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Arthur was very good at being able to tell when his manservant was lying, and Merlin was certainly lying about his new friend being a nobleman. Merlin was so imploring though, this so clearly important to him, that Arthur was intrigued, agreeing to meet this “noble” friend of his. 

Arthur waited on the training field in full armour, his surcoat pristine with the Pendragon crest sewn on in shimmering thread by Guinevere (by far the best seamstress in Camelot). He held his head high and proud, shoulders back, spine straight and drawn up to his full height. He looked resplendent, and knew as much by the second and third glances that came his way from nobles and servants alike as he strode the corridors, then the grounds. Suitably intimidating then. After all, he needed the best; he wasn’t going to go any easier on Merlin’s friend just because that was who it was. 

The man that walked up to him gave Arthur pause. He wore chainmail and a surcoat dyed a shade of orange that ought to look garish and unprofessional, yet somehow complemented the would-be knight’s dark complexion. His deep-brown eyes and hair to match fell just above his shoulders, and his chin was shadowed with stubble kept neat. He stood half an inch shorter than Arthur, though held himself with quiet confidence. The angles of his face were statuesque and they captivated Arthur as much as any fine piece of art. 

As soon as his brain caught up with itself, Arthur quickly pushed all thoughts of this man’s looks away. It was not appearance, after all, that defined how good a knight a man could be. It was not a man’s looks Arthur should notice. 

“Lancelot?” Arthur repeated the man’s name back to him, slightly incredulous. But that was indeed his name, written in stark black ink on the scroll Lancelot handed to him, genuine as far as Arthur could make out—perhaps the endless lessons into family histories he’d paid little attention to as a boy had stuck themselves somewhere after all. Merlin and Guinevere had turned out to watch their friend try out, and the thought made a petty jealousy prickle in Arthur’s stomach. He handed back the scroll, genially. The moment Lancelot took it, Arthur threw a punch that floored the unsuspecting man. 

Arthur sighed, and to his own ears sounded like his father. “Sluggish reactions. On a battlefield, you’d be dead by now. Come back when you’re ready.” Lancelot looked crestfallen. When Arthur glanced at the other two, Gwen looked vaguely irritated and Merlin’s mouth had a miserable little pout to it. Arthur had no wish to deal with his servant’s irritation, so turned to walk away. He heard footsteps behind him and turned, prepared to dismiss Merlin to some menial task. There stood Lancelot, mouth set in a determined line. 

“I’m ready now, sire.” Well, he had a knight’s bravery it seemed—answering back to the crown prince. 

“You are, are you? Fine. You can start by cleaning out the stables,” Arthur conceded aloud, affecting his most magnanimous tone; mucking out the prince’s horse was no great honour, though it had often amused Arthur as a boy that people would treat it like one. Lancelot, to his credit, simply bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement and respect before leaving, presumably to begin his thankless task. 

Arthur ignored Merlin’s grumbling that evening, distracted with thoughts about Lancelot. His reflexes were slow, that much was true, but his tenacity was something Arthur had not seen in many of his recent recruits. Reflexes could be improved by training, and if Merlin was to be believed, Lancelot was already a skilled swordsman. 

Arthur laid awake for a long time after his chambers were quiet and the candles had all been blown out, trying to fathom out the newcomer. As he finally drifted towards sleep his thoughts changed. He thought of those deep brown eyes looking into his—rapt with  singular focus on Arthur—imagined the stubble on Lancelot’s chin scraping against his own clean-shaven face as they kissed, wondered what Lancelot looked like beneath the hideous surcoat … or how he might look in Pendragon red. 

Arthur woke with a jolt, bathed in sweat, and almost painfully hard. 

Arthur did not see Lancelot for the next three days. A prince was busy: training those who did make knights; sitting in small council meetings; heading patrols. And in the evenings he had reports to file, missives to read and draft replies to, speeches to write. He pointedly ignored Merlin’s dry comment about how much attention he was suddenly paying to minor duties he’d often bemoaned having to carry out. 

On the other hand, his stables had never been cleaner. 

Eventually, temptation got the better of him, though he would never admit it. He strolled leisurely down to the courtyard where Lancelot, clad in a white tunic that was somehow still pristine, was sharpening swords, having moved on from the stables. 

In a fit of boyish exuberance, Arthur picked up a broom handle and quickly rid it of the brush. He did the same with his left hand, tossing one to Lancelot with no warning, pleased to see his reflexes had already improved when he caught it in one hand without missing a beat. “Not bad,” Arthur admitted, had always been able to set aside his pride when it was needed. 

Lancelot stood and gave a swift, respectful bow but a smile played at his lips too, eyes warmed by mirth. “Would you like me to sweep the guardhouse again, sire?” Lancelot asked meekly, his voice giving nothing away, though it was deep and rich—something Arthur had not noticed at their first meeting. 

Arthur quickly pushed away that unwelcome thought as he spoke. “I’d like you to kill me,” he said, seriously, as he brandished the wooden handle as if it were a sword, balancing the weight of it the same way. 

