KoRT (Knights of the
 

It is Not What It Was...


Several months following the battle of Mons Badonicus; months since Tristan had been left unable to wield his sword without pain or
trouble; months since Tristan had woken up in that infirmary, his torso, leg and arm bandaged heavily. Many thought the pathfinder dead,
but being rushed back to camp would find the Sarmatian scout with injuries that had left him bed-ridden for several long and arduous
weeks. 

And Lancelot, his dark moods bringing his caregivers to fits… The crossbow bolt that pierced his shoulder missed all vital arteries yet torn ligaments that controlled his dominant sword arm. His worst enemy now was the fever that set in… fever that rendered him unconscious to wander fields of fevered delirium…allowing his past to finally catch up.

Dagonet, the knight who had nearly died on the ice lake to save them all, tended to both now… the only one to ablely manage both men. And the discussion of late had been that of how not only he and Bors would be staying in Briton, but that the Galahad and Gawain as well. They were staying on to help Arthur build and restore the country and hopefully settle the disputes and matters of state.

Each knight had been given a certain part of the land in which to protect and they did so using their tactics and wits to ensure that each of their regions were secure and peaceful, not only within themselves but also those surrounding them. Notably, for reasons known only to Lancelot and his Commander, Arthur gave the Lake and the Pass to Lancelot to protect… and offered Dagonet his own land, but denied ownership to second Bors. It was because of that Arthur swore an oath to Dagonet that Lucan, his adopted son and rightful heir, would have a place at the Round Table when he was of age… and four more men were honored by places at the Table… Percival, Gareth, Bedivere, and Mordred…

Now Saosin, Tristan’s loyal bird, sat balanced on a branch above him, watching him with a slightly tilted head as he lay back against a tree; the same tree that his good-looking mount, Ishtar was tethered to the tree. Though I had only been a few months, he just knew that he was never going to be entirely healed of those grievous wounds the Saxon king had inflicted on him. Looking down at where his right hand lay on his thigh, he tried clenching his fist only to wince as pain shot up his arm. Dagonet had told him it had been providential that the physicians were able to save his arm at all from the damage. But his right leg was a different story. No longer was he the sprite man of his youth… Now he was a battle-hardened veteran who had the slightest limp in his step from where the thigh injury had damaged the nerves there and nearly left his leg immobilized. Luckily the Saxon had not struck a higher and deeper body part. He often complained that he grew tired more quickly and had to rest due to the pain, thus reminding him of man much older than he. Leaning forward, he feebly started the small fire one-handedly… and looked upward telling Saosin to keep a look out while he rested for a while.

They had almost grown up together… Was it fifteen years already? Fifteen years of their lives had been spent serving Rome… Battle after battle, ride after ride, Lancelot had ridden beside and behind Arthur… Ever loyal despite the altercation or the reason there of… Whatever the foundation, or the reason, for his loyalty, Lancelot found it steadfast… Of course, Lancelot knew Arthur was not a God, but a man and cursed with mortal afflictions… and bound to make mistakes… and Lancelot was the balance… He was honorable, but wilder… though as a Sarmatian, he had been bound to Rome, yet he had been a freer spirit than Arthur, the freeman of Rome… Arthur always spoke of God, and the freedom of Roman privilege… yet he and his brothers-in-arms had remained servants of Rome… and this in itself fueled his hatred of the Romans. 

But now…!! Now he lay wounded upon a bed of straw…. His blood from the wound stained the straw… It was not from protecting Romans… or Roman land… but their land… It had been a battle of HIS choosing… and he was surprised NOT to have died that day… but he figured Arthur’s God, or his pagan gods had thought him better suited to remain at Arthur’s side… That is if he can beat the fever….

