FIC: "Lancelot's Birthday" (1/1)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: November 12, 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, maybe R, plus a tiny bit of angsty foreshadowing.
SUMMARY: It's time for Lancelot to embrace and celebrate his unknown destiny.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks again!). FatJoey, thank you for sharing in such intimate detail what it feels like for a guy to be 'possessed' by another.
DEDICATION: To my new friend Laurie, who started to write to me after reading my Lancelot mpreg fic, "Fecund Knight." (Believe me, I'll finish it soon, my dear!)
BACKSTORY: In this day and age, our birthdays are considered very important days -- our places of employment often refer to them as 'personal holidays.' In ancient days, many cultures didn't keep track of the exact date of their births or celebrate that day, even if they knew it. The Romans, however, made much of birthdays (often assigning March 17 as the coming-of-age ceremony for a young man). At the time "King Arthur" is set, the Roman calendar was undergoing revision and the advent of Christianity had changed their traditional celebrations. It's doubtful the nomadic Sarmatians had more than a seasonal idea of the anniversary of their births.
AUTHOR NOTES: Written for the Holiday Challenge at the kingarthurfanfiction list at Yahoo groups. Because of the rules of the challenge, it's first-person / Lancelot. Since Lancelot narrated the film (seemingly from the grave), it seems unnecessary to try to explain to whom he might be talking in the narrative voice of this story.

"The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity."
         -- Seneca, Roman philosopher

The chilly evening air tasted of smoke, a sure sign that dozens of village fires were working to warm the skins of those feeling the sudden change of seasons. The long summer was over, and it would now be time for the local farmers to begin the harvest.

For us -- the Sarmatian knights who served in Britain under the command of Arthur Castus -- the only harvest we usually expected this time of year was one of blood. We had spent much of our lives planting nothing more lasting than the seeds of hatred in this foreign land, and for the past years we had been grim reapers of that lamentable crop. In trying to scour this sorry island of the influence of countless barbarian tribes, we had lost so many of our knights that now the most fertile field at Badon Hill was a graveyard.

But this year the Sarmatian knights would realize a more satisfying yield in the weeks to come -- the fruition of our freedom, the freedom promised after our fifteen years of service to the Roman Empire was completed. When the official word finally arrived from Rome, those few of us left would be at liberty to choose our own destiny, and to return home at last.

I stood outside the fort and stared across the wide plain to the surrounding woods, fascinated by the tall strands of fog that stole in and out of the trees like flighty maidens in white robes. Until I came to Britain, I had never seen the low-lying mists that seemed to rise every evening from the very ground. Even in the warmest months of summer, there were sure to be more clouds hugging the grass than obscuring the night sky.

By winter I would have been in this land for fifteen years. And for much of that time, I had constantly reminded myself how much I hated my exile and longed for my home. I had cursed the damp spring as vehemently as the long, bitter winter. I had felt a strange sense of entrapment that was as much a symptom of my physical environment as of my military servitude. How peculiar to be confined on an island, rather than clinging to a plain so vast it rivaled the sky above!

The land of my birth was so different than this one. When I had first come to Britain, sick at my stomach from the sea crossing, I had believed I felt the very earth beneath me still rocking, as though the island were not dissimilar from the small ship that carried us there. How I had longed for the open sky and free winds of home, forgetting at once how small and helpless a man could feel huddling in his tent or his wagon waiting for those winds to abate.

I had just passed my fifteen summer when I arrived in Britain. And now, as the nights grew longer and chillier, I realized I had come to the 30th anniversary of my birth.

I was long a man, with nothing much to show of it. I had no wife, no family, no home of my own. Aside from my horse and clothes, I owned nothing but my name.

Lancelot.

And in Britain my name had come to be both loved and hated, depending on which side of Hadrian's Wall I stood.

Now, just south of that ancient wall, standing outside the Roman fort at Badon Hill, I felt the way I imagined an old man might feel as he approaches the end of his life. I felt a sense of regret for some of the things I had done, and an even stronger regret for many things I had not. And I found it difficult to imagine my future, as though I had already lived the most vibrant days I would know.

I suppose the other knights have often found me moody and sometimes ill tempered, as hard as I try to hide this sometimes overwhelming melancholy. I can't pretend I don't relish the fight, and I doubt I will ever excel at anything as I do this. I am the First Knight, the one most likely to be at Arthur's side or close by during a battle. And when we're fighting, I am most alive. Later, on nights like these, I usually try to fill my head with drinking or gaming or wenching -- something to keep me from lying awake in my bed, troubled by my restless spirit.

What is it, I wondered, that is missing from my life? And why am I starting to believe that the impending freedom from serving Arthur will not bring the elation I have long anticipated?

