Filling The Silence

Title: Filling The Silence
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur
Rating: R (should be enough)
Warnings: slash
Summary: after a battle; thoughts and actions (gawd, I suck at summaries!)
Disclaimer: not mine, no money made, no harm done
Feedback: Yes, please! Praise, criticism and flames alike. evilJy @ teufelin.org
Archive: just let me know where you put it, please
Beta: Big thanks to yaoigirl. All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone! *possessive*
Arthur’s Notes: Thanks to minion, kentucka and “Pesky” (you know who you are! *g*) for nagging endlessly and keeping me from burning this, plus special thanks to Charlie for the title!

~*~*~*~

Weary Lancelot dismounted his equally exhausted horse. Sweat, blood and mud coated the otherwise black fur of the beast, still fresh from the battle and faintly gleaming in the dim evening light, giving the horse an aery look as if it had just wadded through a river of human blood.

Which wasn’t so far from the truth as there had been so many bodies on the ground, so much blood spilled in such a short time that it had gathered in puddles all over the battlefield, before it could soak into the earth. Sometimes Lancelot wondered if human blood made for a good fertilizer or if never again something useful would grow on those grounds, but instead forever poisoning it with the deaths of so many.

Carefully Lancelot checked for injuries before he started cleaning his horse. He preferred to see to those tasks himself. As long as he was still alive and breathing, he held himself responsible for both his weapons and horse alike. Both were not only tools of his trade, but their state would almost every time decide if he survived the day or not.

Taking care of animal and equipment took it’s time when Lancelot wished nothing more than to remove his armor and sink into a warm bed, forgetting the day like he had tried to forget all these bloody years, past and ahead of him, in this alien land.

Nonetheless those tasks had a cleaning effect on him, too. It helped to shake off a bit of the horror that had settled itself in his bones. The shock always came afterwards. During battle all Lancelot saw were the enemies to be deposed of; all he felt was the rhythm of his own blood and heart giving him the beat to his deadly dance. On the battlefield was neither the time nor the place for contemplations or thoughts about consequences. If a matter arose you dealt with it, usually with a sword through the heart.

But afterwards, when he and the other knights of Arthur were the only ones still standing; when he saw the carnage around him, felt the blood soaking his clothes, slowly crusting on his armor and only the sounds of harsh breathing of the few which had not yet made the full transitions to the netherworld and the shrieks of crows fighting over the meat of the dead could be heard; coldness crept deep into his bones, making him feel unwelcome and estranged, as if this land kept fighting him with all its might, while its children were lying dead at his feet.

How ironical that he who made sure everyone knew that he believed in no myths or gods, no matter the origin, could be affected in such a way by his own handiwork.

Fortunately, a bit of manual labor never failed to take good care of those foolish thoughts of his. It brought him back down to earth, back to reality, were he belonged.

His horse in its stable, cleaned and feed, and his equipment in its proper place, Lancelot made his way to his own lodgings. Not a moment too early as the combined pain of all his, though minor, injures caught up with him, making his movements sluggish.

He was glad that being Arthur’s second in command meant he didn’t need to share his room with anyone. While he loved the other knights as brothers and friends, there were times when even he had use of a bit of solitude. Lancelot wasn’t one prone to brooding like a certain commander of theirs, but it tended to worry his brothers-in-arms when he wasn’t his usual snarky and witty self. Coming from Arthur they were used to it, expected it even.

Lancelot had never really understood how it had come to be but somehow the others had voted him to be their moral basis; as disturbing as that thought might be. If Lancelot could still make his jokes, the world was still in one piece and the sun expected to arise coming morrow. Not that any of them would ever admit to this. Thus whenever Lancelot felt a bit gloomy he made sure he was somewhere alone. His absence from the tavern was hardly ever noticed, the others just assumed he was with Arthur, and left it at that.

Reaching his room Lancelot went straight to the brazier placed in one corner, hovering over the fire and waiting for the feeling to come back into his hands. Loosing the clasps and buckles of his armor with numb fingers was something he greatly could do without.

As soon as he could move his fingers at a normal rate again, Lancelot made quick work of his garments. Dropping them carelessly in a corner for now. Before everything else he wanted to get rid of the blood covering his face, chest and arms. He didn’t even bother to heat his wash water up. Thus the water was cold, bordering on icy and making Lancelot flinch when it first touched his skin. He scrubbed forcefully with a cloth at the flecks and smears, ignoring the burning sensation he produced by his haste in cleaning himself. Instead he watched as the once so clear water turned an even darker shade of red each time he rinsed the cloth in the basin before him.

