FIC: "Fecund Knight" (7/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: July 17, 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: The fortune teller returns with a new prophecy.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
DEDICATION: This part is dedicated to Taelin, who has been so positive and encouraging about my mpreg stories over the past year or so. Thank you, dear!
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 Seven

Lancelot watched his tiny son sleep, his foot gently rocking the wicker basket next to his bed. At any moment the infant would wake, needing to feed. In the months since his birth, Lancelot had become accustomed to the baby's patterns, and he usually woke automatically from his own light slumber in time to anticipate his son's needs.

"Hungry yet, Mordred?" he whispered. The sound of the child's undisturbed breathing was his only answer. Clad in nothing but his own skin, Lancelot sat idly fingering his bare chest, weighing his shrinking breasts with some concern. During the last week or so, he had noticed stimulating his milk was more difficult, and the ever-hungry Mordred was becoming more and more impatient with the effort required to obtain his supper.

Lancelot's nipples were a bit sore, even though that morning he had rubbed them both with a soothing balm supplied by the nurse Morgaine. Just a day earlier he had pointed out to her the noticeable change in the size and shape of his teats, and she had nodded without comment. How could she be expected to judge the normalcy of a situation so abnormal, he wondered. There was no way to know how long his milk should last, he who should never have produced milk in the first place!

For the past fortnight Lancelot had resumed many of his pre-pregnancy activities, including exercising his war-horse and engaging in sword practice with the Sarmatian knights and Arthur's new recruits. His former conditioning had returned quickly after the first week of soreness in his upper arms and legs, and now even his belly was once again taut and stippled with muscle. Looking down at his form, Lancelot himself could barely believe he had once carried a babe to full term. The only discernable signs of those months were the slightly swollen breasts and a small reddish-purple ring around his navel.

Shivering slightly as he fingered the smooth aurora, Lancelot remembered the terrible awe he had felt watching his body open in preparation for Mordred's birth. At first he had been convinced he must be losing his baby, his belly finally splitting apart from the pressure of the pregnancy. No one had anticipated that this would be the avenue of escape his son would use. To his knowledge, there was no record, either written or orally recounted, of a man who had borne a child.

Later, when the head of the babe emerged from his gaping belly, Lancelot had rejoiced at the miracle while briefly despairing at ever returning to the form of a normal man again. Now, just four months later, he was somehow as fit and light as he had ever been, physically at least, if not psychologically.

"This is a beautiful design," Arthur had commented very recently while his strong fingers traversed the same journey round Lancelot's navel. "It's as though you had purposely marked yourself with the sign of the sun."

Lancelot's belly had quivered under Arthur's touch, his umbilicus even more sensitive than his prepuce. For a moment he had longed to beg the father of his son to loosen his seed over the small opening in hopes of sowing another magical fruit. But when Arthur's caresses had wandered down Lancelot's body, so Lancelot's attention had also shifted, and he lost the thought in a wave of more recognizable yearning.

With a small cry, Mordred came awake and interrupted Lancelot's reverie.

"Ready?" Lancelot asked aloud, lifting the wriggling babe from the basket and pressing the tiny head against his chest. He gasped as his son's demanding mouth pulled at his left nipple, then lost himself in the indescribable sensation of giving suck, thankful for the hundredth time to have been blessed with this incredible experience. Although he wouldn't have described the feeling as erotic, Lancelot's body definitely responded to the intimate, insistent contact, and he breathed heavily as the child fed, wishing Arthur were with them.

After Mordred was sated, Lancelot lay back and let himself fall asleep with the baby atop his naked body, warmed by both the heat of the child and the well-stocked brazier near his bed.

Autumn would soon give way to winter, as both the chilly wind and the colored coats of the trees attested. Still, the climate in southern Britain was far more acceptable to Lancelot than the wet, bitter bite of the north. After spending months in a tent, it was strange to be surrounded by sturdy walls again. Arthur's new capital had gotten a good start, and the building continued as the days grew shorter. The citadel itself was finished, at least in part, holding living quarters for the new king and queen, and for Lancelot and Mordred; and featuring two large halls, one housing Arthur's table, the other a common room for feasting and audiences, and a large study for Arthur where he could keep his scrolls and journals and his writing implements. The large wall enclosing the hill-fort was still being built, as were dozens of small homes inside its secure embrace.

