his First Knight. "I never looked for that title or that responsibility, Lancelot. Many here have called me a king for some time, but I didn't encourage it." Shifting his gaze and staring into the surrounding wood, Arthur's voice took on a hollow tone. "But it was meant to be, just as your child was meant to be."

These words conjured the vision of a hobbled crone in Lancelot's mind, the ancient enchantress who many months earlier had gifted him with the amulet of the horned god and prophesied his fertility and his survival at Badon Hill. He remembered how she had referred to Arthur as "great king," and how he and Gawain had speculated on why so many of the locals used that term for their leader.

And what had she told Arthur?

Lancelot almost smiled, remembering.

She had said that Arthur's chosen wife would be barren and he would be forced to find another way to get a son.

Lancelot knew, even if Arthur did not, that the Woad Guinevere could not conceive a child. She had told him so herself when she learned of his magical condition.

And so the witch had been right, not just about Arthur and Lancelot, but about everything she had revealed that night at the fort. She had foreseen the death of Tristan and she had even known that Bors' war-horse would be wounded, but would ultimately survive.

Now Lancelot wished he would encounter the woman again so he could ask her about the future of his relationship with Arthur and the fate of his unborn child. Wouldn't it be better to know, even if the knowledge were unwelcome?

Perhaps not.

"Marry her, then," Lancelot finally said. "Be the king. Give this land what it wants -- your soul."

Arthur approached and took Lancelot's hand, his face grave. "If Britain takes my soul, you will always have my heart."

Lancelot reached out and pressed his palm against Arthur's face. "I'll be happy when I can again have your body! It's been many weeks since my condition has allowed me to do more than kiss your lips."

Smiling now, Arthur bent close enough to Lancelot to allow him to do just that. Then he pulled away, sighing. "All I pray is that the birth of this child will not harm you. The midwives are concerned, and I fear the surgeon will be required. How else can it be accomplished?"

Groaning again, the gravid knight slowly stood up. "If magic could bring this condition about, then magic will have to end it. We must find the Woad witch, Arthur. She will have the answer."

Arthur patted Lancelot's shoulder gently. "I have been searching for her for some time, Lancelot. To no avail."

So Arthur, too, had wondered what the old woman might now reveal!

"We will have to trust to your God, then," Lancelot said, "and to the surgeon." He suppressed the shudder that threatened to reveal his revulsion at the thought of a knife being taken to his belly. How he would survive such butchery was a subject he preferred not to ponder. He told himself once again that he would live through the birth. He had to. His son needed him.

Or did he? Couldn't a suckling mother be found to serve as a surrogate, some Woad who already had a brat strapped to her hip or following her about on tiny, undeveloped legs? Would her milk be any less filling? Would Lancelot's son feel any less comfort against her soft breast?

Had Lancelot's life been spared in battle only to be lost in childbirth? Was this the ultimate irony of his impossible situation?

He forced the foreboding thoughts from his mind. It would not do to dwell on death when he was about to finally give forth new life.

Not far away the chief midwife stood watching; Lancelot caught her eye as he shuffled slowly away from the large tent that he and Arthur now called home. He needed to relieve the cramps from his legs and the pressure from his bladder, so a walk to their makeshift privy was in order. The midwife acknowledged him with an almost imperceptible nod, her striking face impassive. She was tall and slender, with hair the color of a summer sunset. Staring at her curiously, Lancelot found it impossible to tell her age; she was not in the first blush of youth, nor could she be considered old. It was whispered that she could work near-miracles when faced with a difficult birth.

Lancelot hoped so.

They had moved south from Hadrian's Wall before winter set in. Many had stayed behind to cleanse the great battlefield of the littered carcasses of the Saxon horde. The fires had burned for weeks and weeks, the bitter winds carrying the reeking black smoke for miles. Arthur, now without the eyes and ears of his trusted scout Tristan who had fallen at Badon Hill, had sent several men, some of them Woads, to scout the land for the best place to build a fortress. Soon Arthur would make a choice for his new capital, but it seemed that before he did so, he would announce the choice of a bride, a daughter of Britain.

Guinevere would be his wife, but Lancelot would bear his son. A fitting enough trade-off, Lancelot decided.

"Eat this," said the midwife when Lancelot returned to the common area of the camp. She directed him to a long wooden table and helped him into the straight-backed chair reserved for his comfort. The bowl she placed in front of him held a porridge of meat and milk, a concoction Lancelot had learned to enjoy, even to crave. He began to eat, gratefully, then turned to speak to the woman and found her gone.

Gawain sat down on the bench next to Lancelot. "How is our fecund knight today?" he asked, staring at Lancelot's belly beneath his straining tunic.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Lancelot answered.