“Sire?” From where he stood, Arthur could see the crease between Lancelot’s brows as he tried to work out if this was another test or if the prince he wished so badly to serve had actually lost his mind. 

“Come on, don’t pretend you don’t want to.” Arthur nimbly slid backwards on loose limbs, comfortable in the midst of even a pretend battle. He couldn’t resist a “come on” gesture to Lancelot, goading him because it soothed the strange tangle in his throat and stomach to do so. “If I were you, I’d want to. Come on.” Arthur issued the challenge more firmly now, showing Lancelot he was serious; striking quickly, stepping smartly back onto his back foot as if they were sparring, or in fact duelling. Lancelot parried him quickly, avoiding a bloodied nose by a split second. Arthur advanced again and Lancelot blocked the blow much more efficiently this time. 

Lancelot held back, though., Arthur could feel as much even in the parries, let alone the half-hearted swings Lancelot gave, missing the prince by miles. Arthur tossed his hair haughtily and smirked. “Come on, Lancelot, you’re not beating a carpet,” he scolded. Insulting a man’s skill was usually enough to rile him when he seemed distracted during training. 

Sure enough, Lancelot seemed to release his inhibitions and swung his broom with speed. His movements were not as controlled and fluid as they should be—picked up by Arthur’s well-trained eye—but there was certainly potential. Arthur blocked and jabbed, dodged and pirouetted, testing out Lancelot’s stamina. Arthur’s elbow throbbed where Lancelot managed to catch it, after Arthur was distracted by all the bare skin on show as Lancelot’s tunic fell open to reveal the dark hair on his chest. 

Arthur’s mouth went dry when Lancelot’s movement shifted the loose material enough that he could see a perfect, peaked nipple. He blocked the next swing, which had been vigorous enough that Arthur had heard the wood creak. He took his opportunity then, swinging a blow that landed true. Lancelot huffed as the broom handle hit him full force in the stomach, doubling over.  With a sense of satisfaction, Arthur watched him straighten up; this was not a man easily cowed by pain. “Congratulations, Lancelot,” he announced as he tested the would-be knight one final time by throwing his stick. Lancelot caught it in one hand, dazed but still alert. Arthur gave one small nod of approval as he finished, “You just made basic training.” 

There was no time to say anything further, as the warning bell tolled and Arthur, with all the instincts and duty of the First Knight of Camelot, ran towards the commotion with Lancelot hot on his heels.

Arthur, of course, was focused too much on his citizens’ pain to notice Lancelot was there until he spoke. “What happened to these people?” Arthur turned to reply, but Gaius spoke first. Arthur was grateful, though he would never admit as much. It sounded fantastical to his ears, and he felt a fool every time he tried to describe the creature, like a child telling a fanciful tale—though the devastation it caused was all too real. 

Arthur offered his people what he could, until he was called away by the king, hating himself a little for being relieved to have a reprieve from seeing the wounds of the innocent. He could accept them on the men who rode into battle, who volunteered to take those wounds, but the blood or worse staining someone who had never wanted more than a good harvest to feed their families turned Arthur’s stomach. 

Not an hour later, Arthur was standing in the square again, his knights amassed from where they had been escorting the last of the villagers to safety. Lancelot had remained, of course, to do what he could. Arthur spoke in the commanding voice he always used to cover his fear—he would never admit to feeling it, but he’d learned long ago there was no pretending it wasn’t there—that his men followed with dedication Arthur did not feel he deserved. He walked around their formation as he spoke, lest any of them catch a flicker of it on his face. Arthur did not miss Lancelot standing watching, still clad in the ridiculous, still white tunic. 

Arthur was not surprised when Lancelot approached him,; bowing his head with respect that Arthur certainly did not deserve. Not from a man like Lancelot—who had enacted all of Arthur’s petty will, doing all of those menial tasks without question or complaint, and who still wanted to serve him. “Yes, Lancelot?” he said by way of acknowledgement, steely. 

Lancelot looked almost nervous, biting his lip for just a moment before he clearly realised he was doing so, smoothing his handsome features into a mask of grim determination before he spoke. “Is there anything I can do, sire? It's just …” He paused, clearly steeling himself for further rejection. “I know that in the event of battle, only a knight may serve.” 

“That's correct, Lancelot. And you are not yet a knight.” Arthur spoke officiously, every inch the pompous prince for a moment before wondering just why he felt the need to be. Something about Lancelot made him pause, and had done so since they met. “Which is why I'm bringing your test forward. You'll face me in the morning,” he added, not failing to notice Lancelot’s look of gratitude. Gods, what sort of man was grateful to get the chance to ride into a likely death? Arthur often thought so of his knights, though he knew he would do anything to protect his people—and more than that, he was duty-bound. He had a lifetime behind him of the consequences of disappointing his exacting father. 

Once again when the candles had burned out, Arthur lay awake staring at the canopy over his bed. He had thought of men before, on nights like this, in the private darkness of his bedchamber. He had not thought of any of his knights like this though, seeing them as brothers-in-arms rather than objects of desire. When he thought of men, when he could no longer suppress the shameful urges and his cock stood stiff, no amount of willing it away working, he thought of well-dressed ambassadors or posturing noblemen. He usually thought of men who were perfumed, made up and expensively dressed. 

