FIC: "Fecund Knight" (6/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: May 21, 2005-July 10, 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
SUMMARY: Lancelot cares for his new son, who is finally given a name.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
DEDICATION: To Dorothea Schwab, whose gentle encouragement helped get us this far.
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 Six

Lancelot sat alone, his baby son propped in his lap and squeezed to his chest, as all around him people bustled to and fro, making preparations for the upcoming festivities. It was time at last for Arthur and Guinevere to be officially joined, and for the first time in many months, there was a feeling of hope and vitality in the land. Summer had come to Britain, both in a real and a figurative sense.

The gurgling babe pulled at Lancelot's breast, it's tiny mouth working at his nipple. The sensation filled the knight with elation, numbing him to both the frantic anticipation and his own hollow dread over the upcoming nuptials. There was to be more to the ceremony than just a marriage, Lancelot knew. He had been privy to some of the conversations regarding the plan to declare Arthur a real king at last, in hopes of giving the island its first-ever sense of unity and nationalism. Now that the failing Roman Empire had released its grip on Britain, it was necessary to forge a solid front against both potential invaders and feuding native tribes alike.

Arthur had been full of restless energy since his son had been born. His relief over the health of both Lancelot and the child seemed to pale in comparison with his industrious and ambitious planning for the land he had now embraced. He seemed ready and able to accept his new role, and he was already throwing himself into it for want only of the crown. Demands for Arthur's time were constant. Lancelot wondered idly how much would be left over for himself and the baby after the wedding and coronation.

Lancelot kept himself in the background as much as possible, recovering from his confinement and caring for his new son. It was difficult, sometimes, for him to remember the knight he had once been or to imagine what he might be like in the future while he was experiencing this tender and somewhat emotional time. But each day, as he slowly regained his strength, it became easier to evoke memories of his more active life -- the rush in his lungs as he fought for the air to fuel his well-developed muscles, the tingle in his hands as he gripped his two heavy swords and brought them to bear, the wind in his face as he flew across a battlefield on the back of his powerful war-horse, Vertigo.

Before long he would become Lancelot, First Knight, once more, and he wouldn't have time to sit around pining for Arthur like a lovesick maiden.

Despite the curious scrutiny of those in the camp, few people in Britain really knew about Lancelot's condition and his magical son. For those who did, it added to the near-legendary reputation of the future king while creating a sort of superstitious awe of Lancelot himself. Many seemed to believe the child to have been created from some sort of evil magic, while others thought Lancelot must be blessed by a god or gods greater than Britain had so far known.

Either way, Lancelot found himself somewhat sheltered from these disparate opinions. He was not often approached when he was holding the baby, which was much of the time, and when he raised his eyes and found others watching, they seemed to quickly look away. Even his fellow knights were a bit standoffish, especially now that Lancelot was nursing.

He was surprised when a shadow flickered over his son tiny body, and he lifted his head and found himself looking into the face of Arthur's affianced, the Woad woman, Guinevere. She was staring at the baby suckling softly at his breast, and her expression was placid and distant, as though she didn't fear being observed. Her dark eyes were wide and moist, and as he watched, Lancelot saw her inadvertently lick her lips.

"He's beautiful," she commented in her surprisingly lyrical voice. "What does it feel like?"

Lancelot hesitated, unused to being questioned about his strange condition. "I don't know if I can describe it," he said honestly. "It's unlike anything else I've ever experienced."

She stared, unblinking, still waiting.

"It's both joyful and painful at the same time," he finally said. "Not a physical pain at all, but almost a deep tugging somewhere inside, as though he were reaching to my soul," he finished, surprised at his almost metaphysical description.

"May I hold him?"

For an instant Lancelot wondered at her motives, but his natural suspicions immediately faded at the sight of Guinevere's hopeful face. "If you wish," he said, gently loosening the baby's attachment to his breast. "He seems to have nearly finished anyway."

He stood up and placed the bundled infant in Guinevere's outstretched arms, not oblivious to the wide smile on her lovely face. Her initial awkwardness dissipated almost immediately, and she cradled the child as though she were as used to the feel of a babe as of a bow.

"He's so warm," she commented. "So tiny. So frail. And so very beautiful."

Lancelot let her talk, content to stand and watch as his son was cosseted and admired. A proud man when it came to his own prowess, especially in battle, he barely recognized the same emotion when it applied to his son.

"You are a fortunate man, Lancelot," she said.

He nodded. He was indeed.

