FIC: "Fecund Knight" (8/8)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: July 31 - August 4, 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 makes an important decision in this final part.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
DEDICATION: This part is dedicated to Laurie, who I was lucky enough to get to know after she read the first chapters of this fanfic. Love ya, babe!
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 Eight

Lancelot's smile split his handsome face as he watched his son Mordred tottering across the patch of grass. The child waved his chubby arms and chortled with delight before stumbling and landing on his amply padded bottom. For an instant he seemed to be considering whether to cry, then decided against it and started to flap his hands like wings, trying to rise again.

"You are the most determined fellow I've ever seen," Lancelot said as he lifted the boy up.

Mordred laughed his merry little laugh and crinkled his green eyes. "Dada!" he cried clearly, taking another wobbly step.

Lancelot sighed, unable to ignore the swelling in his chest at the sight of the child. At times it was difficult to reconcile himself with both knighthood and fatherhood; he had long ago learned to deal with duty, but now he found his duty divided between king and family -- strange, as they were really one.

Earlier in the day he and Arthur, the self-same king, had argued, and Lancelot had finally stalked off to reclaim his son from the nurse and take him for a ride in the country. He was glad to escape the confines of the citadel to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine of the summer afternoon and even more happy to avoid any further discussion of Arthur's new order of knighthood or of Arthur's role in leading those knights. Lancelot had once again attempted to point out that Arthur had become too valuable to be risked in errant scuffles with scurrilous brigands or lawless locals. Recently the king had taken a blow to the head that had kept him reeling for a day or more, and he had been forced to hide his disability for fear of alarming the populace or inciting any simmering factions against him.

"You must leave these things to me, Arthur. I am your First Knight! You are the King, and your position should be to lead from behind these safe walls."

Arthur had paced impatiently. "Don't you realize it's impossible to 'lead' from 'behind'? The very words contradict one another!"

Lancelot's voice had risen with the emotion of his appeal, and several courtiers had been forced to look away and pretend they were out of earshot.

"You would risk everything for the thrill of battle? All of this would be for naught!"

Arthur strode toward him, and Lancelot could smell the scent of his hair and feel the warmth of his breath. His voice lowered, Arthur was no less impassioned. "Do I deny that I thrill fighting beside you? No! You and I together have brought peace to this land. For more than 15 years we've trained and ridden and fought together. You ask me to give this up now, to sit here like an old man and wait for the report of your death?"

"I ask you to be King, as you wished to be! I must now protect you more fiercely than any other, and I cannot protect you on a battlefield!"

Arthur would not be convinced. "Alexander the Great, Hector of Troy, Julius Caesar . . . these men fought with their armies and led them to great victories! Why should I do any less?"

As usual when Arthur started to reference the names of those men whose stories he had read and lives he had emulated, Lancelot gave up on reason. What was he left to do? Should he try to convince his commander and friend that he was somehow less than those great leaders of the past, generals and princes who had held sway over lands far more vast and memorable than the sorry rock on which they now stood and argued.

So now Lancelot sat in the grass, playing with his son. Mordred, more than a year old, was already showing the qualities of his two fathers; both bold and introspective, he often paused for an instant, his brow furrowed, before he attempted a feat beyond his ability; both stoic and passionate, he might wave a tiny fist and start to wail before thinking better of it and sticking the fist in his mouth to suck on it silently.

Lancelot did a quick survey of the boy. The green eyes were Arthur's, the wide smile Lancelot's. The sturdy frame and wavy dark hair came from them both. Lancelot imagined Mordred would grow up to be as intelligent as Arthur and hoped he would also have his own intuition, especially in battle. He naturally assumed the child would someday become a knight, probably one of the greatest. How could he be less when he had sprung from the seed of both Rome and Sarmatia, not to mention Britain?

Nothing had prepared Lancelot for the love he would feel for this small creature. Even carrying the baby for months in his body and cradling him close to feed on his own milk had not elicited the same potent connection as simply watching him play now did. Every day the child exhibited something new, something as yet undiscovered, as he went about exploring the wide world around him. Not particularly analytical, Lancelot was nonetheless able to recognize the source of his growing attachment.

