#contumelae

Arthur's hands are like ice under his lips, all skin stretched over bone, knuckles like mountains against the gentle taper of his fingers. He holds them lightly, loose enough that he could pull them away if he chose--this is not something he wishes to force upon his king, not when their relationship seems so tender to the touch in the first place.

But it's a balm to his heart, to touch skin to skin, to place his mouth against the hand that curled around Excalibur and claimed it with virtue, long before he himself held it and shied from his responsibilities.

The sky is a mass of steel-gray clouds, bunched up in angry groups and sullenly drizzling a steady beat of rain. It does little to cool the obscenely hot day, instead thickening the air with humidity, the very first few drops causing the pavement to hiss and sizzle in defiance. It's the kind of turbulent day that most people would spend inside, comforted by cold showers and air conditioners and roofs to keep them dry.

But Bedivere is out, gait slow and measured to keep his position directly to the left and just a little behind his king, silver arm holding an umbrella over Arthur's golden head. Arthur strides forward with a panther-like gait, heels of his shoes clicking firmly against the sidewalk, short legs infinitely slower than Bedivere's normally fast-paced walk.

"Pardon, my liege," he says, obsequious as they reach a curb. The endless rain has puddled in the gutters, leaving a pool of stagnant, gray-brown water and garbage that has yet to make its way to the sewers. He steps down onto the edge of it and then holds out his left arm to his liege, still attentively covering him with the umbrella. "Let me help you down. You needn't sully yourself here."

It's then that he hears the first furtive yip coming from the nearby alley, near-silent enough at first that he thinks it's a mistake--but it comes again, and then in quick successions, the plaintive cry of a small animal.

meme sunday asks.

he looks up. her words possess a certain sharpness to them, as though one wrong glance away could slit the back of his throat ajar, blood weeping from the wound thus staining her floor a dirty, unnecessary red. he keeps his eyes upon her, though it seems to burn to do so, to look upon her form and figure, as she waits for his reply, no doubt. but he is yet to focus fully, yet to summon what he believes would make her pleased to hear. not that he seeks her gratitude or warmth, he knows from the cold expression she harbours that there ceases to be any of the sort. though he serves as her knight evermore, that he does so willingly at least. “ but you shall always keep with you some fraction of things, i suppose. “ he speaks out of turn; assuming she to know entirely of what he means. riddles upon riddles for his king. though ,she isn’t just that. no ‘ king ‘ is merely the title of which it is famed, the status nor the image perhaps of what being a king may mean. his king, her radiance still glowing before him, is a dream & not just a figure for which he must dip his head before.

finally, he does chance a turn. swift heel seeing him turn his back upon the form of his keeper, to that which he remains indebted to, as if tied to her for as long as the pair of them still draw breath. though here, just hollows of the beings they once were, is it still a crime for him to look away and face the door? “ this world cannot change us both, not as much as you do claim. “ alas, he does not understand. he fails to see, fails to know, for his own selfish pity clouds the mind far greater than any blind love, any selfless desire to be a better man for the sake of the king or the people. he is cruelly focused, only upon himself it seems, for his mind wanders to how he has changed, how he deserved a fate worse than the one dealt unto him, where he may imagine he is looking his king in the eye when he glances over her darker form. how he selfishly wishes he was looking instead into hell itself, for some comfort at least could surely come from the fleeting absence of life he may feel!

Lancelot.

Ah–so this is what it feels like.

He’s almost happy like this, pain searing through his nerves, legs going numb beneath him, Arthur’s Excalibur hilt-deep in his chest–and he can feel where it’s exited behind him, just to the left of his spine, blade scraping against bone as his king’s grip shifts.

It feels like fate, like this is what should’ve happened all along. This is penance, isn’t it? To be skewered on the blade he failed to throw away so long ago? He’s deserved this from the moment those doubting thoughts crossed his mind all those centuries ago, from the moment he chose his own selfish desires over the orders of his king.

“I was scared that you would die” is a wanting excuse. It is the piteous whine of a child who is too scared to be left alone. It is the cry of a knight who cannot imagine a life without his king and yet is too useless and incapable to keep him alive.

His legs give out first and he slumps to his knees, Arthur’s blade sliding out of him and awakening new agonies as he changes position, as gravity spills viscera to the floor. He’s weak, now, nearly too weak to move–but he lifts his head and stares at his king with ashen face and trusting eyes.

He lifts his silver arm one last time, fingers reaching to try and touch soft skin, to stroke golden hair, to try and reach something tangible as his vision darkens. Blood bubbles to his lips as he opens his mouth to speak, pink foam and black drool running down his chin.

He’s always considered looking after Arthur to be the most important part of his job–after all he is, or rather… he was the king’s caretaker: and what good is a caretaker who does not look after their liege?

His cloak is too big on Arthur, as it always has been and as it always will be, but Bedivere has done this enough times that he knows how to fold up and pin the hem of the cloak so it does not drag and trip his king, how to clasp it at his liege’s breast and adjust the folds so it hangs just so: crisply, and properly, as befits a liege so noble.

Arthur cuts a different figure in it than he did before, dressed as darkly as he is. The white stands out against him, washing him out, making him look pale and ill. It distresses Bedivere, reminds him of the last time he wrapped his liege up in his cloak like this–when he held his king’s limp body in his arms, cloak pressed to wound and blood spreading out over the fabric.