With these strange thoughts in my head, I walked back to the fort, heading for the place we knights liked to gather and share the comforts of drink and song after our long and often dangerous forays into the surrounding countryside. A large flagon of mulled wine was just what I needed to warm myself from the chilly air and to fend off my melancholy.

I was surprised to find few people in the streets of the village, as it was not that long after dark. I thought I could hear voices, but they seemed muffled and far off. I hurried my step, anxious to be surrounded by the voices and laughter of my friends.

I walked into the open courtyard which served as our tavern. At first I saw no one -- the tables and stools were all bare. Then, as I turned, confused, to head back to the knights' quarters, I heard a sort of rush behind me and then a loud chorus of voices shouting, "Surprise!"

My shock must have been plain on my face, because I was quickly surrounded by laughing, gesticulating men and a few grinning and winking women. In the center of the crowd stood Arthur, his eyes doing his smiling, watching me curiously for my reaction.

"What is this?" I asked, looking directly at him.

He stepped forward, the others clearing a space for him. "Lancelot," he began, "I know we have recently come to the anniversary of your birth. You have now seen 30 summers, and I thought this was a thing worth celebrating."

Puzzled, I glanced around me. Clearly this group had already begun their celebration, as many of the pairs of eyes greeting me were already glassy with drink. "How did you know that?" I asked.

"I remember you mentioning it that first year we were together. One night in early autumn you said to me, 'I am now 16,' and I told you that in Rome you would be given your toga and declared a man."

Arthur put his hand on my shoulder. "The Romans have long set aside a special time for recognizing the anniversary of the births of both notable and common men. Although this is not a Christian thing, it seemed a fitting thing for you. And who more deserves a party than our First Knight? Haven't you saved each and every one of us more than once these past years?"

I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by the attention. Sensing my feelings, Arthur pulled me away from the gathering, toward the long wooden bar.

"I did not mean to trouble you, Lancelot. Only to honor you. I hope you know that."

I nodded, staring into his grave, green eyes. How long had he planned this surprise for me -- and now I was giving him the impression that I lacked gratitude for his recognition!

"I am deeply honored, Arthur. I was just surprised."

Bors came up behind me and sent me reeling with a strong slap on my back. "Then we did our work well!" he shouted. "For wasn't this supposed to be a surprise party?"

Vanora and a few other local women now scurried forward with cakes and breads and spiced meats. I was surprised to suddenly notice the wonderful smells of the confections that must have been cooking all day. Several tables were pulled together and the feast was laid out, and while I stood watching, a flagon of wine was pressed into my hand.

Arthur held up one arm to get everyone's attention, and then he raised his glass and declared a toast. "To Lancelot!" he said. "May this day be but one of many where he celebrates with friends and loved ones, until he reaches the birthday of eternity that Seneca spoke of."

I know I was grinning foolishly as I watched him, feelings of awe and pleasure combined in me. As I took a huge gulp of wine, I felt myself flushing with what might have been a touch of pride -- not for myself as much as for my association with someone like Arthur. For Arthur Castus is the kind of man that will someday be spoken of in the same vein as other legendary heroes whose lives he has often shared with us during long, cold nights around the campfire.

Eager for more of Arthur's stories, I urged him to seat himself and tell us one now. As much as I enjoyed hearing Vanora sing or watching Tristan perform the difficult, athletic dances of his tribe, my preference was to sit and enjoy the distinctive, melodious voice of our leader.

I always loved listening to Arthur talk. Without knowing it, he was one of the best story-tellers at the fort. Instead of using dramatic gestures or exaggerated voices, he would simply speak, letting his expressive eyes serve as windows to the past. I would study him closely as he wove his tales, sometimes believing I could see the men he spoke of and their memorable actions reflected on his face.

I loved hearing about the legendary heroes; Arthur knew so many of their names and deeds. Some were Greek, like Hercules and Achilles, both favorites of the ancient pantheon of jealous gods. There was also the noble Trojan prince, Hector, whose Apollonian guard valued their horses as much as do we knights. He had lost his life to Achilles in hand-to-hand combat and had his tall body dragged through the dirt around the seemingly impregnable walls of his city.

The name Alexander sometimes figured in Arthur's stories. As a man younger than I am now, he had conquered much of the known world, gathering a vast army from the lands around Greece and then Persia. Beloved by his followers, he was sometimes believed to be a god himself, but Arthur hinted that he was all-too-human in his passions and his excesses.

Arthur told us of Hadrian, the Roman emperor who visited Britain hundreds of years earlier and ordered a wall built to protect the settled south from the wild north. That same wall now stood above us, a symbol to barbarian tribes like the Woads and the Celts that Rome still held sway over Britain. And he talked of Marcus Aurelius, the stoic emperor whose Meditations he read over and over with great interest. (Marcus Aurelius was the first emperor to require the registration of birth dates, Arthur once told us, and I remembered it during that celebration -- me, a man who would never know the actual date of his birth.) Aurelius' great general Maximus had led the Roman army to the very borders of the empire; he was so beloved in Britain that at one point he was declared emperor by the populace, a title he politely refused. Arthur traced his very roots back to this man, and he told a poignant tale of Maximus being sold into slavery by the jealous stepson of Aurelius after the emperor's death. Supposedly the great general then became a gladiator and finally met his death in hand-to-hand combat in the Roman Coliseum.