Every day Mordred became more like Arthur and more like him. And Lancelot, having given birth to the boy, was allowed both a father's pride and a mother's affection.

"Whether people know it or not, you are a prince," he told the child. "And blood will tell, eventually."

Mordred gave a gurgling laugh as he took another step, using Lancelot's nose for balance.

"You are the happiest boy," Lancelot commented. "Everything seems to delight you."

As if in answer, Mordred took a fistful of Lancelot's curly hair and pulled.

"Ah! Yes, you have my attention, little one. What is your wish?"

"Dada!" Mordred shouted happily.

"Indeed."

Lancelot cocked his head as he caught a thunking sound in the woods beyond the grassy spot he shared with his son. Pausing to listening, he made out the thrum of a bow and arrow and realized someone was engaging in target practice out of sight of the fort.

"Let's take a little walk," he said to Mordred, rising and lifting the boy in his arms.

Mordred squealed with delight and took another handful of Lancelot's hair. Lancelot carried the wriggling child into a small copse of trees, where beyond, in a clearing, he saw a comely young woman firing arrows one after the other into a hollow log. It was the queen, Arthur's wife Guinevere, once a Woad warrior who had fought alongside Lancelot and the other knights at the Battle of Badon Hill.

"My lady," Lancelot drawled, "it's good to see you still have your arm."

Startled, Guinevere's large dark eyes became even wider. "Lancelot!" she said, "I thought myself alone."

"Do not worry, majesty. Your secret is safe with me."

She gave a small smile and tossed the bow aside. "It's a meaningless secret," she said. "When will I have the chance to use my skills again?"

"Does your life at court not appeal to you?"

"Does it appeal to you?" she countered, raising one brow. "I think not."

Lancelot smiled back, shifting the squirming child in his arms. "This new life takes some getting used to, for all of us, Arthur included."

Guinevere nodded, tossing back her hair. "Perhaps for Arthur most of all. So much of his day is now consumed with statecraft, when I know he would just as soon be riding his horse cross country with you knights."

Lancelot looked down, realizing she had heard their argument earlier. "Yes. He seems determined to put himself in harm's way whenever possible." When he looked up, Guinevere was watching him intently.

She placed one hand on his arm briefly, then moved it to cup Mordred's ruddy face. "He wants to be beside you, Lancelot. Wherever you are."

"Arthur and I have been together for some time," Lancelot answered, unsure what else to say.

"Yes. And I imagine you shall be together until death," she said, sighing.

Something in the woman's eyes tugged at Lancelot. He surprised himself with his empathetic reaction, since once he had felt such jealous pangs at the very sight of her. But did he not have Arthur's heart, Arthur's right hand and even Arthur's son? What was left to Guinevere?

"I'm little enough use to him," she said, as though she had read his thoughts.

Impulsively Lancelot reached out and brushed an errant strand of dark hair away from her face. "You are the perfect wife for him," he said.

Guinevere smiled, her dark eyes sparkling with emotion. "And you are his perfect mate."

"He misunderstands us both," Lancelot said, surprising himself again. "He doesn't know what it's like for me to love my son, or what it's like for you to long for one."

Their eyes met, and Guinevere broke the contact first. "I have to get back to Camelot," she said, using the recently christened name of Arthur's new capital. "I have a dinner party to plan, or some other important womanly task."

"I'll see you later, then," said Lancelot, inclining his head toward her. "My lady."

Lancelot rode slowly back to the hill-fort that served as Arthur's capital with Mordred balanced in front of him. Vertigo, his great war-horse, stepped carefully, as though he realized the precious burden he carried. Just inside the high walls, the nurse and midwife Morgaine was waiting, arms crossed and foot tapping.

"I'll take him," she said, as Lancelot dismounted. "You can tend to the horse."

"We have servants for that," Lancelot reminded her, "but I would like to do it myself. Do take him and give him something to eat. He'll likely fall asleep soon. He's had a big day."

"I saw the queen earlier," Morgaine said casually. "She had her bow."