These past few nights, however, his fantasies had been about a man who was noble, yes, but dressed plainly, wore no powders or scents—Arthur thought of the way he had smelled earthy, masculine, when they were close enough during their impromptu sparring. 

He came with his mouth open on a silent cry of Lancelot. 

In the light of dawn Arthur’s thoughts of taking a man to his bed were easier to ignore, and tinged with the shame he had learned to treat them with. When there was nobody to see, when he was alone and the night seemed to stretch endlessly on, they felt different. Then morning would come and remind Arthur anew of all of his responsibilities—including marriage and siring children. 

To keep those thoughts clear in his mind, especially in the face of the man he admired, Arthur strutted the training field like a peacock. He postured and spoke with grandiosity, lapped up by most of the onlookers save Gwen and Merlin. “Well, here we are,” he announced, “your final challenge. Succeed, and you join the elite. Fail, and your journey ends here. Lancelot, fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria…” He paused dramatically and nodded to the steward overseeing the hourglass. “Your time starts now.” 

Their movements mirrored, both men, the first knight and the would-be knight, put on their helmets. The first swing from Lancelot missed, and Arthur could not deny he was disappointed. Aside from everything else, Lancelot had shown spirit, courage, skill that few of the knights already in Camelot’s ranks could hope to match. 

Barely three seconds later, Arthur landed a blow with his fist. The disappointment grew, warring with the lingering threads of his thoughts from last night, and the jealousy that Merlin and Gwen liked this man so readily and openly. It hadn’t even been his sword he had floored Lancelot with, and as Arthur thrust his sword into the earth and pulled off his helmet, his face twisted into something like a sneer, uncomfortably akin to Uther. He quickly schooled his features into something more like himself again and moved to take Lancelot’s small banner, the symbol of the house of Northumbria—the pageantry of trialling knights demanding he hold it aloft in a display of his victory. 

"Shame,” Arthur said as he reached for it, though quietly, half to himself. 

Arthur could scarcely have described what happened next, knew only that his back hit the ground with some force, and Lancelot stood over him, keeping him down at swordpoint. Shock was his first instinct. 

“Do you submit, sire?” Lancelot was breathing hard, as if even he couldn’t believe his own actions. The use of Arthur’s title combined with the rest of the sentence sent a flare of arousal through Arthur’s veins, and he felt his traitorous cock respond even now. He forced down the words that were somehow on his tongue, unbidden— “Gods, yes I do. Conquer me, Sir Lancelot, as is your right.” —in favour of scrambling to his knees without his usual finesse. “On your knees,” he commanded, his tone sounding harsher than he meant. 

Two of his already loyal knights took Lancelot by the arms, pushed him to kneel as if Lancelot was incapable, or needed encouragement. He did not; Arthur could see that. Dark brown eyes implored Arthur’s crystal blue ones, spoke of devotion that caused Arthur’s breath to catch in his throat. Arthur waved a hand, telling Sir Alun and Sir Gavan who held Lancelot to release him. They stood aside obediently, and Arthur beckoned without speaking. He said no word, merely nodded to his father when they walked into the throne room. 

It was testament to Uther’s influence that it was barely half an hour later that an audience was gathered and feast preparations already well underway. The king touched his sword to Lancelot’s chest, proclaiming, “Arise, Sir Lancelot,” to applause—nobody clapping with more enthusiasm than Arthur, until he checked himself, clearing his throat and nodding curtly instead as Uther spoke to the newest knight, something unpleasant in his gaze that Arthur doubted anyone else could see when he mentioned the last time he had seen Lord Eldred and his four sons. 

Arthur decided to enjoy the celebration; there had been little to celebrate lately, and he needed the respite as much as anyone. Drinks flowed freely, and at the end of the third hour, Arthur sat shoulder to shoulder with Lancelot on one of the smaller tables, watching the crowd. 

“Here’s trouble,” Arthur laughed, as Gwen and Morgana passed them, teasing both of them now the bond of propriety had loosened some with the strong wine flowing. Both women rolled their eyes and continued on their way, and Arthur could not resist. He leaned in further towards Lancelot and said, “Tell me, do you think her…beautiful?” It was a loaded question, he knew. But some part of him, some tiny flame in his loins that would not be extinguished, needed to know. 

Lancelot hesitated for a moment before he answered. “Yes, sire. I do.”

In his inebriation, Arthur did not notice how Lancelot’s eyes were on his own face as he spoke, nor how flat and rehearsed the words sounded. 

“Yes. I suppose she is,” Arthur mused. He did like Guinevere, and in another life would have loved to be her friend, have her as an advisor officially. And she was beautiful, with her eyes not dissimilar to Lancelot’s, her curls and the smattering of freckles on her face—she was just not what Arthur wanted. She was what Arthur should want. 

