For All You've Given Me
By Alone Dreaming
Author's Note: The requested sequel to 'Sacrifice.' THIS STORY CANNOT STAND ALONE! I really do not believe it can because you need to understand what happened in the first story to understand what is occurring in this story. So, if you wish to read this, I advise you read 'Sacrifice' first. Thanks.
This story contains: no slash, no pairings, character death, AU nature and emotional anguish.
It was a well-known fact that Lancelot, despite his many oddities, did not kill for pleasure. He had to admit, that on several occasions, he had gotten caught up in the killing and it had appeared as though he was killing for the fun of it. But killing was not something he enjoyed. After all, it was Tristan's job to do that and Lancelot was more than willing to allow Tristan to enjoy his job. Lancelot had no interest in enjoying what the Romans were forcing him to do. So, this time, it made sense that he when he was going to kill, he was going to enjoy it. He wasn't doing it for the Romans. He was doing it for a totally different reason.
He was brought out of his reverie when the bundle he was holding slipped a bit and nearly fell from the horse. He grasped it more tightly to him, wrapping his arm around its waist and allowing it to rest against him. 'It's just like any other time,' Lancelot tried to convince himself. 'Just like every other time before that we've ridden like this...' But it was impossible for him to believe those thoughts for this wasn't like those other times.
Arthur was dead in his arms. He wasn't badly injured or ill or exhausted beyond coherent thought. He was gone from the living. No breath came from the blue lips, and under the white skin there was no beating of a heart. The two arrow wounds that had ended the commander's life no longer bled and the pained expression that had marred his features had faded into a look of peace.
Lancelot couldn't stand looking at him dead.
But it was the idea of him being dead that currently drove the Samartian knight forward, towards the Wall. There was someone waiting there whom he wished to see. That man was going to understand exactly what emotions Lancelot was feeling and experience more pain than anyone could imagine. He was going to endure ten hundred times as much pain as Arthur had suffered. And Lancelot was going to enjoy every minute of it.
Arthur's head lolled against his shoulder and Lancelot shifted a bit so he could rest his chin on the cold head. How many times had he carried his friend back to camp this way? How many times had he begged Arthur to live and had watched Arthur recover? Why was it this time Arthur had died? He had been injured just as badly and had made it through so many times before...
"Focus on me, Arthur, my friend, my brother," Lancelot begged, holding Arthur's head steady in his lap and gazing into the pain filled blue eyes. "It's alright... I promise it will be alright." Lancelot, always composed, always strong, didn't care that the knights surrounding him were hearing his voice crack and seeing his hands shake.
A weak smile graced Arthur's face for a brief moment before a gasp cut him off and he passed out. Lancelot looked up to see Gawain putting pressure on the gash that marred Arthur's leg.
"It's bad," Gawain murmured, his face etched with worry. "But if we can get this bleeding to stop he should be-"
"-alright?" the same voice finished but in the present time. Disoriented, Lancelot focused on Gawain slowly, not sure what his friend had asked. Gawain was riding next to him, his face different this time. Now, the worry had been replaced with a large amount of grief.
"I'm sorry," Lancelot apologized, half-hearted. He really didn't care to hear what Gawain had to say. "What was that?"
Gawain sighed. "Are you alright? You look very weary, Lancelot..."
Lancelot looked away, out over the snowy hills and prayed for it all to be a dream. But the biting cold continued to remind him that this wasn't a dream and soon he had a job to take care of. "I'm well as to be expected."
Gawain opened his mouth as though he was going to continue the conversation but seeing Lancelot's disinterest, he decided against it. Lancelot listened to Gawain's horse falling back and allowed himself to look forward once again. In the distance, he saw the snaking wall that he had come to call home.
'It will not ever be home again.' He thought, as he continued towards it. 'Home is a place where you are loved, and respected. I have lost the person who made it home.' Arthur slipped a bit and Lancelot immediately pulled him back. He had let his friend fall in battle and he would not let him fall again. No, never again would he allow Arthur to fall be it from a horse, from a wound or from a sickness. It was up to Arthur's God to take care of it now.
And suddenly, tears were in his eyes and his throat was tight. The cold stung at his face and called for him to let the tears spill, and to allow the grief to be unleashed. He stiffened against the emotions, trying not to let them get the better of him. 'I must complete my mission,' he reminded himself, chewing his lip in a fashion that did not suit him. 'I can grieve later.'