That fever sweeps Lancelot to days before the wall… before Mons Badonicus…
 

The remaining Knights of the Round Table began to fill in behind Lancelot, as the Dark Knight laid his swords, one after the other, upon the table, then sat, plopping into his chair, one leg over the arm. Looking around the table, the empty spaces filled not long after any absence by younger men… Lancelot, ponders Arthur and his woman, but relegates to mention what he thought, he just looks to Arthur… “Our men not even cold in their graves, and Rome… Almighty Rome… sends us boys… How many Arthur…? How many must die before we have paid our debts? Year by Year, Roman soldiers are less and less, and our men, nay, our boys are still sent to this wretched island…” he shakes his head… “arghhh…” spits a bit, then drinks his wine, followed by Sarmatian curses…

As he listened to Arthur talk about his duty here, his duty to Rome… and their duty to both. Lancelot sipped upon the wine, his lips barely touching the brass goblet… one leg over the arm of the chair, he watched Arthur walk over to where he was, bend down and got dangerously close to his head… those brown eyes moved to his Commander, and purposely, he brought to the goblet to his lips, while the man reprimanded him for his comments and martyrdom… But he knew that Lancelot was right. But Arthur never knew what people listened for the Bishop and the Prelate.

Arthur could be forceful when he wanted to… a man who displayed the definity of being in charge. The goblet slowly fell from his mouth as the man hovering above his shoulder spoke. The brown eyes never left his commander’s eyes. Lancelot wanted to bark back, but it was not his place… not now… not in front of the others. As Arthur walked back to his chair, Lancelot adjust himself in the chair, the leg sliding off the edge and onto the seat, his feet squarely on the floor.

He stood at the table, both hands planted firmly on the table. “Arthur… MY Lord and Commander… Is the goodness of your ‘standing’ in Rome’s eyes, and the obedience of a good dog to its master MORE important than the men who would DIE for YOU…? YOU !!!” He shook his head… “Arthur… No one loves you more than I… None would die for any but for YOU… Do you nay realize this?? All we ask is to be allowed to worship our Gods, love our women, and live as free men as much as we can upon this… this Roman forsaken land…” 

Lancelot wanted to pace… yet he stood his place… He stretched his neck and rotated his head, then return to gaze upon the man he was loyal to… “We have asked nay for much… and we have been given less by the Romans… save what you stood up for us to have… and for that we are ever thankful…” Then he sighed, a heavy exhale. None were as passionate as Lancelot… Tristan was the quiet type… Dagonet the silent… Bors the loud… and Lancelot, oh he could be prolific with words, and emotions… Maybe that was his downfall… his passion !! His words, his emotions, his fighting so violently, so merciless, upon a field of battle… merely looking for peace, a means to live his life, however long that would be with living by the sword as he did. “Arthur… love your Rome… but love us more… Know why we do what we do, and nay judge us by what someone else thinks of us…”

He sighed again and exhaled once more, only to imbibe upon the goblet again… once more taking his seat, the leg rising to the arm. He just shook his head and looked deep into the goblet as to find answers to life there. Lancelot downed the rest of the wine, then with a soft plink of brass to table, he set the goblet down. He wiggled one foot back and forth as he watched Arthur pace as he spoke about punishment for what the men did without permission…

His leg slid from the chair’s arm to the seat; his form leaned forward as he shook his head… “Arthur… I understand your dilemma… and I apologize if I and the knights have given you consternation… But I promise you, if was necessary…” he paused and his mind veered to the sight of he and the knights barebacked and tied to a whipping post… and he breathed deep and sighed, then stood… “If we are to be whipped, then I, as first knight, responsible in your stead, shall endure the brunt of the punishment… schedule the punishment for me alone… and let us be done with this… it has gone on far too long…”

Was he trying to be a martyr? No, he thought this to be the solution to the circumstance… There was no logical sense to continue this… Time, even if so little in the scheme of things, had managed to mar the circumstances… The three of them disobeyed… The three of them had left the fort, for whatever reason… But… it was he who lied to the guards… Guilty… It was he who allowed Tristan and Dagonet to go out… Guilty… and Arthur’s Roman’s wanted the Sarmatians where they had them, upon their leash… Guilty… “I will deal with Tristan and Dag… you deal with me. I, as first knight, as for leniency for the men…”