Something in me was stirred by the lives and deeds of men like Achilles, Alexander and Maximus. While their names towered over most mere mortals, they all had exhibited human frailties during their short, glorious lives. I often asked myself if my name would live on after my death, and though I doubted it, I could not help but wonder and even wish.

What would be said someday of the knight, Lancelot?

Tonight Arthur intrigued us with several stories about the legendary female warriors known as Amazons, featuring both Achilles and Alexander in separate tales. This was a subject on which I myself could expound, as female horse-lords are known by several Sarmatian tribes. Even the reports of these women cutting or burning off one breast to facilitate combat were repeated in my homeland. When Arthur paused in his tale, I added a comment about the love of the Amazons for fermented mare's milk, and we all made faces and called for more wine.

I can't remember a happier night than that. It began with the wonderful celebration given by my friends, but it ended with a much more personal gift offered by the man I had come to both respect and love during our fifteen years together.

After several hours of wine and food, song, talk and friendly competition with dice and knives, Arthur led me back to the garrison where our rooms were side-by-side. Before I could enter my own quarters, he pulled me inside his, and thinking he wanted to talk a while longer, I didn't protest. My mind was slightly dulled by drink, but my physical senses were strangely alive, and the touch of Arthur's warm hand on my wrist signaled gooseflesh to erupt on my neck. I shivered a little as we walked into his rooms.

"Are you chilled?" he asked kindly, walking to the brazier and using a metal poker to coax it to firy life.

I shook my head. "No, Arthur. In fact, I'm quite warm."

"I have a gift for you," he said abruptly, coming over and pulling me close.

"A gift--"

His mouth closed over mine and I tasted his breath, redolent with sweet wine. His arms went up around my back and one hand laced its fingers in my hair. Instantly I felt a sensation of melting, as though spring's warm breezes had covered me with beloved caresses designed to thaw my frozen heart.

"Arthur--" I gasped when he released me for a moment.

He pulled me even closer, and I stumbled against him with a sound of protest. "You are my First Knight, Lancelot," he said huskily, bending to kiss me again. Then, "You belong to me, I know," he continued, "and tonight I want to offer my own love as a gift on your birthday."

The stories of Achilles and Patroclus, of Alexander and Hephaestion -- stories Arthur had told us with such careful respect -- now rushed back into my mind. Great heroes have great loves, and in Arthur's arms, I began to feel a surge of heroism.

"Come to my bed," he said, and I simply nodded. Nothing at this point could have dissuaded me.

We went together into his bedchamber, and he pulled the curtains closed behind us. The light from the brazier flickered weakly beyond the transparent barrier, and I found myself nearly tripping in the semi-darkness on Arthur's armor standing against the wall.

I grinned as I used his strong body for support. "I've had too much wine," I explained, needlessly.

"Not too much for this," he commented, stroking my pelvis.

I drew in my breath, standing back to let him help me undress. As he painstakingly untied my leather jerkin and pulled my undershirt over my head, he paused every few moments to kiss and stroke me. At the end of this procedure, I was tugging at my own pants and boots impatiently.

I found myself surprised for the second time that night -- surprised at Arthur's confidence and command of the situation. I had never found him all that interested in earthy matters -- beyond fighting, of course.

"Lie down, Lancelot. I'll join you in a few seconds," he said, pulling back the coverlet and folding down the sheets. I had never seen a more inviting bed in my life, and I happily climbed in and waited, naked and somewhat breathless, for him to finish undressing and to come.

His tall body was incredibly warm when it finally covered mine. Where most women were soft and pliable, he was taut and somewhat rough, his back and arms littered with long scars. Where a woman was smooth, he had small furry patches -- on his chest and down low on his stomach. I pulled at the short hair on the back of his neck as his mouth took mine. Our stiff male organs were crushed between us; I could feel his, hot and thick, poking at my lower chest. It made me dizzy.

I nearly protested when he finally broke our embrace and pulled away.

"Lancelot, I don't wish to do anything to dishonor you," he said, taking one of my hands in his. "I know your customs are different than mine, and you may feel some abhorrence about being possessed by another man. I am willing to take either role, Lancelot. If you prefer to remain impenetrable, I will lie down for you. The important thing is that we be physically joined tonight."

My body was straining with need. I felt my manhood give a little jump, a sure signal of my readiness to couple. I tried to understand his words, but I merely wanted to be in his arms, to be one with him. The mechanics of the thing held little interest for me.

