Shattered Ice

Read at your own risk!


There are no happy endings here.

Title: Shattered Ice, part 10
Author & email: surreal_44 and pharaohs_kitty
Type (slash/het/gen): slash
Pairing: Tristan/Arthur
Rating: NC-17, rape, domination/submission darkfic
Summary: Arthur takes advantage of Tristan's grief
Archive: Feel free and if you can do better with this idea, help yourself.
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own in any way, shape or form the characters, setting, original plot or anybody or anything else mentioned. I make no money off of this to pay my never-ending bills.
Beta credits: surreal_44 and my beloved.
Author's Note: This chapter is a bit on the short side, but to be swiftly followed by the next chapter!

Shattered Ice 10
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Lancelot sat at a table in the tavern, head hanging low as he tried to will the world to stop spinning. At the moment he was unsuccessful, mainly owing to Bors who was laughing uproariously at something that was probably not even remotely funny. What exactly had been said was lost to the First Knight who had to put most of his concentration on staying on the bench. Bors let out a roar of approval and another shout of laughter, slamming his mug down with such force that the whole table rattled. Lancelot moaned and buried his head in his arms, cursing Bors from the very depths of his soul. By the gods, did the man not have a volume other than 'loud and obnoxious' for his voice?


A familiar callused hand patted his shoulder. Lancelot would have lifted his head to give Arthur a proper greeting if not for the fact that he was fairly certain that a repeat of last night's events would occur all over again. Much of his memory was foggy from the evening before but Lancelot distinctly remembered throwing up all over his commander - more than once.

"How do you feel?" Arthur asked sympathetically, sitting beside Lancelot on the bench and gently placing a mug of some (no doubt foul-tasting) brew in front of him. The First Knight simply moaned and buried his face deeper into his arms, wishing desperately that he had remained unconscious for a few more hours.

Much as he hated himself for it, as much as he despised Arthur for what had happened the day before, Lancelot still found himself enjoying the attention he was getting from Arthur. For once Arthur was hovering over LANCELOT, was taking the time to see that he was well. Lancelot despised himself for wanting so badly what Tristan hated so much.

He'd woken in the night to the feeling of someone gently shaking his shoulder. Lifting up heavy lids, Lancelot saw Arthur kneeling above him. "Lancelot." Arthur looked and sounded amused. "We should go inside. Can you walk?"

" 'Course I can," mumbled Lancelot before letting his eyes slide shut again. Arthur could go inside if he wanted. He was comfortable right where he was...wherever that happened to be. He couldn't really remember anymore...

"Lancelot!" Arthur said, his voice more stern than it had been. Grumbling to himself, Lancelot put his mind to the task of sitting, and found it to be more onerous than he had expected. For one thing, he had a difficult time remembering which direction was 'up'.

Arthur hauled him to a sitting position. The world spun wildly, and Lancelot found himself clutching fiercely to Arthur to stop himself from keeling over. His stomach protested violently and he gagged. Strong arms supported his head as Lancelot leaned over and threw up what seemed to be everything he'd eaten the past week. When he was finally finished Arthur helped him to stand, allowing his Knight to lean heavily against him. Lancelot's head lolled back against Arthur's arm and shoulder. It was such an effort to even keep his eyes open.

"Come on, Lancelot. Let's get you into bed."

"Yours or mine?" Lancelot slurred. He stumbled on his feet and lost his balance. Arthur tried to prevent him from falling but Lancelot was dead weight and too heavy to hold. Kneeling on the grass, gasping for breath, Lancelot fought with overwhelming vertigo and a nauseous stomach. Someone was kneeling beside him, talking to him, and he tried to focus on the person but his eyes refused to work.

He simply meant to ask the person who they were when he opened his mouth, but much to Lancelot's shame he lost the battle with his rebelling stomach. The vomit hit the person square in the chest with a disgusting splat. Ewww. Lancelot was happy that it hadn't been him…or wait…maybe he would have been happier because then at least he wouldn't be feeling the way he was, or maybe…

The thoughts swirled away into misty darkness. The next thing he'd become aware of was moving. It wasn't very comfortable. One of his arms was slung over something, his feet dragging behind him awkwardly. He was pressed up against a warm, bare chest. Definitely the only good thing that had happened so far this evening.