For a moment he lost himself there, in the dark swirls of what only hours before had carried the life of his enemies; part of what was still caring his life in his veins. How easy killing had become to him. Sometimes he wondered, when his years of servitude very finally over, if would be able to feel anything at all then. Or if he would forever be as cold inside as this land around him was now.

Already he kept straying farther and farther away from the soft and pliant bodies of the women who so eagerly sought out the knights every evening. While he still flirted with girls, the results of his advances weren’t what his fellow knights might expect. No, Lancelot had now become a master in the arts of deceiving and manipulating. One reason more why Lancelot preferred Arthur’s company these days.

With him he didn’t need to pretend. No need for sweet words that didn’t mean anything. No need to be tender or careful. No need to hide. More often than not, they just continued the battle they had abandoned on the fields before. Albeit with different weapons and a less deadly outcome. But the violence was as strong; blood and pain an essential part of the dance. Fighting each other and for dominance as they had fought for their very lives earlier. Until they would be lying exhausted on the bed or floor, sweat slicked bodies so tightly entwined that neither men knew which body part belonged to whom, which heart beat it was they were feeling.

Why they both craved this so much neither might ever know or ever want to truly understand. Like an unspoken law they never talked about those encounters, never.

There were other times, though. Quieter moments, when the battle rage wasn’t still crushing through their veins, when they were just enjoying each other’s presence and their mutual desire. They were more to each other than just a way to relief stress, meant more to each other than just commander and first knight. There was more to it, for both of them. But even those moments went by without words spoken between them.

Lancelot knew Arthur never had nor ever would share with anyone of the other knights what he shared with Lancelot. Neither would Lancelot.

But right now, Arthur was as far out of reach for him as he could with still being inside the same walls. When their commander was grieving for their fallen comrades, the mantel of death was so dark around him he couldn’t stand one living soul close to him. Especially Lancelot’s presence would only mean pain to him. Because with it came the knowledge that one day his friend, his knight, his lover would be lost as well.

As much as Lancelot wished to help Arthur in those hours of grieve, he knew he could not. Thus he stayed away from him, went through his own small rituals.

Finished with cleaning himself, he got rid of the dirty water, and when he poured it away, more than just bloodied water vanished form his sight and attention. Lancelot did not suffer nightmares.

Picking up his armor from were he had thrown it earlier, he set to the task of repairing the tears in the fabric, polishing the metal and oiling the soft leather.

When he was satisfied with his work, he put the armor on the stand, his whole body ached; every joint, every muscle. But it was a good kind of pain. Since it came from the body and not the soul. It meant sleep for him. When the body overruled the mind, demanding rest.

Lancelot slipped between the sheets, sighting in consent. He would have preferred Arthur’s bed, true, not because of the softer mattress or the thicker blanket. He didn’t really care for such things. Compared to sleeping on the hard ground when the knights had to spend the night in the woods, this simple cot was bliss. Lancelot was not averse to some luxuries but there were things higher on his list of priorities. Like sharing body heat, listening to a certain heartbeat, the recurrence of Arthur’s presence beside him.

With his thoughts still loosely circling around Arthur, Lancelot dropped into deep slumber.

He could not have said what had woken him up. He was pretty sure that Arthur hadn’t made a noise when he had entered his room. Nor was he touching him. He just stood at Lancelot’s bed, staring down on him. Maybe it had been the intensity of that stare, Lancelot marveled.

Turning fully on his back, he looked up at his commander. Lancelot couldn’t tell if it was the moonlight illuminating his face that made Arthur look so pale or if he really was lacking all color. Knowing his friend, though, he guessed that Arthur would be putting any decent ghost to shame right now.

Lancelot scooted a bit to the side, making room, before lifting the sheets. Arthur didn’t need more of an invitation and without hesitation joined him under the blankets. He felt frozen to Lancelot, which made him wonder how long he had been standing there only clad in his nightshirt.

Arthur rested half on top of him. One arm circling Lancelot’s middle, his face buried between his neck and shoulder. Taking deep even breaths, he inhaled Lancelot’s scent, felt how it wrapped itself around him, too. Warmth seeped back into his bones, melting the iron knots that were his muscles.

He kissed the hot flesh at the junction of shoulder and neck; making Lancelot shiver, the motion vibrating through Arthur’s body as well. Another kiss, teeth following, tongue soothing. The arm trapped around Lancelot’s waist lifted, letting the hand roam freely over the oh so familiar body, touching it in all the right places. His other hand crept along an arm, around the shoulder, behind the neck, to hold Lancelot in place while he kissed him on the mouth this time.