Despite his best efforts, a lone tear trickled down his cheek, warm at first and then cold by the time it reached his chin. He could not wipe it away himself, completely occupied with keeping the horse on track and Arthur in his arms. He was desperate to get rid of it for the sign of weakness would make it easier for him to break in the future and he had no time for it.
As though to fulfill his wish, something fluttered by him with a flash of dark black hair and a whirl of feathers and the tear had disappeared from his chin as had the wet trail it had left behind. Lancelot was so stunned he nearly fell off his horse. He wavered and shook, even though he felt strangely warm and comforted. Something had come to his rescue, and that something, he was sure, wasn't from this world.
He was still swaying a bit when Dagonet came up next to him and said firmly, "Hand him to me Lancelot and I will carry him the rest of the way. You have used up your strength and now, it is time for you to rest."
Lancelot still felt very dazed. "I can carry him," he argued, his voice distant.
Dagonet did not believe him and before Lancelot could do anything further, the large, quiet knight had stopped both their horses and removed Arthur from Lancelot's arms. Lancelot tried to stop him after Arthur was already settled on Dagonet's horse but between the haze that covered him and the memory of Arthur's wish for Dagonet to be the new commander, he found he couldn't make himself fight. He was suddenly so tired.
The horses started moving once more and Dagonet had ridden ahead. Lancelot sat, feeling less stunned, but strangely drained. He wanted desperately to ride to the wall, go to bed and wake up in the morning to find this all a dream. 'Can't do that,' he thought, running a hand over his face. 'You've got something to do first.' And that thought was what kept him going as they approached the wall and road through the gates.
Immediately, they were accosted by the villagers and those who had been a part of the caravan. No one seemed to notice immediately that Arthur was not there and Dagonet did not make a point of it. It was only when the Bishop arrived that there was anyone took notice that there was one less knight riding.
Lancelot went rigid at the sight of Germanius and his hand went for one of his swords. He barely heard the words Germanius spoke as he slowly dismounted and headed towards the bishop.
"What has happened to Artorius?" Germanius demanded, and over his shoulder called. "Someone fetch a healer!"
"It's too late for that, sir," Galahad hissed, his face red from cold, tears and anger. "He's dead..."
The Bishop had the grace to appear stunned by this and was about to reply when Lancelot pounced on him. Lancelot cared very little if he died now. He was exacting the revenge he had been planning since Arthur drew his last breath. Germanius would suffer terribly for Lancelot knew how to kill people slowly. It had been people like Germanius that had made sure he had plenty of practice.
"Lancelot! What the hell are you thinking!" Bors demanded, as he and Gawain rushed forward to control Lancelot.
Lancelot had his hand wrapped up in the folds of Germanius's robes, his eyes ablaze and his sword pressed dangerously against the man's throat. He watched the fear grow in the 'holy man's' eyes and soaked it up happily. Good, he could suffer emotionally and physically.
"You killed him," Lancelot whispered, his tone deadly. "You sent him on a mission that no one could fulfill without loss of life knowing that he would do everything in his power to keep a death from occurring. You knew how he felt about asking us to do one more task and you allowed him to feel that guilt. You allowed US to think that he wasn't doing everything in his power to get our papers. And for all of that and your posing as a holy man, you deserve to die..."
He was torn away from the Bishop and held back by Bors. There was no question who was stronger but Lancelot fought to get away anyway. He wasn't going to be kept from doing this. It was what he was going to do for Arthur. He could see no other way to avenge his friend.
"You are being a fool," Gawain said, having come between the now gasping Bishop and Lancelot. "Arthur gave his life to save you! Don't you dare throw his sacrifice away in such a foolish manner!"
He couldn't have stopped Lancelot better even if he had hit him with a bag of stones. Immediately, Lancelot stopped his struggles and dropped his sword. His eyes went wide briefly and then narrowed to slits. He watched through those slits as several guards surrounded the Bishop and listened to the Bishop say that he was not hurt and that clearly he, Lancelot, was possessed by some evil demon.
Bors was tentatively letting go of him now and Lancelot made no move to go after Germanius. As angry as he was to admit it, Gawain was right. There was no way he could bring more shame to Arthur's memory than by killing Germanius. Arthur had died to save him and the other knights and Arthur would never want him to kill Germanius. It was against what Arthur believed.