"What--?" Lancelot asked thickly and tried to get his feet under him. Unfortunately, the floor moved, tripping him up, and he fell... ending up squashed between the wall and the warm body. Ordinarily this would have been a good thing, but at the moment Lancelot wasn't sure what the hell was happening to him. Except… "Oooh, gods. 'M gonna be sick…"

The person squishing him leapt away as if they'd been scalded and Lancelot slid down the wall to land at the person's feet. 'Those were nice boots', Lancelot thought dimly to himself, then promptly vomited on them. "Ooops." Lancelot said. "Sho-sorry."

"No. It's all right" Arthur said hastily, pulling his soiled tunic off over his head and bending down to mop off his boots. "We're almost to your room, Lancelot."

While Lancelot tried to nod agreement, his vision threatened to blacken on him again and he could have vowed on his gelding's tail that Arthur muttered a quick prayer to his God. While he waited for his head to clear again, Lancelot noticed for the first time in a long time the nice detailing on the walls of the hallway leading to his room.

"Romans suck," Lancelot slurred. "But they have nice ar... arhitect... freso...fre...um, wall things." Arthur snorted and pulled Lancelot to his feet where he swayed uncertainly. As he tried to suddenly adjust to having his full weight on his legs, he listed first one way and then the other and ended up turning in the wrong direction. "Think the room is moving, Arthur. This isn't the right way to go," Lancelot complained as he slumped limply backwards into Arthur's arms once more.

"How much did you drink for the Lord's sake?" Arthur peered inquiringly down at his slowly sinking second-in-command. Lancelot weakly shook his head and started gagging. "Don't you dare get sick on me again."

Lancelot snorted and tried to shove Arthur's hand away. "You de...desherved it... an' more."

Arthur grimaced and hauled Lancelot up, grumbling "You're a lot heavier than you look." Half carrying and halfway dragging Lancelot, Arthur shoved his Knight into his room and tossed him towards the bed.

'I'm dying,' thought Lancelot as he felt himself sailing weightless through the air towards something bright and white. He landed with a dull thud and then everything went dark. His nose was mashed uncomfortably against something and his arms were pinned beneath his body. Lancelot waited for the next part where things were supposed to get better, and when they didn't he tried to move futilely. Still nothing. According to Arthur there were supposed to be choirs of angels singing and more white and bright light and things.

Then, miraculously, someone helped him to turn over and his breathing eased. His familiar room at the fort came into focus... a bit anyway... and Arthur was standing over him. Without a shirt on. Things were looking up... until his stomach lurched.

Lancelot jerked himself over the side of the bed and promptly spewed vomit on the floor. Judging from the horrified _expression on Arthur's face when Lancelot was able to look up again at least some of the mess had landed on his commander. 'Bastard,' Lancelot thought as he suddenly remembered WHY he was feeling so rotten. And then he fell back over the side of his bed and threw up some more - this time more violently than the other times. His whole body shook when he was through and he was wracked with coughs as his throat protested its recent use.

"How is it possible that you can still have anything in you?" Arthur asked, sounding a bit awed and disgusted as well. Still... he reached over and gently stroked back Lancelot's dark hair to soothe him and then he pushed Lancelot down on the bed. "Try to sleep for now, Lancelot."

"Your after-life isn't nice, Arthur," Lancelot informed him before his dark eyes rolled back into his head and he passed into deep unconsciousness.

"Lancelot?"

"I woke up this morning and the mess was gone. I wasn't dressed and I was clean. Did you send Jols in?"

"No," Arthur paused. "I saw to your floor myself." He fidgeted uncomfortably, not knowing how Lancelot might construe what else he had to say. "I stayed to make sure you didn't vomit in your sleep and when the reek got too much, I stripped off your clothes and washed you down a bit. I couldn't stand the smell." He smiled wickedly, "A pity you weren't awake to enjoy it."

"Is Tristan still angry?"

"How could he not be?"

"Then he hasn't come back in yet?"

Lancelot met wide, shocked green eyes and winced. Arthur hadn't known Tristan had left. Fuck, when would he learn to keep his mouth closed?

"Arthur...," Lancelot hesitated. "He's coming back, Arthur. He said so. He always keeps his word." Arthur's eyes flickered for a moment before going flat and lifeless. "He's coming back, Arthur. Listen to me...please?"

Arthur stood and shook his head numbly.

"Why would he?"

"Because he said he would."

"He always keeps his word, eh? That it, Lancelot? He always keeps his word. But that was before. Before I doubted his word. Before I accused him of..." Arthur shook his head once again. "I don't think he will. Why would he return to this? to me? If I was him... I would fly as far as I could away from this Hell."