Lancelot looked sharply at the red-haired woman, wondering how she always seemed to know every detail of life at the fort. "If she practices her archery, what harm in it?" he asked. "She was once a great warrior among her people."

"And now she is a queen," Morgaine answered smoothly, "with a king to care for."

Lancelot's attention was diverted from the nurse as Gawain rode up, his horse lathered. "Galahad's been wounded!" he shouted. "Attacked not far from here by highwaymen! Bors is bringing him, and I must find a healer."

Morgaine handed Mordred back to Lancelot. "I'll get my bag. I can serve until a surgeon has been summoned."

Lancelot found another woman to care for his son and stood watching as Galahad was carried into the citadel and laid out on a table to be doctored. He had sustained a blow to the head, and blood flowed freely from the wound, covering his face and the front of his jerkin.

"It's just as the old crone said," Gawain whispered. "His eyes are red with blood."

Lancelot glanced at Gawain. "What did you say?"

"That old witch. You remember the one. She was here last winter, and she told Galahad his eyes would weep blood before a year had past. Just look at him!"

The witch again, the one who had predicted so many of the events that had taken place in the lives of Arthur's knights! The one who had predicted Mordred would bring about Arthur's death . . .

Lancelot shook his head, trying to drive the ominous prophecy away, as he had for the many moons since the woman's last appearance. Galahad's wound was just a coincidence, nothing more. He would not allow himself to believe that Mordred was any threat to his father.

Looking up, Lancelot saw that Arthur stood nearby. Galahad, too, had seen him, and had reached out from the table on which he lay.

"Arthur!" he cried out.

"You're well enough, Galahad. Luckily you have a very thick skull."

"It looks worse than it is," Galahad said bravely. "Head wounds always bleed like mares in heat."

"I suppose you'll expect several days' rest," said Arthur, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "And we'll be forced to grant it."

"He slowed us down," Bors complained, winking at Arthur. "A few of them got away. But we're wearing the blood of the others."

"It sounds as though your work is yet to be finished," Arthur said. "We can't have our roads threatened by lawlessness, can we, knights?"

Even the worried-looking Gawain responded with a smile and a gesture. Lancelot caught Arthur's eye, and they silently nodded at one another. Later that night, after Galahad's bleeding had been stayed and a plan had been designed for dealing with the highwaymen, Lancelot waited in Arthur's bedchamber, naked under the summer sheet. He knew that when Arthur finally retired, he would be in no mood for talking, and he would need the sort of reassurance that only Lancelot would be able to offer. For many years the two comrades-in-arms had clung to one another tightly after the most bloody battle, shaking as though buffeted by a strong wind instead of by devastating events outside their control, celebrating the most primal instinct of life in the face of potential death.

Arthur's lust was dogged and insistent, and Lancelot bent to his will with a passionate surrender, much like the night Mordred had been conceived. When Arthur's need was finally spent, he pressed his damp forehead against Lancelot's face and lay quietly, seeming to drink in Lancelot's ragged breath.

"We have come so far together," Lancelot finally said when their hearts had slowed.

"You came farther than I," whispered Arthur. "You and the others. Percival, Dagonet . . . and Tristan."

Knowing Arthur despaired of the terrible losses of his Sarmatian knights, Lancelot was silent; he ran his fingers through the damp tendrils of Arthur's hair, wishing he had some comfort to offer other than his own flesh.

Arthur sighed. "Do you know now why I can't stay behind while you go and fight my battles? It might have been you today, Lancelot!"

"Arthur . . ."

"Every day is time borrowed since Badon Hill," Arthur said. "The old witch gave us this chance, and I worry that eventually the Fates will withdraw it."

"That witch put her hex on Galahad," Lancelot said bitterly. "She made some sort of prophecy about his eyes running red with blood."

Arthur's long frame stiffened. "We won't speak of her again."

Swallowing any further words, Lancelot held Arthur close to him, thinking of the Woad witch and the miraculous offspring she had predicted that night nearly two years earlier. Mordred had been Lancelot's savior at Badon Hill, and now according to the same wizened seer, he was to be Arthur's doom.

