FIC: "Unfettered Rest" (1/1)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: October 31, 2004
FANDOM: RPS, plus AU "King Arthur"
PAIRING: Read on. It's too outrageous to put in a template.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They're either real people, or they're characters belonging 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, a few real people, angst, death, a bit of gore.
SUMMARY: Colin Farrell has a very realistic dream.
BETA: Czar Nikky (thanks, darling!)
AUTHOR NOTES: Don't give me that 'I'm a straight guy and I can't stand the thought of kissing another man' bit! It's like waving a red flag in front of a bull ...

"What's with the fuckin' blue people?" he asked, turning his head aside to blow smoke away from the table. "Where'd that come from?"

"The 'blue people' were your ancestors, Colin. Irishmen. The Picts. Didn't you know?"

Colin Farrell sat back, took a swig from his bottle of Guinness and another drag on his cigarette. "Bollocks," he replied.

The room was crowded with actors, their publicists and the journalists who would write about the event the next day. At the table with the young actor was one of his colleagues from the British Isles, Clive Owen, whose much-anticipated summer movie "King Arthur" had just opened. Colin, finished with shooting his own costume epic and finally free of the cast that had supported a broken ankle for the last few weeks, had stopped by to catch the London opening of the film.

Clive seemed discouraged but philosophical about the movie. "We'll get reamed," he predicted, and Colin shrugged.

"What did you expect? It's a Disney movie. You knew they'd fuck it up in the end."

"You give so much of yourself, and you start to believe," Owen said. "And then it's out of your hands."

"That's acting," Colin said, finishing the Guinness. He motioned to a nearby waitress, a perfectly coifed and made up young woman who was probably hoping to catch the eye of someone who could get her into the movies. "Sweetheart, another?"

"Aren't you worried?" Owens asked, leaning closer to the young Irish actor. "You have a lot riding on 'Alexander.'" He referred to Oliver Stone's bio-epic of the Macedonian general that had finally put the nails in the coffin of Australian director Baz Luhrmann's version.

Farrell laughed, running a hand through his close-cropped dark hair. "I'm just glad to be rid of the surfer boy thing. I do have this weird feeling that dads are gonna use pictures of me in a fucking tunic to scare their sons into playing football. I don't want my first Bafta to be for Best Actress."

"I better mingle," Owens said, nodding across the room at his young Welsh co-star, Ioan Gruffudd, the latest screen version of the legendary hero, Sir Lancelot.

"Who's the blonde?" Colin asked, studying Gruffudd's date. Then he looked more pointedly at the actor himself. "If he were any prettier, I'd invite him back to my hotel," he remarked, winking at Owens. "I hear he'd be likely to go."

Owens shook his head and smiled but didn't comment. Colin was left alone at the table, laughing to himself. When he noticed a reviewer for the London Times fast approaching, he made his escape, pausing only to grab the fresh Guinness from the pretty waitress. He didn't want to talk about 'Alexander' tonight. He was happy to be on the outside looking in at someone else's glass house.

His hotel was within walking distance of the party, so he didn't try to catch a cab. He avoided a few clusters of tenacious fans and made his way back to his room, the bottle of ale stuck in his jeans. His ankle still felt a little wobbly, but the pain was nearly gone. It was warm and pleasant, the kind of London night that disappointed the tourists hoping to be able to report to the folks back home on the rain and the fog.

He doubted he'd ever fall asleep, and it was still ridiculously early -- not even 2:00 a.m. But he decided to lie down anyway, clad only in his shorts and t-shirt. He thumbed through the script he was reading, the words tumbling on the page in front of him.

"Fuck it," he said, throwing down the script and stretching out on his back. He closed his eyes. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

"Colin! Colin! Are you all right? Can you get up?"

Someone was shouting at him, but he could make out nothing but blackness. He was pinned down, barely able to get any air, much less see clearly. He shoved upward at the dead weight holding him in place.

It was a body, a particularly bloody one. One arm was hacked off above the elbow, and the eyes were glassy and staring. Nearly every inch of exposed skin was covered with dark, nearly black, blood. Even the tortured face was speckled.

The small amount of flesh not stained red was marked with bright blue.

A hand reached down to help him up. Colin grabbed it gratefully, taking a deep breath as he was freed from what now proved to be a pile of bodies. His lungs tasted scorched air, and he nearly choked. Everything around him was obscured by black smoke.