Lancelot’s response was eager, demanding more. He grabbed Arthur by the shoulders drawing him impossibly closer. With his other hand he pulled at Arthur’s shirt, wanting it out of the way, impatient as he was to feel skin on skin. But the garment wouldn’t yield.

Arthur broke the kiss, gasping for air as he forced himself up and the stubborn nightshirt over his head. Lancelot’s followed next and both men hissed as they finally were rid of all barriers between them. Arthur kissed his way down Lancelot’s chest, finding delight in the moans that escaped the man beneath him. He let his tongue trace along the ribs clearly visible under the taut skin. Wet kisses further down, the navel his next target. Circling it, before the tongue slipped in, speaking of promises soon to be fulfilled.

Lancelot held his breath as he tried not to squirm too much. Pleasure was crashing in waves through his body. Arthur was going too slow, the man found too much enjoyment in torturing him. But not tonight. He buried a hand in Arthur’s short hair and dragged him up until they were noise to noise. Lips on lips, teeth on lips, tongue on tongue, hunger meeting hunger.

“Now,” Lancelot breathed into Arthur’s mouth. “I,” a sharp nip to the bottom lip, “want you,” he sucked at the lip causing Arthur to moan deeply, “to take me,” another nip for emphasis, “now!”

The urgency in his tone made Arthur smile. Obliging the command he settled himself firmly between Lancelot’s parted legs, and without breaking contact his hand found the familiar jar of oil beneath the cot, coating his fingers with the fluid.

Lancelot gasped at the first touch to his opening, but soon enough he became accustomed to Arthur’s ministrations. The sensation of fingers slipping in and out of his body, provoked him to push his legs further apart and to draw his knees close to his chest, giving Arthur as much access as he could.

Arthur didn’t take long in preparing the other man as his own needs increased with every sound that escaped Lancelot’s parted lips. He spread oil over his own hardened member and positioned himself at Lancelot’s opening. Their eyes locked as he slowly but constantly pushed inward.

Arthur had intended to keep to a more leisurely rhythm, a little torture as well deserved punishment for Lancelot – something this knight always gave him plenty of reasons for – but once completely sheathed, the velvet heat engulfing him made Arthur forget those plans fast enough. Instead all Arthur could deliver were fast, rough thrusts without much finesse.

Much to Lancelot’s delight, if the stream of incoherent but definitely encouraging words coming out of his mouth gave any indication. Picking up on Arthur’s example of forgoing technique altogether, he pulled his knees out from between them and warped his long legs around Arthur’s waist, relishing on the added friction to his own cock as Arthur was pressed closer to him.

Harsh breathing, half audible words and the sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, echoing from the walls. The air smelled of sweat and sex, and neither men would feel the autumn chill on their skin as they both steadily neared completion. A few more frantic thrust from Arthur and he buried his head in the pillow in an attempt to muffle the groans as he spilled his seeds in his lover’s body – and pulled Lancelot with him over the edge.

His body wrecked by spasm, sticky liquid spreading on his belly, Lancelot clawed at Arthur’s shoulders, trying to keep a hold on consciousness and not to fall entirely into the spiral of pleasure and need. Only when Arthur began to stir in his embrace did he slowly relax his muscles.

Arthur kissed his collarbone before he gingerly eased himself out of Lancelot. Settling into a comfortable positing on the bed, he gathered a still stunned Lancelot in his arms and draped the blanket firmly around them.

For a while neither men moved as their erratic breaths evened out to a more regular rhythm and sleep advanced on them.

“I just needed to know that you’re alive and well,” Arthur somberly whispered into the still night; glad that the moon had vanished behind thick clouds so he could not see Lancelot’s face as he spoke. He feared to see pity in his friend’s eyes.

Though his heart contracted at the soft spoken words and all the meaning behind them, Lancelot could not stop a low chuckle from escaping his lips, his natural sarcasm taking over.

“I hope you’re satisfied with the result of your inquisition. I certainly am,” Lancelot lightly teased. “Don’t worry, I plan on staying around for quite awhile longer; antagonizing you is too much fun to give it up all too soon.”

With a faint smile on his lips, Arthur leant forward to kiss Lancelot deeply, saying his thanks without words.

Content with the knowledge that he had given his friend at least temporary peace, Lancelot rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder and with a sigh and to the sound of a steady heartbeat, he let sleep overcome him. Only moments after, Arthur followed him into slumber – free of dreams and worries.

Thus the world was still in one piece and the sun would rise over Britain in only a few hours to come.

End