Title: "Small Sacrifices" 1/1
Author: CharlieMC camelotslash-1 at qwest.net
Fandom: "King Arthur"
Pairing: none (do you believe that?)
Feedback: Yes! Any and all types welcome, both good and bad.
Status: Complete
Date: September 15, 2004
Archive: Sure, contact me first, please [template must stay with fic]
Archived at: CamelotSlash.com -- http://www.camelotslash.com
Category: Gen
Disclaimer: Don't own them and mean no infringement or disrespect. No money made, it's merely for fun. Arthur and his knights belong to the ages -- certainly not to me! This probably never happened... (Right?)
Summary: Arthur reflects as he writes his thoughts...
Warnings: Angst!
Author Notes: This actually made me cry while I wrote it...
Beta: Thanks as always to Mistress Marilyn for her wonderful help. (She even added several lines at the end!)
Dedication: To my nephew -- the one I've never met and don't know by name...

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Small sacrifices. Little enough for a person to dwell on, say you? I suppose that may be true. For who among us -- man or woman -- does not make at least one of these every day?

A husband shares the greater portion of his blanket with his shivering wife; a wife shares a parcel of the meat from her plate with a hungry husband. Even a toddler will share a chunk of bread with a sibling -- who has tossed his own crust to a gaunt and shivering dog...

But, for me, I keep a tally in my heart of all the many, many times I've received one of these small sacrifices -- and this list is long, my friends.

Some days I hear my mother's voice speaking to me. She reminds me that big things may come to us in small packages. So it is with actions, friends, as well as gifts!

I know they surely signal each other, though no one raises a brow or cocks a head when I'm around to see it; they are sly, these men who serve beside me -- they cover their tracks well! In all the long years -- surely for as long as I can remember -- the knights I've commanded have shared a quiet pact among them; their pact is to see to my needs -- ever before their own.

You see, it is -- I'm sorry to say -- my grave fault that I constantly hunger and thirst, far more than any of my fellows. Even that giant of a man Dagonet -- and big stomached Bors -- do not seem to eat as much as I! Nor will you find Tristan -- who is ever in the saddle scouting -- has need to lift water to his lips but half as often as I.

Of course, we are more than decently fed during many a month while lodged inside the fort, that's truth to tell. For Rome knows well that an army runs best on a full belly; Roman strives to keep those who serve her provided with a decent larder. The legionnaires who share duty here at the fort are careful to see my Sarmatian knights well cared for. Whatever you may have heard, these men have treated all of us decently -- and even shown us special treatment these past many years. (But then they know what dangers we face better than many -- and being soldiers are wont to respect those who spend their time at war, just as they do.) I've never questioned that a Roman might eat better than my knights -- for truly I'd find it more likely that they'd do without, in order to see us fed.

Yet even Roman legionnaires must suffer deprivation in lean months -- especially in a hard and long winter. So while those civilians who live in and around the fort farm the land -- and the Romans and my knights gladly help in the hunting -- the pangs of hunger still visit all of us who dwell here.

When the knights and I ride out to patrol the lands -- and to fight -- we generally take along but few provisions, as a rule. Therefore some days will find us bedding after a hard fight with nothing more than a swallow of water and a bite of dried meat to chase off the rumbling in our bellies.

We've all been known to dig for roots to roast in the fire -- and have even eaten grubs from out rotting logs when our need was bad enough. We are knights. We do what must be done. We endure.

Yet I wish I could put down in writing each time a knight has come to me, bearing a bit of food he suddenly found himself 'unable' to finish. And how oft my cup was filled higher than the rest when we sat to sup around the campfire. (Or how often I've been offered the water skin of another when my lips were parched...) . I never turn these gifts aside; I would not belittle any of these sacrifices -- nor the men who make them.

I smile and offer thanks, it's true -- but as these men are warriors, I make as little of it as I can. I know that they prefer I behave as if this is no special thing -- that I behave as if I am not singled out by each of them for these many sacrifices, day in and out...