They fell silent for a few moments, Arthur watching Merlin tease Gwen about something, unable to help a smile at that. He stood, his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder as he raised his goblet in his right hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in a toast to our new recruit, our new knight of Camelot, Sir Lancelot.” Arthur’s voice rose on his title, proud. If all he could have was this man in his ranks, then that was what he would take. Arthur’s smile faltered as he wondered when he became so melancholy in his cups, though he quickly recovered it and tapped his cup to Lancelot’s, who was grinning at his well-deserved applause. 

Arthur’s eyes lingered on Lancelot’s lips, and the flush on his cheeks born of good wine and better food. 

Arthur came hard once he was finally alone, biting his lip until it bled. 

The next time Arthur saw Lancelot, it was in near enough the same spot as he had left him, in the great hall of Camelot’s keep. Lancelot was plainly dressed again, rather than in his surcoat and knight’s regalia, on his knees before the king. Arthur’s heart sank and he felt as if the world had tilted askew, in a way he knew had nothing to do with the slight hangover the morning had brought. 

“Tell him what you told me,” Uther said, cold and calculating, assured of his victory. His voice made an unpleasant coldness settle somewhere in Arthur’s belly, an almost-itch to his palms where once they would have begun sweating at that particular tone. Arthur was grown now, and he reminded himself of this as he focused on Lancelot. Geoffrey of Monmouth sounded entirely too pleased with his own handiwork as he announced that the seal of nobility Lancelot had produced was forgery of the highest possible standard. 

Disappointment lodged itself in Arthur’s throat. He ought to have known that Lancelot was too good to be true. Too chivalrous without being trained for it, too handsome, too perfect. None of it mattered though, because his skill and bravery could not be faked. They, at least, were real. But they would not be on Arthur’s side now. Lancelot would be banished—or worse. 

Arthur’s skin crawled as Uther effortlessly belittled Lancelot. Shame. Not worthy of the knighthood. Lancelot’s eyes, though, focused only on the prince. It may have been cowardice, but Arthur could not meet them. It was only once Lancelot was almost through the doors again, dragged to the dungeon by two of Uther’s personal guard—though Arthur knew he would have walked of his own accord, his honour would demand it—that Arthur spoke. 

“Sire.”

His father rounded on him, irritation plain on his strong, once-handsome features.  “Do you contest my judgement?”

Arthur, as he ever had, tried to appease Uther; knew he had no chance of making his petition if he did not defer, bow and scrape the way subjects did. “His deception was inexcusable. But he meant no harm, sire, I'm sure of it. He only wished to serve.” Arthur spoke the truth, tried to show his father what he saw in Lancelot. Even before he had finished speaking, he knew it was futile. Rarely could Arthur, a mere prince, change the mind of a mighty warrior-king, no matter how long it had been since Uther’s days as a warrior. 

Uther spoke curtly, addressing Arthur though not deigning to look at him. “The First Code is a sacred bond of trust. It is what binds the knights together. How can you trust a man who's lied to you?”

Arthur pondered that very question for the next three hours, as he hacked without finesse at several straw dummies, the way he had in his childhood whenever his anger threatened to make him say something unbecoming. 

When the fire of anger in his blood had been quenched, and he stood sweating, Arthur felt ready to face Lancelot. To ask why. He had barely taken two steps across the training grounds when the ringing of the warning bell spurred him into a sprint back to the courtyard, met by a retinue of the knights who had been closest and already armoured. Arthur barely had the time to acknowledge them, the creature—griffin—already on them, swooping towards their number. 

“Defence!” Arthur called, louder and clearer than the clamour and panic of the square, command coming naturally to him. He braced, along with his men who had fallen into formation without question. The griffin screeched its frustration, and Arthur felt several men flinch at the ear-splitting sound. Arthur himself was too busy straining to listen; he thought he’d heard a familiar shout, felt his heart and spirits rise just a little with Lancelot at his back, real or otherwise. Arthur valiantly ignored the disappointment rising when he heard nothing more.

Arthur faced the beast on its next attack with renewed fervour, though when it hissed angrily and retreated, Arthur was not fool enough to believe it was for good. His father appeared to believe that, though, when he clapped Arthur on the shoulder, giving him the proud acclaim Arthur had once craved. Uther, of course, could not simply offer affirming words; with his next breath, he instructed Arthur to go after the creature rather than waiting for it to attack again—and of course ignored any attempt Gaius made to convince him this was a creature born of magic.

“It's tasted our steel once; the next time will be its last. When will your knights be ready to ride again?” Uther ended the argument with a thinly-veiled order. 

“An hour. Maybe two.”

“Good. We finish this tonight.”

Arthur nodded, his father taking it to mean agreement. Arthur bowed slightly and left his father’s side, the halls he walked through blessedly quiet with the courtiers seeking shelter in anticipation of the next attack. Arthur made his way swiftly and silently to the dungeons, seeking the one man he had thought of even while defending against a magical foe. His father may not listen to someone he called a trusted advisor—but Arthur had been taught the value of listening to those who knew more than him. 

He could also not leave a man trapped, no matter who he was. 

“I should've known. How could I have been so stupid?! You don't sound like a knight, you don't even look like a knight!” Arthur’s anger burst free of its dam, and he allowed himself the luxury of feeling it for a few moments, his words coming harshly. His rant was halted by Lancelot’s quiet words. 

