#harrlance

Loki had swept into the cabin with a feline grin and a fire burning in his mismatched eyes. That sham of a King threw himself into the fray this morning, he seethed, gaze as hard as flint. All around town, they say he seriously drained himself after the battle. He’s weak, Harr.

The words made him pause at his workbench. He had wanted to ask if his apprentice was certain, to make sure that it wasn’t merely the rumor mill working overtime. But Loki…he had never seen the boy so charged, the magical energy crackling in his eyes as he almost seemed to revel in the imaginary violence he would have loved to inflict upon the King of Hearts. He almost seemed to take pleasure in knowing that the enemy was down, a sickening smile on his face as he watched his teacher frown over the map of Cradle on the kitchen table.

So Harr had gathered his cloak and set out to do the impossible.

Even now, he wonders whether his plan will actually work. But there has never been any time like the present, and with this latest bloody border conflict, Harr wonders if time is already running out.

His fingers stop over the ornate handle of what he assumes are the private quarters of the Red Army’s half of the Chosen Thirteen. He swallows back his apprehension, having found no trace of the others nearby. The tick of the clock inside is what propels him forward; with the rising of the sun, he must be gone.

At the sight of familiar blond hair, just peeking over a thick, down-filled duvet, the sorcerer realizes that Lady Luck is on his side.

Lancelot must still be recovering, Harr surmises, judging from the various boxes of medicine and discarded sterile wrappings. Numerous bottles of pungent medicinal syrup line the bedside table, labeled in rushed cursive, the corks haphazardly sealed. Ash must have been trying to preserve the life of his dear King, and Harr couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the young doctor, who probably remained oblivious to his leader’s disgusting core. But upon approaching the bed, staring down, a mixture of emotions yawn at Harr from the depths of his stomach. Lancelot sleeps unaware in his bed, the large wooden frame making him look so much smaller and frailer than he had remembered. They said he was a hellion on the battlefield, powerful and commanding…yet here, he lay curled in on himself like a child. Light breaths left his lips in an erratic rhythm; had the night terrors never stopped plaguing him? But as Harr knelt onto the bed, Lancelot twisted and pulled the covers over his shoulder, the bare skin of his chest concealed. Harr might have only had one eye, but he didn’t miss the criss-crossed marks of a stray blade, their path weaving snake-like tendrils over Lancelot’s flesh. The good doctor had tried to suture and bandage them, but given the blood soaking through, it seemed they were indeed grave. And that familiar flush over the King’s cheeks. The telltale fever of exhausted magic. Harr drew his lips into a tense line. The man who sought to dominate Cradle…helpless as a lamb to the slaughter…ready for any wolf that could stow away into his room and end him. …He could. He could do it right now. There’s something deep and dark in the back of Harr’s mind as he looks down upon the sleeping King. His fingertips crackle and spark with an energy most unbecoming, tainted with a filthier edge than he would dare admit. If he truly wanted it, he could slay Lancelot here and now. Snuff the life out of Amon’s living puppet, end this blasted war or deliver a critical blow, at least. He only needs to reach down…wrap his fingers around that neck…squeeze and squeeze, like there was no tomorrow. The anticipation makes him shiver in revulsion. But he waits too long, swallows too heavy. Lancelot moans painfully, the fever wrenching him from the depths of slumber, and Harr can only watch as those long lashes flutter, and the King returns to the waking world. Lancelot looks up at him almost pitifully, the moonlight illuminating the beautiful blue of his eyes. He stays perfectly still as Harr’s breath catches in his chest, not even a word leaving those lips. His breathing is soft, even; meanwhile the wizard can almost feel how his own heart is ready to hammer out of his ribcage. The blonde makes no move to rise from his bed. He merely blinks, as if to register who exactly has spirited away into his quarters. “I should have known it would be you.” Harr jolts almost. He is surprised by how rasping and worn Lancelot’s voice is, the effects of his magical burden clearer by the second. But the eyes…the eyes frighten him the most. Beautiful as ever, like staring out over the expanse of the ocean. Lancelot had never seen the sea himself, but Harr had confessed that he didn’t need to when such rich shades could be seen in the reflection of a mirror. They had sparkled then, unsure of how to take the compliment, but still pleased regardless. It was pure, like the youthful light once burning in those eyes. Here, lying beneath him like a lifeless doll, they looked dull. Glazed and aimless, Lancelot’s vision was permeated with an unshed sadness. The pain behind them makes Harr’s gut twist uncomfortably, though he raises himself as best he can and forces down his empathy. “I suppose news travels further than I thought, if my weakness reaches your ears,” the King continues, though there is little emotion in his voice. He sounds exhausted, sick of it all. “And I don’t expect you are here to wish me good health.” Harr misses that side of his old friend. The biting sarcasm, even when Lancelot seemed oblivious to it himself. How he wanted to go back… “I wanted to try one last time. To stop you before it was too late.” Lancelot breathes out softly. His laugh is mirthless, a cold and empty one. “Even now, you try to be so soft and sweet to me. And if I were to say no?” “…” “Would you kill me, Silver?” “…If that is what it takes to save everyone.” “Ah. Would you grant me such mercy?” Mercy? “I want peace as much as anyone. I don’t want to hurt you, Lance-” “You know as well as I do. I am never going to stop.” “Lancelot…please-” “There is too much at stake. And you are just going to get in my way…I will do my duty as King, and I will make sure it is done.” The abyss is haunting in Lancelot’s eyes. Harr wants to throw up; he can feel his insides churning, his thoughts screaming to get away, but he holds fast. But even now, his voice cannot hide the horror he feels. “You can’t…you can’t do this! There are so many innocents out there, you’ll sacrifice them to please Amon? What kind of monster are you?” Lancelot snarls, lip twisted to bare his teeth, as though he were about to bite back a retort…a reason…but the words never come. His eyes fill with unbelievable sadness, enough to choke back Harr’s harsh words. “Innocent blood has already been shed. I don’t expect you to understand.” Something roils deep in Harr’s stomach, twisting hot and heavy in the cavern of his belly, and it makes his jaw clench and fists contort. Lancelot looks up briefly at him, only to widen his eyes as he saw the thinly-veiled frustrations held there. Don’t shut me out. “Then make me understand.” The blonde gasps as Harr lunges forward, hands gripping his shoulders and pinning him down. It catches the King off-guard; he would never allow such a move otherwise, the fever has left him weak and pliant. And Harr can barely hold himself together, already on the precipice of spilling over. “Don’t you shut me out again, Lance. Don’t you dare.” The look in his eyes is shocked, a kaleidoscopic mess of fire and ice…and that is before Harr leans down to kiss him. They stay frozen there for a moment or two, trapped in time like an photograph, before the blond winds his arms over the sorcerer’s broad shoulders. He feels how the fever has warmed the King’s palms, burning him with a heat that sends his own magical energy thrumming through his muscles. “I wanted you to understand me back then,” Harr growls into Lancelot’s mouth, tearing the blanket away from the King’s lithe form and covering him instead with the inky material of his cloak. “let me to return the favor.” He runs his hands up and down the heated flesh, cold fingers warmed as they press over a frantically beating heart, and he breathes in relief. He’s not the only one who is panicking out of his mind.