Lancelot watched Arthur walk away and wished desperately he could take the words he's said back. Until Tristan returned, Arthur would believe him fled - would believe Tristan gone forever. Lancelot prayed that Tristan returned before Arthur's sanity shredded.

"Don't be gone too long, Tristan." Lancelot whispered the words with a heartfelt prayer in his heart. He'd not known until yesterday what sacrifice Tristan had made with himself to Arthur, but now that he thought back on Arthur's strange behaviors in the months following Percival's death, he knew that they needed Tristan to hold Arthur together. What would Arthur become without Tristan? Lancelot shuddered and repeated his prayer, "Don't be gone too long."

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Tristan felt the coming thunderstorm more than he heard it. The change in the wind an hour ago with the taste of rain on it was now accompanied by the undercurrent of ozone that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He licked his lower lip and breathed deeply of the air that rapidly grew heavier by the moment. When it hit, this would be no typical soggy endless drizzle. He could feel it between the eyes. When this thunderstorm arrived, it would do so with flair and sound and bright dramatic effects. He needed to find cover. Quickly.

Wheeling his gelding down the trail that followed the bank of a creek for a while, he tried to remember where he'd seen cover adequate to his needs in this area. It was only a couple of days out from the fort and he tended not to spend much time passing through here when he was in search of rebel Britons. There was little here to catch their interest and consequently it was usually of no interest to him. He simply didn't know enough about the lay of the land further out than an immediate attack on the Roman encampment would warrant.

He passed a gentle pool in the creek surrounded by the long flat rock beds that so fascinated the people of this country and that they used to build their altars. Tristan snorted as he looked at it. It merely looked like an excellent place to bathe to him. He imagined swimming there tomorrow once the sun came out again. It would be well to clean the dust of the last days off before heading back.

He tried to imagine swimming there some month in the future; tried to imagine who would accompany him. Dagonet squatting there cleaning a rabbit for their dinner. No doubt he'd want to talk about things Tristan would just as soon not think on. The two boys he had become so sensitive to caring for. They seemed like little brothers to him now. They'd be laughing madly and swimming like fish so he'd have to stand watch instead of swim. Like Percival in their enjoyment of life and so like him in their lack of survival instinct. Tristan bit his lip as he missed his 'brother' with all his heart for a moment. Percival had been a partner to the point that he was Tristan's other pair of hands, but it was still Tristan who had to make all the plans and provide all the sense.

Tristan swung his horse northward around the gentle slope of a hill, passing to the side of a ravine that water had gouged into the forest floor years ago. No telling if that deep chasm filled with water when it rained only to have it drain out the next day down into the earth. Tristan laughed bitterly as he continued considering the swimming spot. The person he could most imagine there with him was the one person he did not want the company of. Arthur. An Arthur unbowed by his heavy responsibility would share the watch with him, would simply wait until Tristan had something to say, would know how to seize the moment but live it with caution.

If only Arthur didn't look at him with eyes that burned to own him; didn't seek after him with hands that sought to violate; didn't think on ways of subjugating Tristan to his own needs. He could have been as close to Tristan as Percival - were it not for the beast that hungered inside him. Tristan pulled up his gelding and tilted his head to the sky above. He had to stop seeing Arthur for what he had been to Tristan; had to stop seeing him for what he might have been. Arthur was as he was and nothing Tristan might wish for would change him.

Tristan urged his gelding to a faster pace as a distant boom echoed down the valley he was in. Just beyond the ravine there was a cliff of solid rock with an overhang large enough to tuck both himself and the obstinate horse he rode into dry shelter. Tristan was thinking more on whether to unload the idiot horse or to leave him ready to depart when the ground gave way beneath his horse's hooves and the gelding sank chest deep into a hole that hadn't been there a moment ago.

Tristan cursed as he heard the vicious crack of bone separating beneath him. The horse squealed, flailed blindly in agony and rolled to the side attempting to get away from the THING that had grabbed it and hurt it so. The gelding twisted over as the side of the hill sank in. The badger runs beneath gave way in slow motion. Tristan attempted to free himself from the now doomed horse but as the dirt sank into the ravine below it took both horse and rider with it to the bottom.