And suddenly, it was against what Lancelot believed as well. "Go home. Live a life for me." Arthur had said to him. It had been his friend's last request. "Live a life for me." How could he possibly be living a life for Arthur if he did not uphold Arthur's morals? Suddenly, he was terribly ashamed of himself for even thinking to kill Germanius. All the anger that had been in him melted away and he was left feeling empty. He was only left with his grief now.
Bending down, he picked up his sword and pushed through the crowd, ignoring the calls after him and only vaguely hearing Germanius's words about their papers and a funeral. The only thing he cared about now was leaving as soon as possible.
They had a funeral the very next day, in the Christian ways. Lancelot knew that the ceremony would be long and drawn out, spoken in a language he did not understand and by a person he could not bear to look at. So, he did not attend. He stayed up in Arthur's room instead, looking around it and wondering what it would be like without his friend.
Everything in the room radiated Arthur. It still smelled of him and Lancelot silently treasured the smell as he settled in Arthur's chair behind his friend's desk. The room was neat, the bed made and all of the different items carefully arranged. From where he sat, Lancelot could see all the material things Arthur treasured most. They were mainly items that he had been given by his knights or close friends. Lancelot could even see the flower that one of Bors's daughters had given to Arthur when he had been recovering from a severe illness.
On the desk, there were a few neatly stacked pieces of parchment, a bottle of ink and a quill to write with. The only thing that did not normally sit on the desk at all times was a small book, tightly bound and clearly expensive. There was nothing on its cover, which was made of brown leather, and Lancelot could not recall seeing it. Reaching forward and grasping it, he let it open to the middle and immediately recognized Arthur's tiny, neat writing.
He was not well-versed in the written languages that were not his own but had tried to learn them for Arthur's sake. Now, he wished he had studied harder. He could read it, but it took time and not all the words made sense to him. Leaning back in the chair, he ran his finger under the letters and slowly read.
'...and remember little. I suppose illness does that to you. The only thing I can clearly remember is being well-cared for and my only wish being that I would be well again. While I've been ill, Dagonet has been caring for the knights. He has made sure that they are safe and that they do not fall behind in their duties. I am so grateful for his help and very glad that I have someone to trust with their well-being. Were anything to happen to me, if I could not recover from something, I would name him commander...'
It was obvious that this was the book Arthur wrote his thoughts in. Lancelot stopped reading and put a hand to his eyes. The tears were threatening to come and he did not wish for them. Flipping the pages to search for a happier subject, he felt something wet drop onto his shirt.
'Today was my birthday. It was celebrated in a mixture of Roman tradition, English tradition and Samartian tradition. I must admit, it's been one of the best I've ever had. There was lovely singing, courtesy of Bors's lover, and several dances of the Samartian land. I've never seen my knights as happy as they were this night. It was the closest to home they've ever been. Even Tristan was not as stoic as usual...'
The pages were ruffled once more and the reading was continued.
'God-' Lancelot noticed that there were water marks that looked suspiciously like tears on this page. 'God, please. Be it in your plan, please spare Lancelot. I have never seen someone as ill as he is now. He suffers greatly, so much so that I can barely stand it. Please, please, Lord, do not let him die. I feel so selfish for asking it for I know it would be better for him if he did pass on. It would take him from the pain and let him rest in peace. He would be free from the bonds that he hates so much.
'I know that he despises it here, Lord. He hates the Romans for enslaving him, forcing him into a life of killing and death. He would be happy to escape it in some way, to be free at last. I know that it would be best for him if he passed on. He would avoid the long recovery ahead of him and the years of further servitude. But, Lord, I do not know what I would do without him. I cannot live without my brother.'
And as he read the last line and comprehended it, Lancelot set the book down and wept.
When Tristan entered the room, Lancelot was sitting on Arthur's bed, a pillow on his lap and a book resting upon the pillow. He was staring at the book and at first, Tristan thought he was reading it but soon it became clear that Lancelot was not focusing on the book at all. His eyes were not moving and held a glazed look of someone deep in thought. Not wanting to startle the man, especially after how Lancelot had been acting last time Tristan had seen him, the hunter spoke to him first.
"You missed the funeral..."