"The child thrives?"

"Evidently, if one can judge by its restlessness."

Gawain stretched his legs and breathed heavily. "We're going to Badon Hill to fetch Arthur's table," he said. "He says we'll start building a hill-fort soon, and he wants to make sure we have it."

Lancelot reflected on the many years the knights had spent sitting at that table. It was the center of their world in many ways, designed to hold 40 knights at a time, a round table with no head or foot to differentiate the status of those who sat there. Although it was more than 28 feet in diameter, it was open at the center and came apart in sections, so it could certainly be transported, although not easily.

"He will be king, Gawain. And he will marry her."

Gawain nodded. "He was always destined to be their king," he said. "Rex quondam, rex-que futurus, 'The Once and Future King.'"

"Where did you hear that?"

"The Romans who chose to stay in Britain call him that. The Woads, of course, have other words, but I can't understand their language the way Arthur can."

Lancelot sighed. "He really believes he will unite them somehow, Picts and Celts, Romans -- all of them!"

"If anyone can, it's Arthur."

Pushing the nearly empty bowl away, Lancelot slowly stood up. "I have to move about. The more I sit, the more I doubt I'll ever be able to rise again!"

Gawain started to lend a hand, then seemed to think better of it. Even with a belly big with child, Lancelot was given the respect of the Sarmatian knights. He was treated with a bit more care, but never coddled by the men. The knowledge of the magical pregnancy had explained much about Lancelot's moodiness, sudden nausea and finicky eating habits. And while his fellow knights accepted his condition, the Woads seemed to revere it. Somehow Lancelot's fertility was just another credit to Artorius, the hero of Badon Hill, the warrior who would soon become a king, a king whose power to sow his seed was not limited to woman or womb.

And so, just months since the Saxons were repelled, the legends surrounding Arthur Castus and his few remaining knights started to spread across Britain.

The Woad leader, Merlin, passed Lancelot quietly, pausing only to make some magic sign with his hand. Now used to the ways of the wild men of the North, Lancelot ignored him and continued his slow walk around the common area of the expansive camp. Merlin was obviously on his way to see Arthur in his tent; the two were constantly sequestered together, plotting strategy to transform the factious island of Britain into a kingdom. It was the Woads who had really won the day at Badon Hill; without their forces, the knights could never have held against the vast Saxon army. Despite his natural suspicion of the strange people, Lancelot had grudgingly acknowledged their worth.

The knights, the Woads, a few Romans and dozens of locals now shared Arthur's temporary settlement in southwest Britain. As word spread, more and more people came to join the diverse community, pitching tents and building makeshift huts in an ever-widening circle around the open common area. Occasionally Lancelot was overcome with a sickening sense of claustrophobia, his native nomadic instincts rebelling against both his own burdened physicality and the crowded conditions in the camp.

But overall he was somewhat awed by the way Arthur's name and his deeds seemed to draw more and more people to his side. These were individuals who did not even know, as he did, the qualities of the man. And yet they came, more and more of them. And by their very presence they provided some security for Britain's new leader -- and for his unborn son.

Lancelot was halted by a sudden cramp. He groaned and stood still, waiting for it to pass. When it had, he shuffled forward again, ignoring the curious glances directed his way. It seemed now that wherever he went, dozens of sets of eyes followed. Sometimes the scrutiny would become overwhelming, and he would escape to the relief and comfort of the large tent he shared with Arthur.

Now he wanted to visit his war-horse, Vertigo, to speak softly to his four-legged friend while stroking the smooth coat of his muscled neck. It had been many weeks since he could ride comfortably, so Arthur and Galahad and Gawain all helped exercise the horse daily to keep him healthy and battle-ready. Lancelot looked forward to the day when he would once more feel the power of the great beast between his legs, just as he longed for the time when he would once again heft his swords in practice and slice the air with the deadly blades.

And someday he would undoubtedly be called on to kill again, to protect his new king and his new land.

Rubbing his aching lower back, Lancelot walked toward the most substantial structure in the camp, the stables. As had always been true, the knights valued their horses' comfort more highly than their own, and they made sure the creatures were safe and secure in their temporary home. As he neared that home, he was assailed by a strong, almost searing, pain. This was unlike any discomfort he had experienced with his pregnancy, and his heart started to thump with alarm as his belly contracted.

He groaned and fell to his knees. The peasant Ganis who had become something of a squire to Arthur, came out of the stables and ran to him.

"Sir Lancelot?" he said, using the term of respect the peasants reserved for the knights.

"Pain," Lancelot said with a gasp. "Strong!"

Ganis stood, uncertain, for a moment. "Shall I run to find a surgeon?"