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur stopped, not quite looking at Lancelot as he unlocked the barred door, stepped inside the cell; the one with the barred window that faced into the square, that let the most light in—the one he had insisted Lancelot be held in. He forced himself to carry on, would not leave without saying what he had to. “I'm sorry, too. Because, Lancelot, you fight like a knight. And I need—” Arthur cut himself off this time, shocked. Even to his own ears, his voice had sounded so real. For a wild moment he considered admitting his heart to Lancelot; to tell him of the dreams, of lying awake at night, of how intensely Lancelot has occupied his waking thoughts too. He opened his mouth, immediately closed it again. Lancelot would not want anything to do with the son of the man who had banished him, and he had clearly been interested in Guinevere. Arthur admonished himself as a fool and cleared his throat. “ Camelot needs …” he began, trailing off when he couldn’t think of exactly how to describe Lancelot, who took pity and interrupted, looking to his commander for guidance as a knight. 

“The creature?” 

“We could not kill it. I’ve never faced its like.” Shame bled into Arthur’s voice; the shame of being unable to protect his people.  

Lancelot shook his head, arms folded over his chest, standing close to Arthur. “I faced it myself, sire, some days past. I struck it full square. I wondered how it endured.” Lancelot swallowed audibly in the quiet gloom, the other cells all empty for once. “I feared for how you might endure, knowing what that thing was capable of. I called out to you when it attacked the square, I heard the commotion.” He pointed to the high window on pavement level. “I do not think you heard.”

Arthur paused. He steadfastly refused to think about Lancelot worrying for him, and also did not allow himself to dwell on the fact it was Lancelot he had heard, not his imagination, and how it had bolstered his nerve. “I heard you,” Arthur murmured, almost without thinking, before choosing his next words carefully, to be as diplomatic as possible. “There are those who believe this creature, this … griffin, is a creature of magic, that only magic can destroy it.” Speaking its name aloud for the first time sent a strange thrill through Arthur—not quite of fear, nor of power, but something between not shying away from it while being aware of what it was capable of. He shook his head as if to clear it: he knew what was at stake here. 

“Do you believe this?” Lancelot’s voice was as even and calm as it had always been, no judgement in it despite everything. Arthur felt his mouth go dry as he wondered best how to answer with Lancelot’s deep brown eyes looking with such concern into his own. 

“It doesn't matter what I believe. The use of magic is not permitted. The knights must prevail with steel and sinew alone,” Arthur said, truthfully, carefully leaving anything that could incriminate him out of his mouth, even here with a man he trusted. 

“Sire.” Lancelot inclined his head. It was so like the meaningless gestures given to royalty that Arthur almost wanted to shake him, tell him that Gaius knew magic and he was right, and beg him to tell Arthur what to do—but of course he did not. He did not acknowledge the gesture, which was probably expected, and stepped aside from the door, leaving space for the condemned man. 

"There’s a horse waiting outside.”

“Thank you. Thank you, sire.” Lancelot sounded so grateful that Arthur felt vaguely sick; it was his fault Lancelot was here in the first place, not able to defend him against the king, nor had he thought to help before now. 

As Lancelot drew level with where Arthur stood, the prince spoke again. “Lancelot, take it and never return to this place.” 

“No. No, please, I—it's not my freedom I seek. I only wish to serve with honour.” Lancelot’s voice was tinged with something like a plea. Their eyes met, and Arthur’s breath caught in his throat at the spark of defiance blazing in Lancelot’s. He felt his heartbeat pick up. 

“I know.” 

“Then let me ride with you, sire.” 

Truthfully, Arthur would have given anything to take Lancelot with him to face the griffin, but he was not naïve enough to believe his father would allow it despite the circumstances. It was all he could do to give Lancelot a chance at safety. 

“I cannot. My father knows nothing of this. I release you myself, but I can do no more. Now go, before I change my mind.” Arthur used his most officious voice, the one belonging to the court. 

Lancelot did not move. 

“Go!” Arthur said, with more force this time, hoping to all the gods it didn’t sound as desperate to Lancelot as it did to his own ears. Lancelot sighed, rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, almost at the exposed, sensitive skin of his neck. Arthur stared, their eyes meeting yet again. His mouth ran dry and he almost expected his wildest fantasy to be made real, was so sure for just a moment that he would feel the press of lips against his own. 

Then Lancelot was gone, the only sound the soles of his boots retreating up the darkened corridor to the promised horse. 

Arthur paced his line of assembled knights—those his father deemed worthy to serve, Arthur thought bitterly—having ridden into the forest the griffin had come from. He appealed to their courage, their might and skill, their patriotism, with a battle cry for Camelot—all the while knowing it was likely futile, that what Gaius said was likely the truth. Still, he could not waver now, leading the charge as he always did when they caught sight of the imposing, winged beast. 

The beast was almost majestic in a way, given the wings and the proud head of a golden eagle upon the powerful haunches of a lion. It was the last thought Arthur recalled before his body hit the ground with a conspicuous thud and the world went black. 

