It really started when Lancelot first met Arthur. Because he desperately wanted to hate the man.

Oh, how he wanted to hate him.

But he couldn't. Because, looking at Arthur, this thirteen year old commander who clearly had no idea what he was doing, Lancelot knew that they were in the same boat. Arthur didn't want to be here any more than he did; that much was clear. It didn't stop him from making disparaging comments about Arthur's lineage, though- after all, he still wanted to hate him. Because if he couldn't hate Arthur, who would he direct his anger towards?

But he couldn't help but stare. The boy- Arthur- was much large than him, and broader, too. Dark, curly hair graced his head, and he carried himself surely, even though his face portrayed his discomfort.

(Why was he even thinking about what Arthur looked like?)

Lancelot felt comforted knowing that Arthur was just as unhappy as them, even if he was their commanding officer.

And then he felt bad for thinking any ill thoughts about Arthur- Arthurshouldbehappywhyisheupsetwhywhywhy?

And then he was angry at himself for caring what he thought about Ar- that Roman.

It was three years later- he was thirteen- the next time he really dwelled on the thought. Arthur had gifted him with a set of dual swords a few weeks back, and now they were sparring. Or, more to the point, Arthur's sword was off to the side, and Arthur himself was sprawled on the ground, his neck between Lancelot's blades. Lancelot immediately pulled them away. He shouldn't be attacking Arthur.

Never Arthur.

He held out his hand, pulling Arthur up. Which was no mean feat. At 16, Arthur was much larger than Lancelot- largerbroaderstrongerwhyshouldhewantyou?- and it was all muscle.

(Not that Lancelot was weak- he'd proven himself the last time Bors tried to mess with him.)

But still.

He wondered why he even cared, but brushed it off as them being friends. After all, they were friends- whyshouldhebefriendswithyou- and friends cared about each other. Even if their relationship- don'tthinkaboutitlikethat- had started with Lancelot hating him -butnotreallyyoualwayscared- it was natural that he cared now.

They were just friends.

The next time it happened was a bad time for everyone. Percival had died.

Most everyone was dead now. They had Mordred, Bors, Dagonet, himself, GawainandGalahad (because those two weren't even separated in his mind) and Tristan. And Arthur.

Lancelot was angry. Percival had been fifteen- Lancelot himself was sixteen- and far too young to die. So he told Arthur such.

(Only, much more accusatory. And with more anger and gusto and general arse-ness.)

And Arthur just stood there and took it. He let Lancelot rage, and rant, and scream at him. When Lancelot was done, he just sort of looked hurt- youfoolyouhurthimyouhurtArthurhowcouldyouwhy- and a little bit sad. He told Lancelot- in his "take charge" voice, which made everyone listen- that it would be overlooked this time, but if Lancelot disrespected him like that again he'd take the lash to him.

Granted, Lancelot was no stranger to the lash- he was angry, and anger made him loud mouthed and brash. But Arthur didn't say it like the other men in charge. (But Arthur was never like the other men in charge, was he?) The other men always wanted to hurt Lancelot. They wanted to teach the loud mouthed, arrogant pagan a lesson.

Arthur just looked sad.

So Lancelot vowed not to disrespect him again- don'tmakeArthursad.

But he never was good at keeping his promises.

And when they went on another mission and Galahad got hurt- Galahad, who was barely thirteen- Lancelot could not keep his mouth shut. (Then again, when could he?)

He screamed. And raged. And screamed some more. Bors and Dagonet and Gawain- who had left Galahad's side to stop him- tried to stop him. (Mordred didn't. But Mordred never did like him. Tristan didn't either, but Lancelot suspected that had less to do with him and more to do with the fact that he was pretty sure he'd heard a totally of eight words come out of the man's mouth ever.)

But he was angry. Far too angry to be calmed. So Gawain went back to Galahad's side and Bors and Dagonet went back to where Mordred and Tristan were.

When he finally stopped raging at Arthur- he remembered Arthur's words. And then he looked at Arthur's face- Arthur, who looked so sad- and knew he remembered them too.

(Mordred offered to bring the lash himself. Arthur, in a uncharacteristic fit of anger, threatened to lash anyone that sought to bring harm to any of his knights.)

They tied Lancelot to the wooden stake in the middle of the training square. (It was put there for this, and covered in dried blood. Lancelot was pretty sure half of it was his.) He peeled his shirt off and kneeled, letting them bind his wrists above his head, facing the dirt. He didn't want to see Arthur's face -stupidstupidstupidyoupromisedhowcouldyoudothistohim- knowing there would be nothing but hurt there.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Twenty-five.

He cried out at twenty-five (well, actually, he broken down at twenty-five…he started a muffled crying out at fifteen)- notweaknotweakdoingitforhim- and the lashes stopped. (It almost made him wish he'd cried out sooner, to spare them both the agony.)

Arthur didn't even look at him, just handed the lash off to Jols and motioned to Bors and Dagonet to take care of him. They took him to the infirmary. (He was laid next to Galahad, who was awake. Galahad was not happy with him when he realized what had happened. But then again, Galahad never liked being defended- which is how he ended up in an infirmary bed.)

He apologized to Arthur -stupidiotwhywouldyoudothiswhycan'tyoujustkeepyourmouthshut- but refused to meet his eyes. He didn't want to know how much that had hurt him- for clearly it had.

And the fact that he caused Arthur pain hurt more than his back ever could.

He realized it after Mordred died and, while he himself felt nothing, he wished Mordred were still here-even if the idiot boy would try and provoke him into getting himself into trouble- if only to take that solemn, troubled look off Arthur's face.

And when Arthur came to him, confided in him that he thought Lancelot might be right, that maybe he was a terrible commander who only got his soldiers killed -andreallywhywhywhywouldyousaythattohimidiotstupidmoron- Lancelot immediately responded that Arthur was the best man he knew.

Actually, he spent quite a while convincing Arthur of it.

And when Arthur left him room he realized the truth- whydidithavetobetrueitwasbadhe'dburninArthur'shellforthiswhywhywhybutitmadesense.

He loved Arthur.

His love for Arthur didn't come up again until Guinevere.

Because Arthur loved Guinevere. And Guinevere loved Arthur- ofcoursewhenArthurfinallyshowsloveitstoawomanwhatdidyouexpect?- and Lancelot knew they would be together.

He'd spent every year since he was ten trying to get Arthur to love someone other than his god, and when he finally succeeds, Arthur's love is granted to another- whatdidyouexpectareyoureallythatstupid?

So he went to see Arthur before the battle- the battle he knew would be his last.

He told Arthur the truth.

And when Arthur asked what he was supposed to do, he told Arthur more truths. He told Arthur to forget this night, to focus only on the battle and Guinevere.

And the he left.

When the battle came, and he saw Guinevere and Cynric locked in battle, with her about to die, he knew there was something he could do. And while it might not make up for everything, it was something he desperately wanted to do for Arthur.

Cynric shot him.

But that just wasn't fair. Besides, if Cynric survived, he might still kill Guinevere.

So Cynric died too.

"It was my life to take! Not this! Never this!" But even as Arthur screamed he understood.

One last sacrifice.

One last thing that needed to be done.

A/N: I have a habit of writing oneshots whenever I'm in a mood. They usually end up sad. Please review?