"Get the midwife," Lancelot said, staring with horror at a spreading wet stain across the tight fabric of his tunic.

"Sir? Shall I help you inside before I go?"

Lancelot nodded, suddenly aware of the curious crowd gathering around him. "Yes, Ganis. Take me to the stables."

The tall, thin man carefully lifted Lancelot to his feet and supported the paturient knight into the seclusion and comparative comfort of the stables. He gently eased Lancelot down on a bed of straw, then ran quickly away. Lancelot groaned, another deep pain rocking his body. He placed both hands on his belly and pressed against the contraction; his fingers came away wet with reddish fluid. Panic and nausea threatened to choke him.

What was happening to him? Was he losing the baby?

He heard voices at the entrance to the stable. He looked up into the worried face of Arthur Castus. Just behind him the midwife appeared, her dark red hair flying loose behind her.

"Lancelot! Is the babe coming?" Arthur asked.

Lancelot shook his head. "I don't know. Something is happening."

"Let's get you to our tent!"

"No. No. I want to stay where I am." Around him Lancelot could hear the comforting sounds made by the war-horses as they watched and waited, snorting and snuffling in their ersatz stalls. He smelled horse sweat and manure and found their scent strangely welcoming. What more fitting place to wait out his confinement?

"Bring lamps and blankets," ordered the midwife. "We must remove his clothing."

Lancelot sat forward as he was again contracted with pain; his belly felt as though it were bursting open! Was the impatient child breaking out of his body?

Several sets of hands aided in divesting Lancelot of his boots, pants and tunic; he was lifted and laid on a blanket covering a cushion of straw. Jols, Galahad and at least two other women had joined them. The midwife squatted in front of him.

"Drink this," she ordered, and he looked up into her large, violet eyes. She held a mug to his mouth and he swallowed obediently, watching as she pulled several rings off her long, white fingers, then placed her hands on his swollen stomach. "Pull back my hair," she said to the assistant at her side, and the woman complied, tying the long red curtain with a strip of rawhide. As he finished the cool draught, Lancelot's tension was assuaged and he was filled with a strange sense of tranquility. He looked down at his naked flesh.

His belly was, indeed, bursting open! His navel was agape by at least two inches.

Mopping his face, chest and abdomen with a cool wet cloth, the midwife ordered Lancelot lifted to his feet.

"We must allow his body time to spread naturally, so he need not be cut or torn. Help him try to walk."

Groaning, Lancelot crept along between Arthur and Jols. Around him, the knights' war-horses shifted at their posts.

"This is what we do for a mare when she's birthing, only we lead her with a rope," Jols said.

Remembering the day months earlier when his own mount, Vertigo, had suffered with colic, Lancelot smiled through his pain. He had kept the horse walking for hours after Jols had administered his treatment for the horse's impacted bowel. In fact, Lancelot now felt a great pressure in his own gut and whispered to Arthur.

Arthur in turn spoke quietly to the midwife. She nodded and gave quick instructions to the two women assisting her. Lancelot was lowered over a bowl, and the red-haired woman pressed on his belly to ease his discomfort as he evacuated.

A sheen of perspiration sheeted Lancelot's flesh as he was again helped to his feet. The midwife's hands were both skilled and soothing as they moved over him examining the expanding opening of his umbilicus; and he was suddenly reminded of the vast open plains of his home in Sarmatia and of his mother ministering to him in rare instances of illness or injury. How her touch had eased him! Would he, in turn, be able to offer the same comfort to his own son?

"What is your name?" he asked, biting his lip as the woman patted at his damp face with cloth.

"I am the servant of the king," she answered. "My name is Morgaine."

A wave of dizziness nearly toppled him, and the midwife gestured to Arthur and Jols to return Lancelot to the comfortable nest they had prepared in the straw. As he squatted on the blanket, Lancelot looked down at the expanding aperture of his stomach. The opening had more than doubled in size.

"Your son will soon be born," the woman called Morgaine said, staring into Lancelot's eyes.

Lancelot felt one of his hands being squeezed tightly, and he looked over at the emotional face of the man who had brought all this about, Arthur Castus.

"I'm not afraid," he said to Arthur.

"You have always been my bravest knight," Arthur said, his eyes gleaming, "but never more courageous than at this moment."

Another strong contraction racked him, and Lancelot would have fallen forward if not for the supporting hands of those who loved him. A sensation of liberation surged through him, and for the first time he felt the need to push the weight free of his unnaturally encumbered body. Morgaine reached out and placed her long fingers on his abdomen.

"Praise the Goddess," she whispered. Her crimson hair came loose and fell over his belly, obstructing Lancelot's view.

"The child comes," she said.

The End, Part Five

Part Six