When Arthur came to, his head pounded and his stomach roiled. He sat up gingerly, running through a list in his head of his major bones and muscles, all of them seeming intact. Taking a moment to compose himself first, Arthur raised his eyes to see how many he had lost, how many families he would have to deliver the worst news to, keeping hold of his stoicism while wives and children wailed. 

Those thoughts disappeared, though, when Arthur saw laid out on the leaves the body of the beast, and the last knight standing removed his helmet. Arthur stood, heedless of taking care any longer, grasping both of the knight’s gloved hands in his own in sheer joy. “You did it. You killed it, Lancelot!” Somewhere, deep within some secret part of Arthur, the joy was not for seeing the creature dead, but for the skill and bravery of the would-be knight—and to see him alive, well and victorious. Arthur’s traitorous heart yearned in that moment, more so than it ever had. 

Arthur had not lost as many men as he had feared, many of them simply unconscious the way he had been. He sent the least battered of them to ride ahead, to bring the physician and strong men to help those who could not walk well, riding a way behind with Lancelot. Neither of them spoke as they rode—Arthur beginning to feel the dull whole-body ache as the adrenaline wore off—though it was not a heavy silence. Arthur fancied he could feel a certain warmth in Lancelot’s quiet, though he told himself it was just the aftermath of a hard-won victory for them both.

His father must see the value in a warrior so capable, no matter the circumstances of his birth. Arthur would fight for him to see it this time, as Lancelot had deserved before. 

When Arthur entered the throne room, Lancelot a few paces behind him, his father opened his arms with a smile. “You did it, my son. You did it.” Arthur did not fail to notice the my son he only ever added when Arthur had served well. Even with open arms, Uther did not embrace him—had not since he was seven or eight. 

Arthur watched the smile slide from Uther’s mien as Arthur shook his head. “Not I, Father. It was Lancelot.” Arthur inclined his head, signalling Lancelot to come forward and stand beside him. 

“What’s he doing here?” There was his father’s usual self; face twisted in disgust at being—in his mind—mocked by the man he jailed standing in his court once more. 

“Father, I can explain.” Arthur spoke loudly and clearly, defiant in front of the gathered throng of people, though there was only a handful. Uther glared at the son he had lauded just moments ago as he commanded Lancelot to leave, to wait outside. 

Arthur allowed his father to rant at him, that Arthur had no right to undermine his decisions, that he had been spoiled and ought to be grateful he wasn’t in the dungeons too. 

When Uther stopped, Arthur gave him a moment in case he had any more to say. When it didn’t come, Arthur spoke. “I confess it, sire. I released him, and I'll take the consequences. But surely Lancelot's actions change things?”

“His actions change nothing. He broke the code!” Uther’s sense of honour, Arthur thought not for the first time, was far different to his own. It was beyond him how his father could see the circumstances of someone’s birth as more important than their actions, and he felt his temper—the one he was sure he got from his father—flare. 

“He laid down his life for me! He served with honour.”

“I see you feel strongly about this, Arthur. Under the circumstances? A pardon, perhaps.” His father sounded nothing short of patronising, talking to Arthur as if he were a child and Uther the very picture of magnanimity. 

Arthur shook his head, could feel the urge to hang his head and acquiesce, but he had promised Lancelot. He had promised himself. His next words came levelly, his tone even and unwavering, for which he was proud if nothing else.

“No, not good enough, Father. You must restore Lancelot to his rightful place, as a knight of Camelot.” 

Uther’s face paled for a moment, before reddening in his renewed anger, all traces of false benevolence gone. “Never. The law is the law. The code bends for no man.”

“Then the code is wrong,” Arthur spat, turning on his heel, intending to speak with Lancelot. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would say, whether his father would accept Arthur’s own stubbornness or whether Lancelot would end up in a foetid cell again. Arthur’s blood was up and at the moment he didn’t much care, just needed to see him, though Arthur dared not examine why. 

He had not made it two steps before Lancelot himself burst through the double doors into the council chamber. Uther’s well-trained guards restrained him immediately, though Lancelot was clearly as fired up as Arthur, and all but demanded to speak. 

“Wait! I'll hear him,” Uther called, the guards stepping aside. Arthur stared for a moment, dumbstruck and something like hope beginning to dawn. He had long believed his father was set in his ways, that attempting to reason with him was futile. Perhaps somewhere in him there was honour that aligned with Arthur’s own. He did not have much time to dwell on it before Lancelot spoke. 

“Forgive me, Sire. I've come to bid you farewell.” Lancelot sounded so sure of himself, in a way Arthur feared he would never be. 

Arthur felt the hope that had sparked vanish; snuffed out as a candle flame in a breeze. Despite it all, despite the trials he had seen through with the griffin, and Lancelot risking his life, Arthur was still going to lose him. 

“What is this, Lancelot?” Arthur meant for his voice to sound authoritative, collected. Instead, to his own ears, it was the wheedling voice of the spoiled child his father had called him not ten minutes past. 

“I lied to you both and now there is conflict between you. I cannot bear that burden, as you should not bear mine. I must start again, far from here. Then maybe one day fate shall grant me another chance to prove myself a worthy knight of Camelot.”

