A/N: Well, I got an idea for my next long KA fic. I think it was somewhat sparked by a work of LadyBush , although there shall be definite differences. I recommend heading on over to her fic and reading/reviewing, although it is slash. But nonetheless, it's good, and I like it. Heh. So here be the

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, though for those of you who have a real soft spot for the knights, it may be a bit hard to bear at times. This isn't slash in the sense that there isn't any sexual attraction or desire between characters, despite what it may seem at times. I don't know how violent this will get, but I know it'll be pretty damn angsty. I'm starting out with one central idea this time, so I'll find out what happens along the way, just like you. Like that last chapter of Resurrection.... Hee.

This is too short. TT

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Gentle Apocalypse

Chapter 1: Power

"On your knees, filth!" The Saxon snapped his command in a bellow not unlike that of Bors, but in a repulsive way that emphasized his drooling mouth that reeked of his last meal. He shoved Lancelot to the ground with his words, and the Sarmatian gritted his teeth in fury at being subdued. He heard the smack behind him and knew they had struck Arthur. And Arthur knew that Lancelot wanted to run to his aid, and Lancelot knew Arthur didn't want him to. And still, he waited on his knees.

One of the brutes seized Galahad by the shoulders and began to drag him away, despite his frantic struggles to escape. The Saxon laughed heartily as the youngest knight cried out to Gawain when his best friend could do nothing but watch him hopelessly. Galahad pleaded with his fellow knights for help, his wide eyes imploring. "Please, don't let him take me away. Please don't let him take me, Arthur, Gawain, please! Please, gods, no," he wailed. The knights looked away painfully as he disappeared beyond the trees, his boots no longer scraping and digging into the dirt, all except Arthur and Gawain. The youngest knight had begun to weep, overwhelmed with fear of what he knew was to come, and he was no longer a fierce warrior knight but a desperate child instead. Once the knights could see him no longer, Galahad cried out to the gods, while the Saxons who stayed behind looked in his direction smugly and the one who led him off kept laughing. The screaming didn't stop until Galahad broke into a loud moan that turned into wailing and sobbing and begging. At this, even Arthur lowered his gaze, but Gawain could not stop looking into the trees, though his persistence was futile. Tears of absolute rage mingled with despair fled down his face, and any one of the knights could have told that the look in his eyes was one of vindictive blood lust.

"Well, he must be having a good time," one of the other Saxons said to his comrades, eliciting laughter. "After he's done, I'd like to have a go at that impish little boy."

"Damn you to hell, you vile, foul, evil, barbaric beast," Gawain shouted, his head snapping toward the other man. "I'm going to cut you open and rip your insides apart with my bare hands, you loathsome spawn of a wicked prostitute." But before he could say anymore, the Saxon standing nearest the gathered knights struck Gawain's face, and the others only laughed again. Lancelot was seething as he listened to the distant cries of Galahad, and his breaths had turned into heaves of an approaching outburst. He wasn't sure what made him more furious – that a Saxon was violating his friend or the fact that no matter how many of them he killed, Galahad would never be free of the pain.

"And who do we have here?" Cedric questioned, circling Lancelot, who was now in the sight of his fellow knights. The other Saxons were a lingering shadows off to the side, watching. He turned to look at Arthur, whose gentle gray eyes were bewildered and riddled with pain for Galahad and fear for Lancelot. They were set on his best friend until Cedric looked to him, which diverted his gaze to the Saxon leader. Cedric smirked and looked back to Lancelot.

"Arthur's whore." Lancelot ground his teeth as the Saxons snickered.

"For as much as I hate the Romans, I have never been able to deny their good taste," Cedric continued in his smooth tone, circling again. "Arthur is no exception, is he, boys? He's chosen the finest of his knights for his bed." The mirth continued, as Cedric crouched before Lancelot, looking steadily into Lancelot's narrow glare. The Sarmatian's naturally intense eyes were smoldering with anger, so great that it left him no room for tears or sadness. He wanted to slaughter the Saxon who continued to stare at him with no detectable emotion in his eyes but do more than just kill him. He wanted to mutilate him, cause him agony, make him scream like Galahad had screamed.

"Does your captain bed you well, knight?" Cedric taunted but receiving no answer from Lancelot but a murderous flash. "I say we break him too, men – this pretty little thing. He's too proud for his own good. Shall we make it a spectacle for his comrades to watch?" The shadowed Saxons gave a cheer of agreement, but Lancelot's eyes were unmoving. "Very well then."

Cedric stood tall, looming over Lancelot like a child's nightmare, while the Saxons cheered with eager eyes. Taking his sword in its scabbard from his belt, the enemy leader nearly grinned when Lancelot lifted his head to glare at him. When he struck the knight across the face with his sheathed weapon, he relished the fleck of blood that escaped from the angry welt on Lancelot's sharply sculpted cheekbone. The knight's eyes watered now, the cut stinging for only a minute, and he was glad he could not see his captain's face when his head was hung. The sword next came down on his back, almost causing him to fall over. Two more blows, and Cedric ordered him to stand up. Lancelot proudly struggled to his feet, though his leg quaked under his weight. Yet once we was eye level with the Saxon, Cedric punched his eyes, and he staggered back with a cry he failed to stifle, as searing pain burst in his face. Before he had time to breathe, another strike split his lower lip, and his legs failed him. Cedric backed away as the whole crowd of Saxons advanced on Lancelot, too impatient to wait anymore. The blows came too fast and too many for the knight to count, kicking and striking with sheathed broadswords. He pressed his one good eye shut, not wanting to see the blur of faces all around him of those brutes he had failed to exterminate altogether. He hissed as ribs were broken and curled into a tighter ball, arching when they rammed their boots into his back, curling back when other kicks attacked his chest. After a while, he was sure they had paralyzed him, and that there wasn't a rib left whole. A terrible pain had blossomed in his stomach, and as the blood ran from his mouth, he decided he wouldn't be surprised if something had torn inside. He just glad he couldn't see the Roman. Don't watch, Arthur.