Each crust of bread (however meager) and each drop of water (however muddied) has been like manna from heaven to me. There's love behind these small sacrifices, my friends -- though some might doubt it. These knights would spare no misery for themselves to see that all bodes well with me.

And there is more than just the sharing of food and drink! They must try to keep me dry when all are wet and warm when all are cold. (I think they must conspire together on the many ways they will each find to sacrifice on my behalf...)

While each man is willing in his way, Lancelot must always strive to serve me best of all. (It is his nature to be first among the knights -- and also first in my heart.)

Some nights I lie awake under the stars and pray God might ponder the many kindnesses of these brave men. Yet still he takes them from me, one by one! How can that be?

Today we fought the Saxons out on the lake of ice. Bold Dagonet rushed out and did what needed doing, making the ice crack so the hoard who followed our tiny handful of fighters would be drowned -- or at least stopped in their pursuit of us.

In doing this he gave his life; shot through with arrows, he tumbled into the icy waters for me to pull his limp body back out again, too late to save him.

Dagonet returned to the fort lying face down across the back of his horse, his life exchanged for me and his fellow knights. But as for me, I did but take the edge of an arrow to my neck -- just a gash -- but as ever the men were quick to see that I had cloth to bind it!

When finally I could break free I went into the stable with my horse, hoping to find solitude -- and the words I needed to speak to God about this man who left us all too soon. Before I could say much, Tristan was there at my side.

"Arthur, it was a small sacrifice," he said, his voice as terse as always.

"How can you say that?" I asked, quick to bristle. I was outraged at the suggestion that Dagonet's death could be called a small thing!

"You must see it through our eyes," he continued. "Life is a small thing, really. But it's good if you can offer it to save those you honor."

"Still, Tristan," I said, ready to argue, "it's no little matter when a man lays down his life for others!"

"The small sacrifices are the most important," Tristan replied. "I'd gladly sacrifice my unworthy life for you.

"Arthur, all the knights feel the same, if they're being honest about it. Ignore the talk that seems to tell a different tale."

"It was suicide to break that ice," I continued, less vehement. "A death wish to even try it."

Tristan made a small grunt of noise before speaking. "He was not a free man when he made that choice, Arthur. But his life was his to give, even so. And what is freedom, anyway, if not the right to choose when you will die -- and how?"

"I'd gladly die to save you all," I said, tears streaming without shame from my eyes.

"But what of me?" I asked him. "What sacrifice should I make?"

"The hardest sacrifice of all," he answered. "To go on when those you love fall in battle. To live your life for those who've gone. To truly honor those small sacrifices -- with a life well lived."

His voice wasn't raised in passion as he replied. Nor did he rage at me -- as I wished to rage at God. He merely told me what he believed -- words I am sure came from his heart.

"Every sacrifice each of the knights has made for me are big ones in my eyes," I told him. I couldn't stop the sobs that shook me; I couldn't gainsay the tears that poured down my cheeks.

"Then dry your tears, Arthur. Smile. Dagonet would wish it. You smile little enough." The words he spoke might sound harsh to some ears, but I knew the affection hidden there.

Then he was gone and my prayers seemed in vain, so I moved here to my room to try to write these thoughts. For who will know these things when I am gone?

I wish I had long hours to put down the stories of these men! I would tell such tales of bravery and kindness as the world has surely never heard before.

I would tell of the times one held the other's head while retching up the effects of a night of revelry.

I would tell of the concealed pain in the eyes of a knight forced to watch his comrade have a wound sewed shut or an arrow pulled loose.

I would tell of the long hours of shared worry when one of the mounts has been taken with fever,

Or one of the men,

Or, worse yet, me.

I would tell of the rivers of blood, the torents of tears, the cascades of sweat -- all spent on a cause not truly theirs.

I would tell of the songs they sing and the humor they share. I would have you know them as I do.

I would tell of too many deaths.

All the 'small' sacrifices they have made -- for those I cherish above all.

-the end-