“But … Lancelot, you've … already proved that to us,” Arthur was horrified to feel the beginnings of the prick of tears at his eyes; he could not even recall the last time he wept. The thought of never seeing Lancelot again left him bereft, and he did not know what to do with that. He cleared his throat, forcing down the feeling as he had done with so many others so many times, and looked imploringly at his knight.  

“I must prove it to myself. Your Highness. Prince Arthur.” Lancelot bowed to them both, before striding out of the council chamber with his head held high. 

Arthur gave him a minute before following, making sure not to look as if he were running. “Lancelot!” he called, giving in and jogging to catch up with him. Arthur did not know what he meant to say, so when he drew level and Lancelot gave him a determined look that told Arthur his mind was made up, Arthur simply said, “You must stay the night at least. Take food, a horse when dawn comes; you won’t get far before nightfall if you go now.” Lancelot regarded him for a moment, clearly expecting the prince to launch into a speech about why he should stay. Arthur just looked back, committing Lancelot’s handsome face to memory—though he was not sure he would ever forget it. Lancelot—clearly seeing the wisdom in Arthur’s words and ceasing to expect an attempt at persuasion—simply nodded and continued in the direction of Gaius’ chambers. 

Arthur ran a hand over his face there in the middle of the corridor, and sighed. He did not follow, admonishing himself for being so pathetic all the way back to his own rooms, trying his hardest not to sound sulky as he called for a bath. Merlin brought it up without complaint, which spoke volumes about Merlin’s own mood. So much so, that Arthur dismissed him out of pity and because an hour or two to himself sounded enticing. Certainly once he had lain in the hot water for several minutes, he felt better, had relaxed a little. Which was why he felt only faint irritation when there was a knock at his chamber door. Sighing again, and wondering why he had allowed Merlin the evening to himself, Arthur hauled himself from the bath. He pulled on a loose shirt and his soft sleeping-trousers; whoever had interrupted the prince’s relaxation could damn well wait for him to be ready. 

Arthur was fully prepared to tell his uninvited guest as much as he opened the door, but the words died on his lips when his eyes met by-now familiar brown ones, reflecting the gold of the candlelight that bathed Arthur’s chambers. They stood there silently for long moments as almost-equals; the two of them knights for a precious few hours longer. 

“Lancelot.” 

“Prince Arthur.” 

“No. Just—just Arthur is fine here.”

Lancelot nodded, and Arthur stepped aside to let him in. Chivalrous as ever, Lancelot took the invitation with a slight bow. Arthur’s eyes caught on a slight imperfection, the reddened, sunburned skin on the back of Lancelot’s neck. To stay his wanting hands, Arthur poured out two cups of the wine Merlin had left him, held one out and asked, “Does something trouble you, Sir Lancelot?” The use of his title was deliberate, Arthur wanting to tell him that his opinion had not changed despite his father’s orders and Lancelot’s decision. 

“No,” Lancelot said carefully, thoughtfully as he took the offered goblet. “I would not say it troubles me, only that it would begin to burden me and I would have regrets if I left without saying it.” Arthur was only left more confused, though he said nothing, allowing Lancelot to continue. “What I must say, Arthur—” he trailed off, seemingly unable to find the right words; a feeling Arthur was all too familiar with. 

“Lancelot, you can tell me. If I can help you, I will. I swear it.” 

“That’s just it,” Lancelot said with a tight smile, “you make such promises, yet you do not know what I would ask.” 

“I do not care. I would grant it.” Arthur spoke fiercely, without thought. When he realised what he had said, what he had as good as admitted, he felt the flush rise on his neck. Lancelot, for his part, did not seem to register Arthur’s words, his eyes fixed on the creeping blush, which only deepened in Arthur’s embarrassment at being caught acting like a maiden. 

“I came to say goodbye. My mind has not changed,” Lancelot murmured, his eyes not leaving Arthur’s face. “But now I am here, it seems all but impossible. To take a horse and ride away from the man I would serve until the end of my days—” Lancelot cut himself off again, shaking his head. “I thought I knew how to speak with nobility. I thought I knew what to expect from the high and mighty. Until I met you, Arthur Pendragon, and you changed everything. ” 

Arthur was not entirely sure who moved first, knew only that in the next second their lips had met, warm and soft. Lancelot kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until they parted to breathe. Even so, Arthur did not move back any more than was necessary, his chest heaving as his nose nudged at Lancelot’s, Arthur’s lower lip brushing against Lancelot’s too, going through the motions as if they could not bear to stop. Arthur certainly could not, his hands cupping Lancelot’s roughly stubbled cheeks, his calloused fingers tracing the perfect cheekbones. 

As Arthur kissed him again, his hands slid into the satin strands of Lancelot’s hair. He knew well how to kiss, had practised as a youth—or so he had told himself—with many a noble son and one or two of the daughters. Similarly, he was familiar with another knight's rough palm on his adrenaline-fuelled hard on after a battle, but that hardly seemed fitting now. 

Arthur felt too hot, constricted by the loose tunic and breeches he stood in. He pulled the tunic over his head, casting it aside and looking to Lancelot for approval. 