When the maelstrom of dirt and struggling horseflesh and sharp vibrant pains from being struck by rocks and tree limbs on the way down ended, Tristan lay dazed beneath the full weight of his dead horse. The gelding lay with its neck twisted and the reins wrapped above to a grey bone of a tree thrusting out from beneath the ravine's new bottom. Tristan groaned as his own injuries began speaking to him - first in whispers of bitterness then shouting with acid belligerence.

Digging out from under the carcass was his only way out. Resolutely Tristan began the slow and grinding task of scooping the dirt out from around his body to throw it as far away as he could. Handful by handful Tristan hollowed out around his body. As he was able to move a little more, he wished suddenly that he had not moved at all. The pain that so far had been bearable abruptly became head twisting agony as he moved his back and leg. Tears he could not hold back welled and dripped relentlessly as he ignored the sharpening violence in his nerves while he continued to pull himself free of the dead horse.

The clouds were causing the night to fall faster than usual and Tristan found himself rapidly digging with a blind man's tools. As the wind picked up in the arms of the ghostly trees above Tristan found himself wondering why there wasn't any sound... shouldn't he be able to hear the wind? the coming thunder? Abruptly he stopped digging and lifted a hand to the side of his head. It came away covered in blood.

Tristan stilled as he considered the fact that he hadn't heard anything more than the muffled pulse of his own blood since the hillside collapsed. A violent tremble started in his hand and shook through his whole body. He was cold, so cold. The dagger was there, tucked into the sheath at his side as usual and he plucked it out to awkwardly slice his bedroll free of the saddle. Tucking the blanket over himself as much as possible to warm his body, he thanked the lucky fact that his head was lying downhill from the horse carcass. It was likely the reason he hadn't succumbed to the loss of blood and the pain of what he now knew was a break somewhere in his leg.

Again Tristan grimly set himself to the chore of digging himself out from beneath the dead horse. As he freed himself, he rocked back and forth to tamp the earth down beneath him in an attempt to make the hollow large enough that he could slide free. Large fat drops of rain began to fall into the earth making it softer and easier to scoop. He began flinging handfuls of dirt away faster with hands now ragged bleeding raw skin. His nails ached from digging deep enough down that the nail bent backwards as he brought his hand up and out. Finally, finally... he was free!

Tristan reached down the hill over his head to grab a protruding root to pull himself away from the carcass. Quickly he pulled his pouch of arrowheads free of the saddle and emptied it upon the ground. Using the leather thong that had tied it closed and secured the small bag to the saddle, Tristan used the pouch leather itself to bind his broken leg the best he could without seeing it. The front edge of the thunderstorm passed over and a curtain of rain began falling as he was trying to pull himself up.

A flash of lightning illuminated his formerly cantankerous mount. Tristan took a moment to mourn the loss. The stubborn beast had been work to ride, but it had more than made up for that in its sheer endurance. He would miss the pigheaded goat.

He was nearly soaked through and the blanket around his shoulders was little protection. Once more he tried to get to his feet and looked up in time to see the hillside washing down on him. Tristan hurled the blanket up over his head and curled into a ball, ignoring the violent agony of his leg. The carcass of the horse broke free of the supporting reins beneath the weight of dirt turned to slurry mud and Tristan felt it settle on top of him. Pain lanced through his leg and mercifully he fell unconscious beneath the renewed onslaught.

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"I do not know what to do, Dagonet. Arthur gets colder and deader by the day. Every day he goes up on the Wall and watches the road into the fortress when the sun sets. Every night, he drinks until he's sick. Any one of us who mentions Tristan's name... Arthur simply shuts up and leaves. He acts as if Tristan never existed except for the fact that he waits for him every night on the Wall." Lancelot's face was pale and bleak. Trembling hands raked deft long fingers through his dirty locks of hair. Lancelot looked as if he'd been out riding hard patrol, rolling in the dust and dirt with fractious Woads. But Lancelot had only been trying, somewhat desperately, to hold the fortress together as Arthur let more and more slip from his control. "He's up there now. When will he return, Dagonet?"

"Arthur will return when Tristan does. This is what he is without our mule-headed Iazyge scout."

A sharper edge lined the retort, "I MEANT Tristan, Dagonet! When will HE return?"

"Should have come back already. He only took a couple of days victuals and a bedroll."

Lancelot growled and made fists of his hands before wheeling around and kicking over a pile of hay forks. Inaudible curses flew out of his mouth like invisible bats in the darkening barn. You knew they were there but catching a glimpse was impossible.

"Some... something," Lancelot got the word out and stopped, appalled at what he'd nearly said.