When he stood two days later, holding the infant as he watched Arthur and Guinevere joined, he remembered her words and the look on her face. She could have this -- this moment in the sun -- but he had something she could never have.

The sky and the sea were equally blue as they stood at the coast for the marriage and the proclamation of Arthur's kingdom. Those watching were a mixture of the populace -- peasants, Picts, Celts and Romans who had been left behind when the Empire retreated at last from Britain's rocky shores. There were few Sarmatians left, only Bors, Gawain and Galahad, and, of course, Lancelot himself. The rest of their kind had been left behind in the burial ground at Badon Hill. The mood of the company was both celebratory and reverent, the reverence giving way completely to celebration by the time the burning arrows had been fired into over the water and the summer sun had set.

Later, as Lancelot huddled alone, yawning, in his shadowy corner near the outskirts of the feast, he thought of the ceremony and the words. Merlin, the strange Woad magician, has declared in his heavily accented voice, "Our people are one, as you are." And as he called out, "King Arthur!" the audience dropped to its knees.

"Let every man, woman and child bear witness that from this day all Britons will be united in one common cause," Arthur had called out in his impressive voice, and then he and Guinevere had raised the sword Excalibur together, the sword a young Arthur had liberated from his father's burial mound years earlier, the sword he had used since in the many battles he and the knights had fought together.

Somehow Lancelot objected more to Guinevere's hand on that sword than he did to the thought of her touching Arthur's body, even his manhood.

Away from the bright fires and shining faces of the festivities, Lancelot sighed. It had only been a fortnight since the birth of his son, but he was already impatient for his energy level to return to normal. He could be grateful the child only required him to wake once in the night to feed, and since the midwife Morgaine continued to serve as the baby's nurse, he was not overly encumbered by the duties of both fatherhood and motherhood. Now his son lay in a basket close by, sleeping silently except for an occasional tiny mewing that seemed to signal nothing other than a passing dream.

Arthur took him unawares when he felt a hand lightly stroke his hair, and, looking up, he met the forest-colored eyes of his commander and friend. "You and the babe are well?" Arthur asked, and Lancelot nodded, realizing Arthur must be feeling some regret or responsibility about leaving his once-fecund knight behind to take a new bride to his tent.

"Don't worry, Arthur. We're both thriving."

"I'm pleased," Arthur said, staring into the dark. He was silent for a time, clearly searching for the right words to explain his dilemma. Finally he spoke again. "I must do this for Britain, Lancelot. I must try to make an heir to carry on after me."

Lancelot looked at Arthur with some surprise. So he didn't know his new wife was incapable of bearing such a fruit! Guinevere had evidently neglected to mention this when they made the plans for their union; had she expected the one who knew, Lancelot, to recount her inadequacy to her intended? He wondered what would happen when Arthur learned that the Woad woman would never be able to give him the crown prince he now coveted because of her torture at the hands of the fanatical Roman Christians. Should he tell him now -- now before he retired to his wedding bed?

Thinking quickly, Lancelot made up his mind. He swallowed his immediate reply and smiled. "May your God bless your union, Arthur. Or perhaps this would work better." He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the amulet given to him many months earlier by the witch who had predicted so many of the events that had come to pass. On it was the figure of Cernunnos, the Horned God, the pagan sign of fertility that had enabled Arthur to magically impregnate the Sarmatian knight and thus save him from certain death in the Battle of Badon Hill. Lancelot had kept the small figure close all these months while he waited for his child to be born.

Arthur had clearly forgot the Woad witch's other pronouncement -- that he would choose a barren woman for a wife.

"That won't be necessary, Lancelot. Perhaps it only had the power to work once. And work well, it did." Arthur's eyes were smiling as his words reminded them both of the magical night of Lancelot's conception.

"There's no harm in having it, anyway," Lancelot insisted, pressing the charm into Arthur's hand. "Take it along with you, and may it give you the wonderful strength you had on the first night we coupled."

Shrugging, Arthur closed his fingers around the amulet. "You know, of course, this won't be the first time Guinevere and I have been together." He said it as a fact, not a question.

Lancelot nodded. "Nevertheless, tonight is different. Most men only have one wedding night, so make the most of it."

Arthur kissed Lancelot's cheek and stroked his hair again, then he turned and walked away. Lancelot forced himself to look over at the basket holding his sleeping babe and not at the receding figure of the child's father on his way to attempt to sew the seed of a prince.