He expected Lancelot react to the words in a startled matter but was surprised. Lancelot did not even twitch. The only thing that happened was that his eyes came into focus and filled with grief. Tristan stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for Lancelot to respond in some fashion. Soon though, it seemed apparent that Lancelot was not going to say anything and he opened his mouth to speak again.
"He died thinking we hated him," Lancelot whispered, causing Tristan to close his mouth. "He died thinking he had failed us."
Tristan knew better than to argue and could not think up an appropriate answer otherwise. So, he spoke of something totally unrelated. "It was a long funeral and none of us understood a bit of it. Germanius said it all in Latin and performed rituals I have never heard of. Everyone came though and no one had dry eyes by the end of it."
Lancelot didn't seem to hear him. "He was so uncertain about so many things," the curly haired knight continued. "He feared for our lives every second of the day. His heart broke every time a knight died. And, he felt that he had betrayed us by promising us freedom and then forcing us on another journey." Then, he murmured something in such a soft voice that Tristan barely heard him. "He died thinking I no longer loved him."
Tristan watched as Lancelot's shoulders began to shake and stood by silently as he cried. There was nothing that he could say that would comfort Lancelot now. Nor would Lancelot stand for anything that might excuse the guilt he was feeling. So, Tristan stood wordlessly and waited for Lancelot to calm down. It was the only thing he knew how to do and for a moment, he wished Arthur was here. Arthur always knew how to handle Lancelot. 'But Lancelot would not be this way if it wasn't for Arthur,' he thought, shaking his head at the irony.
It was then that he first noticed the little piles of Arthur's personal belongings lying across the room. Most of them were tiny piles, consisting of two or three objects. All of them contained a small slip of paper that had a word scribbled upon it in Latin. Tristan did not read Latin, having not cared to learn it when it had been offered to him. He had put his energies into other things instead and until now, he had not regretted his illiteracy.
Stepping forward, he squatted next to a pile and picked up the paper. Yes, it was definitely Latin and none of the characters made sense to him. He did have enough sense to realize that it was only one word, though, and that it was different from the words written on the other papers across the room. For a moment, he wondered if the word applied to the items in front of them and studied each of the objects in turn. There was a small carving of a horse, one that Galahad had given Arthur for his birthday years before, a small, fine bowl from Rome and a small dagger made for him by a knight that had passed years before. Unable to see any connection between the items, Tristan sat back on his heels and tried to find another reason for the paper.
"Your pile is two past the one you are at," Lancelot croaked, his voice sounding very hoarse from tears. "That one belongs to Galahad."
"My pile?" Tristan questioned, setting the paper down and moving to the pile that Lancelot had indicated.
"Arthur wrote out whom he wanted to receive his possessions," Lancelot explained, a slightly unsteadiness about the words. He didn't speak again and Tristan didn't press the matter. He was pleased enough that Lancelot had spoken at all.
His pile contained three items. He looked at the paper on the pile and realized that each of the papers were names. Studying the writing, he noted that it wasn't Arthur's neat scrawl but Lancelot's wobbling writing. Silently, he slipped the paper into his shirt. The knowledge of what his name looked like in the language of his fallen commander was just as much of a gift as the objects before him.
The first thing he touched was a quill he had given Arthur two years ago. It was made from his hawk's feather and he had been positive that Arthur had already used it. But there it was, just as beautiful as the day he had handed it to his friend, and waiting for him to take it. He gently stroked it, a smile curling on his lips. 'Are you trying to say something to me, Arthur?' he thought. 'Mayhaps I should take up the quill and put down the sword?'
The next thing was a necklace of Samartian make. Tristan was a person who was rarely shocked by anything. The necklace, however, came very close to startling him. It wasn't anything special to the average person but to him, it meant the world. The beautiful carvings of horses and hawks were something his village was renowned for. His father livelihood had been making and selling necklaces such as these. Arthur had once said to him, 'Though it may not seem that way, I make it a point of understanding your past. It's the only way I can understand who you are today.' And he had been right. How else would he have known to leave such a thing to Tristan? The average person would leave it to any of the knights.
The last item was a small, pearly stone. Tristan fingered it, feeling the smooth edges and approving silently of its beautiful color. He knew that Arthur had left it to him for a reason but unlike the two other things, he could not figure it out immediately. It was like Arthur to do this though. He always seemed to throw in a new question whenever someone was sure that they had figured everything out. Smiling a bit and deciding he would figure it out later, Tristan close his hand around the stone.