The next morning Lancelot conferred with Gawain and Bors about their plan to flush out the highwaymen, then spent several hours closeted with Morgaine, the nurse and midwife who had been at his side since the days before Mordred's birth. They spoke of her home in Northern Britain and the customs and teachings of her tribe. She told him things he had never thought to ask about the beauty of her native mountains and her people's hardiness of spirit and independence of character. She spoke of honor and pride and a contempt for danger, and Lancelot silently nodded, listening. Her purplish eyes had a peculiar glow as she recounted tales of her kinsmen and their connection to the land and to each other.

"You will take Mordred north with you," Lancelot finally said.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Until he's old enough, he's not to know of the strange magic of his creation or of his birthright as Arthur's son."

"I will raise him as a highlander," said Morgaine, "and when he's old enough to choose for himself, he can decide if he wants to come and serve Arthur."

Lancelot spoke at length to the squire Jols, arranging for horses and supplies. He told no one else of his plan, but spent the rest of the day with his son, taking him to visit the convalescing Galahad, riding him about the courtyard and the nearby hillside on Vertigo's wide back, helping him pick flowers and chase the bees that flitted among them. That night he kept Mordred in his bed and lay awake listening to the soft snoring of the sleeping boy, occasionally patting his warm forehead or kissing the top of his fluffy head.

When the sun had just risen, Lancelot woke the boy and helped him dress. Morgaine had already packed everything necessary for the trip, and she held Mordred in her arms as Lancelot went to Arthur's room to wake him. He was surprised to find Guinevere beside him, knowing it was now a rare occasion for the king and queen to share a bed.

"Is there some trouble?" Arthur asked sleepily. Guinevere stirred, but was silent.

Lancelot shook his head. "I'm sending Mordred north. I want you to come and say goodbye, if you will."

Arthur's expression was puzzled. "Why, Lancelot?"

"I must concentrate now on training the knights and working with you to build this place and make it safe. I can send for him later when we're farther along in our work."

Keeping any other questions to himself, Arthur dutifully followed Lancelot to the courtyard and hugged his giggling son as Lancelot watched. Guinevere followed but hung back, somehow sensing her presence might be unwelcome.

"Someday he will serve you," Lancelot said as he took the high-spirited child from Arthur. "He will be one of your greatest knights."

"You fear her prophecy, don't you?" Arthur asked, referring to the Woad witch.

"I fear nothing as long as I'm with you," Lancelot said, stroking Mordred's flushed cheek. "The boy will be safe with Morgaine and her people."

Lancelot had chosen one of the former Roman soldiers who had stayed behind in Britain to serve as Morgaine's protector on her journey north. This man and one of Morgaine's women attendants led the burdened horses out of the stable yard, as Lancelot kissed his son one final time and handed him to Morgaine. Mordred's green eyes flashed in the sunlight, and Lancelot's heart swelled with love and loss as he watched the boy bundled carefully next to Morgaine's lithe form.

"I will send word as we make our journey. The goddess will keep us safe," said the midwife.

"I trust you to protect my son," Lancelot said.

Morgaine bowed her head, and her long hair covered the smiling child like a crimson veil.

Lancelot stood silently next to Arthur and watched as his son was carried away from the hill-fort. He was surprised when he felt Arthur's fingers curl around his own, and he rewarded him with a small smile, all he could muster.

"You made a difficult choice," Guinevere said, approaching the two solemn men, her dark eyes full of sympathy, "one I could not have made."

"I made the only choice possible," Lancelot announced, "for me."

Arthur squeezed Lancelot's hand. "You made this choice for me, Lancelot. I know that. And rest assured, I won't forget it. I know I've been distracted by all the work of building this country, and I know I sometimes neglect both you and Guinevere in my effort to juggle the responsibilities of being a king."

"Your sense of duty is one of the things I love about you," said Lancelot. "I can hardly complain of something I've always known about you."

Their eyes met.

"You have given me everything, Lancelot. And I'll not forget the most important gift, a son of your body." Arthur leaned over and kissed Lancelot's curving mouth, and then spoke softly but clearly enough that the few people standing about the courtyard in the morning sun could hear his words:

"My beloved Lancelot, my fecund knight."

The End