Lancelot had never really asked for First Knight… was it his loyalty? A friendship? …one that did not come easy? He ground his teeth, the molars rubbing against each other until his jaw hurt. But if his action would pacify the Roman lust for blood, put his Commander back in good graces, and possibly ease Arthur’s mind, then so be it… His brown eyes seemed to darken… and when he lowered his head, a brown curl fell to his forehead as he looked to Arthur… “Arthur… if I, or the men, have dishonored you… then I, as First Knight, apologize…” then he shakes his head and looks down again… “But the Romans care not about us… or You… the son of a Briton… so damn them ALL to Hell…” then he plopped his ass back into the chair and put his face to his hands. 

Consistent? Since when had Lancelot EVER been consistent… except maybe in the case of the protests of how they come to be here some decade-plus ago… That, all about the Romans, he would always protest, at least until he was free, or dead. His face still remained in his hands.

Now back to the situation at hand… Looking up from his hands back to his beloved friend and commander as he spoke. Though Arthur attempted a neutral gaze, it translated to Lancelot of looks as if all were guilty… Maybe they were, maybe they were not… t’would depend upon what they were charged with… Arthur wanted a simple answer, but there was no SIMPLE answer to this situation, for the whole mess was so convoluted it would be hard to explain so simply … This not only involved the men leaving without permission, or putting their commander at risk… more lives were at risk than what Arthur thought…

Lancelot leaned back in his chair, his elbows going to the wooden arms… his fingers meeting, forming in a triangle of sorts to his elbows… “Arthur… as to why we three left the fort, you must ask Tristan, for it is NOT my place to speak for him in this situation… but I shall tell you why I left…” he emphasized “I”… Leaning his hands toward him, the arms still forming a triangle, his fingertips touched the thin beard he always wore upon his chin. “I left in support of my brothers-in-arms… not as First Knight… NOT as a Roman pawn… but as Sarmatian brother… supporting my brothers in THEIR effort...”

Would Arthur understand what he meant? As it would appear to the world, it was Romans against Britons, against Woad, against Sarmatian and every combination thereof… And for 10 years and more, they had battled Woad, Saxon, Angles, and Gales… The only ones they had not fought were the Romans, the very ones that tore their lives apart… Together, over the past decade the members of Arthur’s knights had been, by every definition, slaves of Rome… It was only Arthur who was their saving grace; still he represented Rome’s authority. So under the circumstances, it was natural for the Sarmatian countrymen to band together to do what they thought were best for “Them and theirs”. 

Maybe someday history would find that they would all be “true” Arthur’s men under a single banner, but not yet…

No telling what lay upon his mind at any one given moment of time. Of course, one thing was consistent… the women… Lancelot’s time was spent mostly at preparing for battle by practicing… taking care of his horse… sharpening his twins… or drinking and carousing with the women. 

Arthur continued his banter regarding the affairs of state… and he looked directly at Lancelot. “Did you know there were spies inside the fort??” But Lancelot make no sign, nor comment. He just sat in the chair, his fingertips crossed and laying at his lips; his elbows remaining on the arms of the chair. “Arthur… we are surrounded by Woad and Britons...” he chuckled a bit. “Assuredly there are spies everywhere…” he moved his arm and placing a dagger on the table between the twin swords… then stopping it suddenly, he cants his head and looks to his friend and commander. “If I had heard of any spy… then we would not have to worry about that one…” then he chuckled at the sarcasm within a truth.

Picking up the dagger and re-sheathing it, he then takes the swords by the hilts, and stands, then with a flick of wrists spins the swords and re-sheathes them with expertise. “Arthur… Regardless of what has happened… or what shall happen… You… are my friend and Commander… my swords are yours to command not only by law, but by the heart…” 

There were, and are, many Romans who assume that the Sarmatian are illiterate pagans… uneducated by Rome meaning they are unknowing of the world, their only education is only knowing how to fight. But in the decade here, Lancelot was far from uneducated. As a youth, he stole scrolls from the Roman tents; at first, it was done for trade… and later as a way to learn… thanks be to Arthur.