But Arthur was watching. Arthur was watching with an undeniable pang in his chest, and a faint trace of fury that was overpowered by his grief. The warrior in him was raging, ready to throw himself at those beasts and tear them apart with his teeth if he had to. The friend in him despaired. Only despaired. And he wondered if he would be of any use to Lancelot after it was over, if he could soothe the knight. Perhaps if he found some way to do that, God would forgive him for doing nothing to stop it now, for just sitting back and watching. He doubted he could ever forgive himself. And he would tell the knight he was sorry, but he knew his friend would tell him to be quiet and save needless apologies. If only Lancelot would open his eyes. If only the Sarmatian would look at him and see what his eyes had to say. I'm with you, Lancelot.

And Lancelot opened his eye. It flashed for a second, asking why the Roman was watching when he had asked him not to. Arthur could only begin to apologize, before the knight cut him off. No apologies, Lancelot insisted. Arthur fell quiet, eyes glimmering at his fallen knight. As they continued to beat him, Lancelot did not pull his eyes away from Arthur's, even when those gray pools let down quiet tears for him. But Lancelot told Arthur that is was all right because his body had gone numb, and Arthur told Lancelot that his tears were for the pain that would come afterward. The Sarmatian almost smiled. He told Arthur to remember the first time he, Lancelot, had been wounded all those years ago. And Arthur's tears only thickened when Lancelot's words came clearly in his mind.

"As long as you are with me, I have no pain to bear."

"Arthur's whore isn't so pretty anymore," one of the Saxons mocked, and the rest laughed heartily at the crumpled form of the Sarmatian, eye black and lip bleeding. Yet Lancelot was not so furious for now, as he looked at his captain with one eye and knew that Arthur was reaching out to lay a hand on his wrist. He did not, however, see the other knights' aching gaze. He only wondered somewhere in his muddled mind if they would touch any of the others, if they would fight them and whether or not it was his own fault that they had beat him.

"It's not your fault," Arthur murmured.

"It's not yours either," Lancelot replied.

They finally stopped, and Lancelot could feel their shadows draw away, the circle dispersing. Yet before he could do anything else, Cedric grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and began to drag him away, in the same path Galahad had taken. He cracked open his eye as the ground noisily protested his limp body that did not bother to struggle. Arthur's pleading eyes were almost distressed enough to make Lancelot smile strangely, though he knew his own fate. He gazed steadily at his captain as Cedric pulled him away, barely noticing the equally distraught expressions of Tristan, Bors, Dagonet, and Gawain, the knights nearest Arthur. It was almost as if Lancelot had resigned himself to death, accepting it with a peaceful frame of mind, and Arthur wanted to scream at him to fight.

Lancelot's attention was diverted from Arthur's gaze when the other Saxon passed him by with Galahad, dragging in the same manner that Cedric was. The young knight was unconscious, since Lancelot refused to believe he was dead, and the elder Sarmatian could see the remnants of tears on Galahad's face. His eye glimmered as he noticed the trail of blood Galahad was leaving behind in the dirt. The younger knight's clothes were ripped and tattered, his face bruised, and Lancelot's tranquil resignation was suddenly shattered when he realized what atrocity had befallen his friend. Gawain's bittersweet cry reverberated in his mind, Galahad's name tearing the night sky and sounding distant. Lancelot could hear the sound of the unconscious knight's body hitting the ground completely, a single thump, as the Saxon left him before Gawain's shattered eyes. He didn't need to see that Saxon to know the beast was grinning in triumph as his comrades welcomed him with mirth.

"Galahad," Gawain wailed, scraping toward the body on his knees and throwing himself at his beloved friend. "Galahad," he sobbed in defeat, shaking. Arthur looked in terror to Lancelot, and Galahad's boots were the last thing Lancelot saw before being pulled into darkness.

Though he struggled to see what was taking place behind him, he failed in his attempt, and could only writhe. It was too dark, and the ground was harder than it had ever been before. He worried for Arthur and the other knights, though he had a dark sense that he should be more worried for himself now. Cedric chuckled behind him, and the knight's fear mounted, though he would never jeopardize his pride to admit it. The Saxon gave a shout of victory toward the camp site, and he was answered with a chorus of mirth from his men, spears pounding into the dirt that Lancelot could hear all too well.

And the next thing he knew, Cedric seized him, and pain exploded. He could not keep from crying out, as the Saxon cackled, and he knew that laugh would echo in his mind forevermore. An agonizing fire burned him, and he regretted that it was not enough for him to pass out. His fingers curled into the earth, his fists squeezing the dirt in a vain attempt to ease his suffering, but the earth was cruel. It only offered it's rough surface to his face, and in his subconscious, he could hear the rhythmic scraping of his body in the dust. The pain subsided to only a mild ache, but the humiliation had already begun to strangle him. Here he was, Sir Lancelot of Arthur's Round Table, defeated by a Saxon in the worst possible way. How could he ever look anyone in the face again? How could he live with himself, as Cedric suffocated him, on him and in him and conquering? How could he tell Arthur? Lancelot lay quiet at last, not bothering to cry out and give Cedric the satisfaction or Arthur the heartache. He only squeezed the earth, asking for mercy and receiving none, his glazed his eyes staring out into the darkness. And when finally Cedric left him, he remained motionless, hoping with what was left of his soul that his body would die as well. His tears pierced the dirt, and only then did the earth understand.