He and Arthur didn't speak of that night when they saw each other in the days after. Once again the new leader was immersed in the planning for his kingdom, and the camp was alive with activity as all able-bodied men were enlisted to help build the hill-fort that would serve as Arthur's new capital at Cadbury or to defend the lands and the people nearby. Arthur's table had been fetched from Badon Hill, and a citadel was being built to house it in the center of the new fort. As he sat back watching the bustling activity, Lancelot found himself becoming strangely bored, and as much as he still loved to hold and nurse his growing son, he was starting to itch for activity more befitting his training and resolve.

It was a sultry summer day, and Lancelot had just finished currying Vertigo, all the while imagining how he would soon be atop the great war-horse and riding out across country again. He walked slowly back from the stables to the welcome coolness of the tent he shared with his son and the nurse Morgaine who had helped bring the child into the world. He was surprised to find her sitting outside with her head lowered, her hair gleaming blood-red in the sunlight. She was intently studying what appeared to be a small scroll covered with strange symbols, and she looked up when Lancelot approached, gesturing toward the tent with her head. Inside he found Arthur and Guinevere, smiling and cooing over the lively baby.

"What brings you both here?" Lancelot asked, not used to seeing the two together, despite their marriage.

"A happy occasion," Guinevere said, smiling. "Tell him, Arthur."

Immediately assuming the miracle of conception had already occurred, Lancelot mentally prepared himself for the news.

"It's time to name the child," Arthur announced. "We've planned the ceremony for tonight."

"My child?" Lancelot asked, confused. "Tonight? Already?"

"Lancelot," Guinevere said, "it's been close to a full cycle of the moon since your babe was born. It's time to give him his proper place on this earth by giving him a name."

"But who will choose his name?"

Arthur spoke up. "There are priestesses and druids who can do that sort of thing, Lancelot. Had you planned on choosing the name yourself?"

Lancelot shook his head. He hadn't really thought of the baby by any particular name, just as his son. He cared as little for local religious and social customs as he did for the Christian traditions Arthur had always embraced. The most significant spiritual experience of his life had involved a witch and a talisman. He'd given little or no thought to a rite of passage for his child.

"Tonight the moon will be full," Guinevere said. "It will be the perfect time to introduce your son to the world."

"What must be done?"

"Morgaine knows what to do. She'll prepare the babe," Arthur said. "Guinevere will host the feast."

"More feasting," Lancelot commented with a sardonic smile, imagining the overblown ritual and the revelry to follow. "Just what we need. We've barely recovered from your wedding feast."

"It will be a small ceremony, Lancelot," Arthur explained, his eyes veiled. "Just a few of us. You, Guinevere and myself, Jols and the knights."

Arthur's demeanor piqued Lancelot's interest. "Just a private gathering?" he asked, turning his attention to the king as Guinevere walked away, the baby in her arms, leaving the two men alone in the tent.

Arthur faced his First Knight. "I cannot officially recognize the baby at this time, Lancelot. It's complicated."

Nodding, Lancelot tried to smile. "How could you? You, a king! This child is but a bastard -- not a legitimate heir to your crown . . . if you had a crown, that is."

"I only ask you to understand and to forgive me this, Lancelot. Your son may be the only one I ever have. But for now, I cannot put aside the chance that Guinevere may produce an heir."

Finding nothing more worth saying on the matter, Lancelot abruptly walked out of the tent to reclaim his baby, now crying and flailing his tiny fists, from the arms of the queen. "I'll take him, Lady," he said archly. "I'm sure you have your own duties to attend to." As he handed the fussing infant to Morgaine, he said in a quiet voice, "If she wants a son, she will have to bear her own." Morgaine's return glance was knowing.

Later, Lancelot was surprised that Morgaine performed the ceremony herself, the ritual that involved the four basic elements of life. He hadn't realized the woman's training went beyond midwifery and healing. Lying the baby down on the rock that symbolized Earth, her long, crimson hair swept its smooth surface as she leaned over to breathe the blessed Air into his face; she then handed the infant across the small circle of Fire into Lancelot's arms, and, as Lancelot tightly held the tiny form wrapped only in a pristine white cloth, she sprinkled the holy offering of Water on the baby's head.

As she lifted her arms to proclaim the child's name, a grayish cloud obscured the bright orb of the moon and cast a long shadow across the clearing where the small party stood. Feeling an uncomfortable presentiment, Lancelot sought out the solace of Arthur's eyes, but found the new king was looking away.

"And now, young one, the world and all its Four Elements -- Earth, Air, Fire and Water -- will know you!" Morgaine announced. "May your father and mother, who are one and the same, forever bless your name."

"Mordred!"

The End, Part Six

Part Seven