He points to the man… “Whether you know it or not, or even if you care… You are the future here… Your decisions guide our future… for I fear I shall never leave this island…”

He walks to the wall where the map of the known world hung… and points… “This is, or was, home…” Then he motions to the east of where his home was… “…and from here the Goths threaten, where Rome has vacated… So I fear in the end, there shall be no home to go to…” He turns and looks at Arthur… “Now look at the breadth we are to cover should we ever be allowed to go home… and with Rome receding back toward the Capital, who will escort us? Will be expected to fight our way home? Will we have a home to return to??” and Lancelot got an odd look on his face and shrugs. “Then what of us? Are we to die for Rome?”

Arthur had reprimanded him twice today… once for leaving the fort, the other for his weapons on the table… “By the Gods Arthur…” he murmured low. Maybe it was the pagan in him, or maybe things should change… He thought the protocol of “no swords in the table room”, was idiotic… a warrior’s… or knight’s… livelihood was his weapon, whether it was a single sword such as his twins, or Arthur’s Excalibur, Dagonet’s axe, or even Bor’s modified kukris… Lancelot had suggested before that each knight should lay his weapon upon the table before him… as a presentation to the Gods, their loyalty and right to protect… a sense of unity. 

But maybe that was the problem… Arthur heard his knights… but did he REALLY listen? He was so far up Rome’s arse, he could not see the kindredship that lie before him… Maybe, just maybe, that was Lancelot’s main reason he complained… about everything, about Britain… Did he truly ASK to come to his wretched island?

Ahhh, Guinevere… A smile came to his face… Maybe she was the best thing on this wretched island… if there was a best thing. And as he looked back to Arthur, the smile faded away. Next, he almost chuckled at his thought… “Arthur…” he said with a Sarmatian accent… “You know I do not trust the Woad, and we have Saxons landing on the northern shores… they conquer a small area, and settle in… they make peace with the Woad… You know I hate the Saxon. We have Britons in the fort, selling things we need… do you truly think they are not spying? We have spies all around us… What do you expect, we are the invaders…” he gave Arthur a smirk. Then he just gave Arthur a disconcerting look as he spoke about the Woads will want to know why they were attacked out of hatred… Even more than the Woad or Saxon, he hated the Romans, especially Scipio… If that man was to fall in battle, Lancelot would rejoice, and buy the killer a drink, if the opportunity presented itself...

He just chuckled and shrugged his shoulders… There it was again… Arthur being Arthur… and not listening to anything his men truly said. Then there was a knock on the heavy doors… and a creak as they opened. Lancelot turned his attention from Arthur to the door. As the man entered and made his way toward Arthur, Lancelot just toyed with the neatly trimmed beard on his chin. He recognized the man from their previous encounter… and he canted his head at the man in greetings.

As the two spoke to one another, Lancelot walked back to his designated chair and sat… Let’s see if Arthur listens to this man, or if he will do as he always does, sucks Rome’s arse again…

As the events months before unfold once again in his mind, Lancelot tosses from the effects of the fever and he never knew how many times Arthur had come to visit, nor knew the nights he stayed by his bedside. To Arthur, Lancelot was more than a First Knight… he was a friend… loyal and true, despite his dark habits and moods.

After Mons Badonicus, Merlin and the Woad receded back into the safety of the forest, yet unsure of what was to come from the victory… Most of the Sarmatian knights that remained alive were either walking wounded or bed-ridden. The Roman legion had left the island… and those that did stay remained for their own reasons and continued fealty to Arthur. Be it all for safety sake, and his ill-trust of the Saxon and Gales, Merlin ordered the forest secured… and nightly patrols to scurry the countryside… ensuring the Saxon did live up to the treaty… he surely hoped that Cedric and Cynric would die of their wounds… but fate would prove otherwise in the future.