“Let me in, Lance. Please.” How they end up entangled together is confusing, at best. But their instincts guide them closer, hands flush over fevered skin, Lancelot grasping for oils from the nightstand and slipping his fingers within himself. Harr guides them along, words of an ancient tongue leaving his lips as he soothes the pain of Lancelot’s wounds, the pain in his heart, anything to try and win back his friend from the edge. Frantic emotions well within him, hotter and hotter, as desperation seeks to push him to the extreme. And so he slides into the King, their murmurs and groans muffled into the stained bed sheets, and proceeds to thrust. And as he unknowingly burrows his face into the crook of Lancelot’s neck, he fails to see the crystalline drops fall from those blue eyes. Tears are something that Lancelot has been taught to hold back. But the frustration, the unshed agony, it threatens to tear through his skin, rumbling deep in his throat as he longs to scream. Anguish wells just under the flesh, and he begs to have it freed. Maybe, just maybe, Harr can feel it too. But the raven-haired man only bites down harder, pounds into him, grunts into his ear with harsh words. Lancelot feels emotion churning from the sorcerer, hot and angry and yet so very passionate, and the pain is almost scorching. He cries out as the skin breaks on his throat, rakes his own fingernails down the length of Harr’s back, and simpers over the gentle tongue that tends to the bleeding wound. “Please stop, please…stop this,” Harr growls against his ear, mouth hanging agape as Lancelot squeezes around him. The muscles constrict, both of them too wound up to keep this dance up for much longer. “We don’t…have to fight like…this.” He rises up, hands pushing Lance’s thighs further apart to drive himself home. “If you need me…let me help…we can stop this together.” Lancelot thrashes wildly against the bed sheets, but garners enough strength to hook an arm around Harr’s neck, pulling him close. The moan he releases is feral, barely human in sound, but he refuses to let the sorcerer go.

His eyes are piercing. And Harr can almost feel the invisible blade puncturing his heart. “I will never stop.” Lancelot kisses him back, as if to swallow his very soul. Harr sinks down with him, hands wrapped around the pale flesh of the King’s neck, but never squeezing enough as he had once desired. Their bodies shudder and thrust out of alignment, and Lancelot is the first to unravel. Perhaps he had meant their kiss to muffle his pitiful cries of euphoria, but Harr would never know. He can only groan in return, spilling himself over their stomachs.

In that moment, they can barely speak. But Harr feels his heart plummet, empty and forlorn, as Lancelot’s warmed gaze hardens over before his very eyes. Even now, feverish and weak, his smile is cold as the winter’s frost, and he draws his palm over the angry wounds that adorn his chest. Beneath his palm, the glow of magic seals them shut. To Harr’s horror, the blond ignores the screeching pain of his own body, begging for him to stop using magic, until his chest regains its flawless - yet pallid - appearance.

There was nothing he could do to change his mind.

“I don’t fear death, Silver,” Lancelot groans, not even rising from his crumpled bed sheets as Harr begins to slink backward towards the edge of the bed. “you should end me while you have the chance.”

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Submitted by Anon.

Anon….. holy shit! This is sooo good! I love how emotion this was omggggg. The angst was beautiful and all the descriptors were right on the nose. This ship is everything. I love it so much I cryyy. Thank you for sharing with us!!!