Merlin chose to stay in the woods, suspicious of the dwellings made of wood and stone. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, sometimes spending days cloistered with the new king, then disappearing for a fortnight, perhaps heading north to his native lands. The Sarmatian knights, Galahad, Gawain and Bors, lived in small homes surrounding the large stable yard; the armory and stables were constructed just inside the main gate of the fort, where the knights could easily respond to threats both near and far. Close by were the few Roman mercenaries who had remained behind, as well as the recruits constantly arriving to join the new king and his company.

Convenient to the stables was a public courtyard draped with tarps and lined with tables that served as a tavern and eatery, much like the one the knights had enjoyed at Badon Hill. Bors' wife Vanora ruled there, so the place was constantly alive with children of all ages, most of them sired by the robust knight. The women cooked the knights' favorite foods in a huge brick oven, and in the evenings there always seemed to be plenty of wine, ale and mead to go around.

Lancelot found himself torn between a new desire to nest and his ingrained nomadic nature. When the walls seemed to close in, he left Mordred with Morgaine and made his way to the stables, then saddled his war-horse Vertigo and rode the powerful beast out across the countryside until the uneasy perspiration beading his brow cooled and dried. Now that his body and mind were returning to normal, he found himself itching for action, often restless without cause, discontent with a life surrounded mostly by statecraft, architecture and an infant's soiled napkins.

More than a year had passed since Lancelot had conceived his precious son, the son who had saved his life at Badon Hill according to the fortune teller's prophecy. The old Woad witch had made predictions about all of the knights before Arthur had driven her away. Since then two of their already small number, Dagonet and Tristan, had fallen, Arthur had been declared king and found a queen, and even Bors had finally married Vanora in a late summer ceremony. And Lancelot, of course, had become fecund and produced a child, the son of his commander and friend, Arthur.

So much had happened, and none of it what was expected before that fateful night. The Sarmatians had not returned to their homes in the east, as they had imagined and planned for most of their lives. Those left behind were either hunkered down within the walls of Arthur's new fortress or dotting a slope near Badon Hill inside countless burial mounds.

It was time for a new order of knighthood, and this concept was one that Arthur worked away at, designing the system that would enable him to increase the ranks of the men who would defend this new, unified Britain. And often he called Lancelot and the others to offer counsel regarding his ideas, ideas that would require the attention and dedication of his knights. The few remaining Sarmatians would be the example for all the knights to come, as well as their recruiters, trainers and leaders. Arthur needed them more than he ever had.

Now, seated at a table in the tavern sipping wine with his friends, Lancelot had to blink several times to be sure he wasn't imagining the stooped form he glimpsed across the courtyard, huddled in a dark corner, red-rimmed eyes reflecting the color of the fire.

It was her, at last! It was the fortune teller who had given him the charm with the image of the Horned God, the talisman that had gifted him with fertility and enabled him to give birth to a child of his body. For some time before Mordred's birth, Arthur had searched for the witch, wanting to consult with her about the health and welfare of his First Knight and unborn son. Since Mordred's safe delivery, no other mention had been made of trying to find her.

And now, there she sat, silently watching Lancelot and his friends. When she saw he had recognized her, he thought she would get up and try to run away. But instead she stood and approached his table, slowly walking into the light, her presence silencing the rowdy camaraderie of the chilly autumn evening.

"You, First Knight," she mumbled, pointing a bent finger toward Lancelot. "Where is the son of your breast?"

Lancelot glanced around at the startled faces, some of whom were unaware of his real relationship to the baby they considered must belong to the nurse Morgaine.

"What is it you want, Witch?" Lancelot asked, also standing. "Why have you come so far south of your Wiccan homeland?"

"I come to bring you a message," she said. "Give me what is mine, and I'll go."

Reaching in his pocket for a coin, Lancelot tossed it toward the hag. She ignored the offering and let it fall to the ground behind her, her finger still pointing at Lancelot.

"You are done with the charm. Give it to me," she said.

Realizing what she wanted, Lancelot shrugged. "I don't have the talisman any longer, old woman. I gave it away."

She shook her head and poked her finger at Lancelot's chest. "It is no use to anyone else. Give it to me."

Lancelot shoved her back, and, despite her seeming frailty, she kept her footing, wheeled and approached again, making a low keening noise. Bors intercepted her, imposing his large frame between the witch and the warrior.

"Get away, old woman!" he ordered. "Don't make me hurt you."

"Let her be," Lancelot said, suddenly afraid, remembering the powers of the ancient crone. "I'll find the charm and return it. I promise."

"Tomorrow I will come, and you give me what is mine," she muttered, turning away and disappearing into the night.