He carefully picked up the other items and looked over at Lancelot. His friend was actually reading now, his finger moving across the pages and his eyes shining in the dim light. Heading back to the door, Tristan paused for a moment.
"He knew that we loved him still," Tristan said solemnly, in his quiet way. "Why else would he have come back to say goodbye?"
And instead of waiting for an answer, he left the room with many thoughts on his mind.
The grave was simple, just like the others surrounding it. The only difference about it to the average person was that it was fresh, compared to the relative age of the other ones. It was marked by a sword, like many of the graves were, and it held nothing special about it. There was no reason for anyone to assume that this grave contained the commander of the soldiers that lay in the other graves.
"You wanted it that way, didn't you Arthur?" Lancelot murmured, squatting in front of the sword, his hands in the dirt. "Just a normal place to sleep with Excalibur in the ground, eh? The demon man," he had taken to calling the Bishop that, "wanted to decorate it, to remember you. He did for a bit... but... I tore it down... I knew you wouldn't want it that way. I knew you felt that you weren't any better than us... But don't worry, it's normal now..."
He had stayed up in Arthur's room until early in the morning, the day after the funeral. It was only then, with Arthur's book in hand and most of Arthur's possessions given away, that he went to his own room and fell into an exhausted sleep. By the time he had awoken, it was well into the evening, and he immediately began to pack his own room. It hadn't taken long and before he had known it, the room was bare.
It was only then that he had left in search of food. He hadn't eaten in several days and found that for the first time, he was feeling a bit hungry. It was a hard job coming up with food though. Most of the people were packing and leaving. The Romans were deserting the wall and those who had settled there were departing due to the threat of the Saxons. In the end, he had found Fulcinia feeding her numerous children and had sat in with them for some food. Bors was busy packing, Fulcinia had told him as he devoured his fair share, and so were the others. She had also hinted that they had been worried but he carefully ignored that bit, thanked her for the food and departed to see Arthur's grave.
That was when he had seen the ghastly decorations and had, with a bit of vindictive pleasure, torn them all down. He had thrown them into the lake and watched them float or sink. It had been a good feeling but had left him tired. So, he had gone back to his room once more with the plan to leave in the morning.
And so, he found himself in front of Arthur's grave once more, his horse carrying his things and Arthur's mare at his side. He was silent, unable to think of what to say, now that he had assured his dead friend that the grave was proper. He had no tears left in him to cry.
"I never hated you, Arthur," he finally said, sitting down in the dirt and sifting it through his fingers. "I was angry with you sometimes, but I always loved you. There was never a day, an hour or even a second when that changed. If I hated anything, I hated the Romans and what they put us through. Yes, us, for you were just as much a slave as we were. I hated them, I hated their rules and I hated how they used you against us. They made you do things to us that you never meant.
"One of those things was sending us on that last mission," Lancelot stared at the sky. "We were all so angry, we didn't even think about how you felt. None of us hated you, we just were so ready to leave, so ready to be free of the chain and collar around our necks that we could think of nothing else. It was just too much..." He paused, a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm so sorry for allowing you to think that I was angry.
"I'm sorry that I made you feel that you couldn't talk to me. I'm sorry I criticized your faith, your love for telling your troubles to your god. I'm sorry that I was so cold to you during the trip and so critical. I'm so, so sorry, Arthur..." His voice was barely inaudible. "I'm not sure that I can ever forgive myself."
Then he felt and saw it again. The gentle warmth spread through him and the flash of feathers and dark hair flew past him. This time he caught sight of eyes focused on him and heard a gentle giggling. A hand brushed through his hair and another touched his shoulder. It all occurred over the course of a few seconds, leaving Lancelot stunned. The eyes that had looked at him had been his own and the soft giggle sounded so familiar.
Unable to respond, he stared at Arthur's grave again and slowly stood. He didn't know what the presence had been but he knew that it had come to him because of Arthur. Maybe it was even the "angel" that Arthur had said he had seen right before he had died. His throat tight and his eyes watery once more, he stared at Excalibur and choked, "Thank you for giving me a form of comfort, Arthur, after giving me so much. You'll always be with me, I swear."
Gathering the reigns of his horses, he started back to his home, knowing that whatever the thing was that it would be with him, being his comfort until he saw Arthur again. And with that knowledge, he never glanced back.
The End
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