"Do what you will," I cried out, grabbing for him. Once again he enclosed me in his strong embrace, and I pressed my face against his, panting.

"Arthur, Arthur, I love you," I crooned, believing it completely for the first time.

"Shhh . . . be easy. I know it, Lancelot. I know of your love. I share it."

"Take me, then," I said, if those were the words he needed to hear.

He tried to calm me, stroking my face and straining through the darkness to look in my eyes.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

"Of course not," I answered impatiently. "What difference is that?"

"I have a pomade that will help the entry," he explained, unnecessarily. "I don't want to hurt you."

Tired of waiting, I rolled over and climbed him, pinning his arms down, my legs squeezing his thighs. I was suddenly ferocious with lust. Despite the low light, I saw the surprise on his face. "Are you so worried about hurting me, then?" I asked. "Have you ever known me to whine about a little pain?"

Then I saw the glint of his white teeth and heard his laugh. "You're right, of course. I was being foolish."

"Then do it now, Arthur. I long for it."

I climbed down off his body and lay on my belly; then, thinking better of it, I grabbed one of his pillows and pushed it under my pelvis to raise my bottom up a little. All the while I situated myself, I suppose he was making preparations for his penetration. The pomade he spoke of felt smooth and soothing when he finally reached between my cheeks and stroked it there.

I sighed. I had never imagined the possession of a man to be a thing so desirable as this, or so I thought as I waited. When I felt him pressing against the opening to my body, I held my breath, expecting a slight twinge of pain at entry. What I didn't expect was the sudden flush of physical denial, a compelling need to resist born of both real and imagined invasion. I had to bite my lip and control my shaking as he fought to enter me, the pain a distant second to a compulsive need to expel this interloper.

He pulled back a little, and I took a deep breath.

"Lancelot?" he said hoarsely.

"I'm all right," I lied. "Do it."

"Try to relax," he ordered. "It will soon become easy."

I did as he said, willing myself to relax, starting with the rigid fingers that clutched the pillow under my face. One limb at a time, I calmed my taut muscles, allowing my arms to sink into the mattress, positioning my knees so my legs would open more easily. My manhood had softened and shrunk at the first sensation of penetration. I now reached a hand under my belly and stroked it, trying to tease it awake again, remembering how much I longed for this union.

When Arthur began again, I was much calmer and more prepared.

This time, however, the entry was facile from the start. My nether muscle no longer protested with either pain or contraction. While the sensation was just as intense, it was an intensity now born of pleasure. I felt my own member stiffen against the pillow under my hips, and I started to move my pelvis up and down to create welcome friction both inside and out.

I could hear Arthur's ragged breathing now, as I allowed myself to stop concentrating only on my own sensations. His grunts of lust fired me further, and I started to echo them with my own moans, wanting him to know how the tide of my possession had turned.

"Arthur, take me," I managed to say, and the answering thrust was like a small victory.

How can I describe what it was like to give myself to Arthur? I could share every detail of the physical possession, how long it lasted, how incredibly intense it was. I could find countless words to detail the amount of sweat and seed we both spilled that night, leaving his sheets wringing wet from our ecstatic exertions.

I will certainly always remember the moment my insides seemed to give way with violent convulsions, quaking waves of feeling that far eclipsed the sensation from the spurt of seed that I sowed on the pillow. I gave myself completely to him, hiding nothing, holding nothing back. I cried out with joy and passion, not caring who heard me, and I'm sure the other knights were well aware that at long last Arthur had taken me to his bed.

When we then lay in one another's arms, my tears covered his chest and neck. And I felt no shame whatsoever.

From that night, any conversations we had about returning home seemed strange and hollow to me. Arthur's talk of Rome and mine of Sarmatia were just words with no real meaning. Regardless of where our physical bodies ended up, our souls were now inextricably linked.

That was the birthday gift Arthur gave me.

And now, weeks later, we face yet another battle. After surviving an impossible mission for Rome, we have yet another chance to live or die for a glory that only Arthur seems to understand. I may never know what my destiny might have been without the leadership of Arthur and his fealty first to an ancient empire and now to a lonely island overrun by barbarians. This cause is certainly his, not mine.

But I know I cannot leave him here to face this alone. The memories of that night together come flooding back as I urge my mount up the hill toward Arthur. I can still feel those hands on my hips as I surrendered my will to his. It matters not if this particular battle is one of our own making. Watching him there now, his standard blowing back in the wind, I approach him with the knowledge that his cause is my cause and has been for most of my life. Whatever moves him must also move me.

This, then, is how I will be remembered.

Achilles and Patroclus.

Alexander and Hephaestion.

Arthur and Lancelot.

If this is my claim on eternity, I find it sufficient.

The End