"We thought you were dead," said the young man beside him. Blue stain accented the man's face and arms; his skin, too, was highlighted by spatters of blood, but he was devoid of obvious wounds. "Your leg is hurt?"

Colin gingerly stepped down on a sore ankle, then pulled up and hopped on the other foot. "A bad cut," he said. "Can't put weight on it."

"He's here!" the young man called across the open field. Colin looked around and took in a vast and horrible battlefield and the devastating leavings of war.

"I heard your last command, and I sprang for the center of the field, but I lost track of you," the young man was saying. Colin tossed his head, trying to clear his jumbled thoughts; his long, dark hair blew around his face.

"Earnan?"

The man stared. "Yes?"

"I'm confused. I must have taken a blow to the head."

"Merlin will want to see you. Guinevere was also spared, but some of the Sarmatian knights were killed."

Sarmatian knights? Why did the mention of knights spark such a strange reaction in his belly?

"Look. There. They carry their dead off the field."

Colin squinted through the billowing smoke and saw the small group of armored men gravely trudging along, weighted down by two bodies. Behind them a tall horse followed of its own accord, its lead trailing through the grass. Walking nearby he made out the slight but strong form of Guinevere; head held high, she followed the knights.

Bloodied, but unbowed. What horrors this woman had experienced in her life! Today was not even the worst of those.

She nodded over at him, her eyes grave. He acknowledged her, all the while balancing on one leg. When she saw he was injured, she ran toward him.

"What is it?" she asked. "Can you walk?"

"My ankle is cut," he reported, still watching the four knightly pall bearers.

She followed his gaze and sighed. "It's horrible. His First Knight fell -- the one called Lancelot. He died while I was watching. I feel like an accomplice to it."

He stared at her. "You can't mean that. We fought today beside them, beside Arthur Castus -- our enemy! Without our help, the Saxons would be standing here now watching our bodies burn."

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "I just mean it will make things easier now. Lancelot was in the way. I wished him out of the way. And now he is."

He shrugged. "You have your own ideas, Guinevere. I'm sure there's something in them, even if I don't understand you."

"You don't have to understand me, brother. Just believe in me." She gave him a sad smile, then crouched down and ripped at a piece of cloth to wrap his leg. "And now let me help you off this field."

He leaned on her and limped across the littered battlefield.

Later, he found himself huddled in a corner of the Roman fortress, a place he had never expected to enter in his lifetime. He was nestled in a makeshift bed of hay in an empty stall in the stable, sharing space with the pampered beasts that carried the knights to war. Outside he could hear the disparate sounds of celebration and grief; it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.

When he saw the tall, weaving figure enter the dimly lit stable, he pulled even further into the dark corner he had claimed for himself. The shape was that of a man, a man who seemed to have imbibed too much of one of the fermented beverages the Britons enjoyed. He was clearly oblivious to Colin's presence. He went straight to a nearby stall and began talking to the horse it housed.

Colin could understand every word. He, like Guinevere, was fluent in the tongues of Britain and often acted as a translator for his people. Knowing it was an intrusion to listen, he tried to block out the man's words, but found it impossible not to be drawn in by the entreaty in the hoarse voice. The man was suffering some terrible emotional pain, and he had no one who could share his anguish save the tall, dark horse nickering in the shadowy stall.

"We've lost him," he was saying. "We'll both have to go on somehow without him."

Colin raised himself on his good leg and shuffled forward. He could see the man's outline -- could see wide shoulders shaking with grief, the face pressed into the neck of the big beast. When a nearby lamp was brightened by a flicker of air, Colin saw that it was Arthur Castus himself, the Roman leader of the Sarmatian knights.

At that moment, Arthur seemingly sensed his presence. He looked over at Colin, his eyes challenging.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm Colin. Guinevere is my sister. She said I could rest here."

The tall Roman approached. "You were hurt in the battle?"

Nodding, Colin indicated his leg. "Just a cut. But it won't bear my weight."

Arthur sighed. His large green eyes were incredibly weary, swollen by grief. "Your people fought well today," he said. "You are so strong and fierce. I never appreciated it before."

"It was an honor to fight with you," he said softly, surprised to hear himself giving voice to the thought. How many times had he heard the knights spoken of as evil interlopers, enemies to the free people of Britain? How many times had he aimed his own bow toward the column of armed men -- back when Arthur was followed by more than a handful?

And yet, he and Guinevere had watched and wondered. Merlin had taught them to be circumspect about Arthur's influence; the part-Roman, part-Briton commander cast a long shadow over their land. And it had been impossible not to find something to admire in the knights. They were remarkably brave and skilled.