Lancelot's heart thudded painfully as he hurried back to the citadel. He had given Arthur the talisman months ago, a wedding present for a new king and his barren bride. And evidently the witch had been telling the truth about the amulet's effectiveness, because the charm had seemingly had no power over Guinevere's ability to conceive. Now, running up the stairs to his room above the great hall, Lancelot collided with the slim form of Arthur's queen.

"My Lady!" he said, reaching to steady her. "I didn't see you."

"Lancelot, what has you in such a state? Is it Mordred?"

From above they heard the sound of a baby wailing; remembering the baleful look in the witch's eyes, Lancelot pushed past Guinevere and hurried to his room. Morgaine was nowhere in sight, having evidently left the baby alone. In his bed made of a wicker basket, Lancelot's son lay crying, face red, tiny arms flailing. Lancelot stooped down and lifted the babe in his arms, cuddling it close to his chest, making a cooing noise. Guinevere had followed him, and now she stood in the doorway watching.

"He's fine. Just hungry," Lancelot said, his sudden fears calming as he held his son close. "Please tell Arthur I must see him."

Guinevere nodded and left, and Lancelot opened his jerkin to allow the baby to nurse. "There, there," he said to the fussing child, "take the teat. Everything will be fine."

But after a few moments of painful sucking, the baby gave up and started to cry even louder.

"What is it?" Arthur said, hesitating at the door and peeking into the room.

Lancelot sank down on his bed. "Is Guinevere with you?" he asked in a small voice.

"No."

"Please go and ask her to find Morgaine. We need a wet nurse. My milk has gone dry."

As Arthur left to find the women, Lancelot lowered his head over Mordred and let his tears sprinkle the baby's hot face. He hadn't realized how unprepared he was to let go of the last vestige of his unique paternity, and he needed to compose himself before Arthur, Guinevere and Morgaine returned.

"Give him to me," Morgaine said when she entered Lancelot's room. "I have a brew of mead and goat's milk." She took Mordred in her lap. In her hand she held a small gourd tied at the end with a bit of cloth; this she stuck in Mordred's mouth, and within a few seconds, the baby began to suck.

"How awful," Guinevere said, her hand landing lightly on Lancelot's shoulder. When he didn't protest, she sat down beside him. "I'm sorry, Lancelot. It must be a terrible disappointment."

Surprised at her sympathy, Lancelot almost smiled, albeit bitterly. "It was inevitable, I suppose. But, yes, it is difficult," he admitted.

Looking up, he saw Arthur standing awkwardly at the door. "Is everything all right?" Arthur asked.

"I need the talisman, Arthur. The Woad witch has come back looking for it."

As Lancelot studied Arthur's handsome visage, a grim expression replaced the worried one. "I'll take care of her myself," Arthur said.

"No! You'll stay away from her, Arthur. I'll give her back the charm as I promised. And she'll go away."

Hesitating a moment, Arthur seemed to consider. Then he nodded. "As you wish, Lancelot. But if she does or says anything to hurt you or my son, I will finish this thing myself."

That night Lancelot held Mordred close, feeling a strange sense of inadequacy at having to resort to an artificial means of feeding the baby when he awoke at his usual time. The loss of Lancelot's milk left a hollow in his chest -- not just in his breasts, but in his heart. No one in the world who had not been witness to Mordred's birth would now believe that Lancelot was both mother and father to the babe; the last proof of his miraculous fecundity was gone, like a hidden spring suddenly dried up. Several times in the night Lancelot pressed his lips to the baby's face and fought back his own womanish sobs, a final fitting homage to the once overpowering emotions of his magical condition.

The following evening Lancelot faced the crone again, holding in his palm the amulet with the carving of Cernunnos, the Horned God, symbol of fertility and re-birth. Lancelot nearly shuddered as she plucked it up and spirited it away into the recesses of her brown drawstring bag, all the while spraying spittle as she muttered in her own tongue. Nearby the other Sarmatian knights watched protectively, as superstitious as ever about the old witch and her prophecies.

"Now it's done," Lancelot said, turning to go.

"One more thing, Great Knight," she said.

"I warn you--" said Lancelot.

"That baby of yours," she began.

"If you put a curse on my child, I will kill you where you stand!" Lancelot said, meaning every word.

"I only tell what I see. I have no power to affect the future. That baby of yours will be his father's end."

Not sure he had understood her nearly unintelligible words, Lancelot leaned forward. "What did you say?"

"Your baby holds the fate of his father in his hands."

"And what fate is that?" Lancelot asked, his anger growing.

"The fate of all men," she muttered, showing her two remaining teeth in a wretched smile, her red-rimmed eyes glittering.

"Death."

The End, Part Seven

Part Eight