Dagonet nodded. "Ai yeh. I think so too. Something happened to him."

Lancelot lifted eyes frantic with desperation to Dagonet's calm face and stepped closer to whisper, "Something happened to him and that something will kill us all unless we get him back alive."

Dagonet reached to pat Lancelot's shoulder and suddenly found himself comforting the arrogant Knight as Lancelot leaned into his shoulder and grated out, "A month ago I wanted him dead. Do you think Arthur's God actually listened to my foolishness?" Dagonet waited patiently as Lancelot babbled on further, wiping unwanted tears from his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Arthur needs him. And we need him because of that and I... I need him to come back so that... I need to... Dagonet, what if I NEVER get a chance to make things right with him?"

"If I know Tristan at all, Lancelot, and I know him well, he will see to it that you have that chance. He likes it when he has a hold on a person. He likes to take his time about making the scales even out. "

Lancelot suddenly lurched away from Dagonet and started pacing in a small tight circle. With ever greater tension appearing in his shoulders and his hands fisting, Lancelot stalked the stalls and back again. Dagonet merely stood waiting patiently for him to open up and give whatever orders he was obviously mulling over in his mind.

"I want to go out, Dagonet. I want to go out looking for him." Lancelot slammed to a stop in front of Dagonet. Then a look of utter sadness came over his face as he bit off the words, "I cannot."

Dagonet understood all that Lancelot had yet to say. He, himself, wanted to go out after Tristan as well. But both of them, they both had responsibilities. The Romans would notice them leaving and they would be branded deserters. And neither of them were as Tristan, able to blend into the forest until he was as good as a ghost among the trees.

"You cannot go after Tristan either, Dagonet. I need to hold Arthur together and you need to keep the Britons and Romans and us from destroying each other until Arthur is able to lead us again. Either of us gone and... "

"The Romans. I understand. Send one of the others."

"Who? Who can find Tristan? What if...? Dagonet, what if he doesn't WANT to be found?"

"He said there was something here worth returning to. He said he'd return from his ride. That's as much as a vow to Tristan. If he hasn't returned it's either because he's dead, he's unable or he's found a reason to be somewhere else that is more important."

"There's nowhere else, nothing else more important than him returning." Lancelot hissed the words.

"Yes, but he does not know that like we do."

"Unless he's decided not to return. No one could track him if he's decided to go. Can anyone track him even if he wasn't hiding?"

"I can."

Dagonet and Lancelot turned their heads to the door and smiles dawned wholeheartedly on their faces. If any could track Tristan, it would be the one he'd taught to track himself. Both of them sighed in relief. If anyone could it would be the boy.

Gawain.

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Groggily, Tristan shook himself back to lucidity. It was dark and for a moment he wondered at the lack of light in the night. And then he remembered. He pushed outward from the cloth covering his face through the loose dirt and managed to uncover his face to the air. Evening had come and gone leaving only grim black shadow and slivers of starlight to see by. Tristan gulped the air thankfully and set about the arduous task of freeing himself once again.

After clawing away the dirt settled about his waist, Tristan realized the dead horse was wrapped around his legs, pinning him down, imprisoning him in this ravine that began to resemble a grave more and more. Yet the carcass HAD protected him from becoming swept to the bottom of the avalanche and mired in the muddy earth. Perhaps the gods weren't done with him yet.

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Gawain sat astride his horse and looked out at the riverbed. The scene was peaceful, but Gawain's mind was restlessly, relentlessly searching. He felt discouraged and inept in his efforts at tracking Tristan. The rains had washed much of the tracks away as if Tristan had indeed seized his freedom with both hands and deliberately vanished. And yet... Gawain couldn't rid himself of the nagging sensation that something was wrong - that Tristan hadn't disappeared on purpose.

This was the third day of searching for Tristan. The scout was difficult enough to track in the best of circumstances and with the recent storm it was nearly impossible to --- Gawain sat up a little straighter in the saddle.

Many sections of the trail had been damaged or washed away altogether from the violent weather. The uneven ground had forced him to pick a new trail out in the forest three times already today to get around fallen trees or to cross an area where the ground had become unstable. Gawain shut his eyes and cast his mind back to the trail, trying to envision everything he'd seen. Tristan had taught him how important even the smallest details were. Somewhere there was a clue...

Gawain sent up a heartfelt plea to any god that happened to be listening. Please let me SEE. Please.

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TBC... as ever!
Surreal and PeeK