"You are Guinevere's brother?" Arthur asked, studying Colin. "I can see the resemblance. You're like two sides of one piece of cloth; yours may be the rougher nap, but undoubtedly no more resilient."

Colin smiled. "Never. No one is stronger than Guinevere."

"So I'm learning."

Colin glanced toward the large horse. "It was his mount?" he asked. "She said the knight Lancelot fell."

A shadow passed over Arthur's face. "Yes. He was killed."

"He was the one who used two swords? We often spoke of him."

Arthur smiled. "He was difficult not to notice."

Colin cleared his throat. "And you loved him."

Once again their eyes met. This time Arthur seemed to be communicating without words, looking for some sort of understanding and comfort that the horse couldn't offer. He nodded.

"I don't know how I'll go on without him," he said, his voice cracking.

Instinctively, Colin reached up and embraced the tall man. He held the quaking body against his own, allowing the waves of grief to break on him like the stormy surf against the rocks of the western shore. His hands knotted in the knight's thick hair, holding the man's wet face against his neck. Arthur's despair had an edge of desperate passion, and after a time the hands that gripped his own back began to pull at him with a more immediate insistence.

They went down in the straw of the empty stall.

Arthur's larger body covered him, and Colin found himself gasping for breath as he reached up and embraced the strong knight. Their hands pulled at constricting clothing, freeing their flesh for more vital contact, exposing their skin to the air and to one another's hands. Arthur's mouth came down on Colin's with a nearly violent salute, his tongue as urgent as his lips. The young Pict found himself engulfed in Arthur's embrace, his body rising up much as it had in battle, ready for either offense or defense, whichever might be necessary.

A stranger to the lovemaking of another man, Colin was surprised at his own fervor. He reached for Arthur and stroked him with deliberation, even as his own body was similarly caressed by a more experienced hand. When a strong finger entered him, instead of protest he felt a burning urgency. He wanted the legendary leader to take him; he knew nothing else could slake his sudden need.

They coupled on the floor of the stable in the dusty straw, their muffled cries and moans overheard only by the knights' war-horses.

Afterward, Arthur wept quietly in Colin's arms. Colin's fingers absently twisted in the hair at Arthur's neck, while he whispered words of condolence in his own tongue. As inexperienced as he was, Colin knew that facing danger could incite a man's lust, turning passion into a shield against despair and death. Arthur Castus had lost something irreplaceable in his life, and only the strong arms of another man could bring him succor.

"I will never forget this," Arthur said finally, after their pounding hearts had slowed and their breathing had returned to normal.

"Nor I."

"Your sister has given my life a new meaning."

Colin's smile shone in the dark of the stable. "So she intended."

"I now understand my own destiny."

Colin stroked Arthur's neck. "Right now your destiny is to sleep."

Arthur yawned and nodded. "I feel like I could sleep for days."

Colin's eyes closed. "May your rest be unfettered by bad dreams, Arthur Castus," he said.

Somewhere, far away, a bell was sounding. The chiming continued for a time, then became louder and louder and more insistent.

The phone was ringing.

Colin started awake, cursing. He reached for the phone, knocking over the half-empty bottle of Guinness.

"Fuck! Yes? What is it?" he said.

"Joe? Is that you?"

"No, this certainly isn't Joe! Who the fuck is Joe?"

The caller hung up. Colin slammed down the receiver and squinted at his watch. It was 3:00 a.m.

"How the fuck could I have only been asleep an hour? It seemed like forever!" he said aloud. His body was covered with a sheen of perspiration, and his shorts were still sticky from the erotic antics of his surprisingly realistic dream. Thinking back, he remembered every detail, from the acrid smoke of the battlefield to the prickly straw against his bare ass. He had an explicit memory of the sexual encounter -- and the decidedly heterosexual Colin Farrell felt a stirring in his loins as he replayed the scene in his mind.

He picked up the phone again and sat for a moment, thinking. Then he punched in a number.

"Hey, it's Colin. Yeah, I know it's the middle of the fucking night, but the last time I checked, you still worked for me. I need Clive Owen's number right now. Get it for me, will you?"

He reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and shook one loose. Then, remembering the smell of burning bodies, he tossed it aside and reached instead for the pad of paper and the pen provided by the hotel. He started to write while he waited for the number.

What the fuck, he thought. He looked at the one word he had written on the paper.

Clive.

The End