âOn purposeâ. Somehow itâs more damning than intent, that the lowest miseries of his life werenât even on purpose. Just a string of accidents send swinging, crashing into the wall. Arthur wants to choke, to starve, to bleed. Thereâs nothing to cut but Lancelotâs throat, and the idea of giving him the satisfaction is even more sickening right now than killing him.Â
(Is that a lie, too, or are you finally admitting youâre that selfish? Do you even know, King?)
A smothered sound comes from his mouth like the grinding of teeth. Eyes dart wildly back and forth as he tries to pull his blade away, but this is the cost of a physical body no matter the elevation from the human form it contains. His entire body is shaking like a thunderstorm. Finally so close then all he can say is-
âHow dare you- once I can forgive! You bastard! You traitorous dog- worse treachery than any! Not a single deed outweighs this slight, and you wonât even listen, you damn fool!â The rage refuses to dissipate, instead building and building upon his face, lip curling further into a snarl. Scales that shimmer like an oilslick form underneath his gauntlets- but itâs obvious, because he takes one glove by the leather and pulls it off, hanging from his mouth in rage before he throws it onto the ground.
If he was a Master, a King, this wouldnât happen. If he was a King, a Master, heâd be a canary in a coalmine, one more time. His hand is all but radiant, yet the things on his fingers are more tools than even body parts with the lethality they hold.
âHate?! I hated your thoughts themselves! I hated you because my most loyal knight betrayed me, and not until the very moment after that betrayal would I believe it!â Arthur would take the moment to breathe, but he can barely feel his limbs. Breath escapes him and is taken in monumental effort yet the words spill without the hope of holding them back. Itâs as if speaking is as essential as oxygen itself. âYou ask for a privilege unearned! How dare you. I never let them take your seat- do you need to find what I will not yield to be satisfied? Do you need the thing I will not give you named? Were our nights in the same tent, under the same stars, not enough? Will you ask for the very memory itself?!â
The left knee practically buckles under his shaking body. Everything is twitching and shaking.
âYour death is not yours to ask for, Lancelot du Lac.â The mounting rage is a new look. His boot slams forward, aiming for one of Lancelotâs legs as he shifts down to take a knee. Ineffective to defend oneself, butâŚ
(âIf he can kill me, itâd be a good way to go.â)
âŚthat isnât an issue, is it?Â
âEven if you renounce your name, Iâd never let you die.â Thereâsan unnerving humanity in the perfect kingâs eyes. A bare hand grips the base of Caliburnâs blade, toying at seeing if Lancelot jerked his hand away from a blood oath with the disgusting king he turned out to be. To look at him- Lancelot will get that. Those human eyelids refuse to blink, the trained, frantic desperation of someone who wakes up with a sweet dream still on the lashes and tries against all natural order to keep it there, just a bit longer.
âI hate that you turned on me like everyone else. Even in the face of it all, at least Lancelot didnât expect anything of me I couldnât provide⌠what a fucking joke that turned out to be. You had the highest expectations of them all.â At this rate, the gnashing of his teeth will chip a tooth. If he was allowed to, he might pace from the stress, but instead a low, threatening hiss escapes his throat, almost fluttering in pitch. Caliburn finally stops trying to pull away- instead, even pushing just a half-inch further.
âCongratulations. Youâve discovered that everyone is right- Iâm a selfish and human king. Youâre my knight, Lancelot du Lac, and Iâll cut off your hands before letting even you, who would be welcome to my kingdom, take my most valued knight from my side.â The blade twists sideways, as if trying to dig into the palm. It shakes with his hands. He can almost feel the bone scrape against metal. Maybe he can, if he cuts deeper. Maybe if he cuts Lancelot open he can taste that sweet taste he forgot for so long- sweet morning dew on just-mushy-apricots as the sun kisses the cheek of the one you find beautiful, and for the first time see them in the newest morning light. Thereâs almost mania in his mouth, stuck open like a broken record.
âIâd give you any weapon, any woman, any wealth and legend. Land and lordship could be yourâs. I would give you that damn cup and Excalibur and the Round Table itself if you asked, you ruinous dog. Bite all you want, but this time, I wonât allow someone to put you down âtil you rot. Serves you right for taking the life from me.â Hold on. So far, this has been relatively straight forward, but Lancelot didnât kill Arthur, factually. Hardly even metaphorically, though itâs more workable. But the answer comes quickly enough, no matter how much itâs spat out like a mouthful of vinegar.
âI hate that you abandoned me, you damn fool.â
the rage terrifies him and so lancelot wallows in it, forcing himself to sit at the center of pain and anger and hatred as a desperate act of self-immolation. even as a ghost, the way he is now, he just canât die. he canât let peopleâs hands be free of him. this is punishment. flay yourself and sit, ribcage cracked and spread open for vultures to eat his heart, never worth a thing.
he [doesnt / does] want the king to be angry at him. anger like this makes him want to run. the familiar taste of [ ______ ] (that thing he hated more than anything else). blame him, then, as in self-flagellation lancelot sets himself to take any fall he possibly can. there is no glory left, and then perhaps he can disappear. âthen what good does it do you?â his death can be arthurâs, fine. why keep something that does nothing.
the boot to his leg makes him buckle and he braces himself against, impulsively and because it is all thatâs in his hand, caliburn. the sword slices deeper.
the only good thing is that servants, even cut like this, take a while to die. the sword hasnât pulled free and let his blood spill loose. he can watch arthur and take that with him, the heat of a funeral pyre. lancelotâs eyes donât waver. âif i am your knight, then why wonât you look at me? at your side,â he scoffs, âand if i walk behind you you act as if you canât even see me. if i walked at your side you would die like all else.â he cannot, can never.
âwhat the hell do you mean, abandoned you? i left, because that or people die. and still they did. everything burns because i wanted to choose what a knight would. the one time i choose what a knight wouldnât, you live.â as surprising as that was. he thoughtâ no, never mind. of course he turned on arthur and killed him, even if he doesnât understand (should someone ask him) what arthur meant.
of course he did, because thatâs what happens. âthatâs the answer, isnât it?! i cannot touch anything but a sword!â itâs not a knight, thatâs a mercenary. but at least it is still arthurâs sword he clings to. he leans forward in his yelling, not caring how much it cuts. a servant canât die that quickly unless the core is broken, and blood loss takes a while. still, something is sliced and blood tinged with the gold of a dying servant spills, dyeing his armour.
itâs fine if itâs arthur. if arthur kills him and lancelot forgets, like his king, to die. at least he can keep this, at least if it is him dying it is not those he touches. the scale still gets what payment it demands.
hypocrite. his dear king, a hypocrite. but itâs fine, because heâs human. just let lancelot make sense of it, know where the hate comes from so he can dig his hands in and rip it deeper.