“I did not think you would … I could not have imagined,” Lancelot began and trailed off each time, his eyes dark with desire as he pulled his own tunic off, revealing skin bronzed from days beneath the sun. 

Arthur could not stand to leave that skin untouched, running his calloused palms from Lancelot’s hips to his chest. He had never taken so freely of another, be it man or woman, though Lancelot did not seem to mind, taking one of Arthur’s hands by the wrist, and pressing a kiss to each finger. It was such a tender gesture that it brought a lump to Arthur’s throat and he pulled his hand away in favour of meeting Lancelot’s lips with his own again before dropping his forehead to Lancelot’s shoulder, breathing in his heady scent of clean sweat, soap, and arousal.  

“Lie with me tonight,” Lancelot begged in a whisper, as if asking aloud would shatter the illusion. 

Arthur nodded, lest his own voice betray him. With some effort, he stepped back, his hand running from Lancelot’s shoulder down his arm to his hand, with which Arthur tugged him gently towards the bed, lying on his back and shuffling to get comfortable among the pillows.  

“You must know Lancelot, I have never …” Lancelot looked at him so earnestly that Arthur flushed again. “I wish to lie with you,” Arthur tried. “I wish for my virtue to be yours.” 

Lancelot’s eyes widened, whether in horror or wonder Arthur could not tell—nor could he bear to look for long, and cast his own eyes down. “Arthur,” Lancelot called softly from where he knelt at the foot of the bed Arthur lay out on. Arthur did not respond, wondering how he could have been so foolish, how he could think Lancelot could want someone who had no idea— “ Arthur,” Lancelot said again, and the prince felt fingers gently probing his chin, pushing upwards to guide him to look at Lancelot again. “I will not take your virtue. Not this night. It is not something I have yet earned, but when we meet again,” Arthur’s heart skipped a beat at the when, “when fate decrees it and I am worthy of the honour, I will gladly accept that gift.” 

Arthur knew there would be no question of him giving it to another. He nodded, sat up again to pull Lancelot in for yet another kiss, fierce and fiery this time, in thanks and to tell him Arthur still very much wanted. When they parted again, Arthur panting, his cock straining against the laces of his sleeping trousers, Lancelot laughed. It was not unkind, and it wove something hungry around Arthur’s veins. 

“You will still touch me though,” Arthur said, as commanding as he could be with his cock standing to full attention and Lancelot at a glance not much better off. 

“Yes. I will still touch you. Lie back, and allow me.” Lancelot pushed Arthur, not unlike the way he had floored him during his trial, and was on top of Arthur in one fluid movement. Arthur actually gasped, the weight of Lancelot on his hips, just not quite enough friction on his clothed cock driving him wild. “I did not fail to notice the way you looked with me standing above you,” Lancelot said. “I shall ask you now what I asked you then,” he continued, speaking as he unlaced Arthur’s clothes. Lancelot leant down, his lips brushing Arthur’s earlobe as he whispered, “Do you submit, sire?” 

Arthur made a strangled noise, almost came there and then. He could not find it in him to be embarrassed, especially not when Lancelot hummed his approval and wrapped a firm hand around his cock, stroking him with slow, sure movements that were too much and not enough. 

“That was no answer, my prince,” Lancelot teased, his free hand sliding up the inside of Arthur’s thigh, just this side of ticklish. 

Arthur’s head spun, but he pulled his thoughts together enough to speak with a tongue that did not seem to wish to obey—though the rest of him burned for it. “Yes, Sir Lancelot,” he choked out. “To you only.” 

“Another gift, freely given and precious,” Lancelot murmured, still against Arthur’s ear. “This one I shall treasure.” 

Arthur closed his eyes, the burn of tears beginning again. He felt rather than saw Lancelot move, sitting at Arthur’s side as he stroked him still. Lancelot allowed him the darkness of closed lids as he got closer to the edge, though right as Arthur could feel his orgasm building, Lancelot spoke again. “Open your eyes. Look at me.” Arthur felt himself react without thinking, obeying without question. He looked at Lancelot’s serene countenance, at ease with command, with Arthur. When Lancelot’s lips quirked into a soft smile, Arthur came, spilling across his own stomach. Lancelot stroked him until he had no more to give, and he lay spent among his pillows. 

Lancelot arranged himself beside Arthur, who reached lazily for Lancelot’s cock, wanting to repay him somehow. Lancelot laughed again, taking Arthur’s wrist as he got to his sensitive, softening cock, and moving Arthur’s hand back up to his lips again, pressing a soft kiss to the back. 

“Lancelot?”

“Arthur, seeing you come undone was beyond pleasure for me. Thank you.” 

“Oh,” Arthur managed, eloquently. He lay with his sleeping trousers undone and no tunic, though he could not bring himself to care. “Stay here tonight. I will not stop you in the morning but—please.” 

Lancelot hesitated, Arthur could feel as much. He got up, leaving Arthur lying there, to blow out the candles. When he reached the final one, the room plunged into darkness, and Arthur felt a sudden vulnerability. 

He felt raw, broken open, was not sure how he could be whole if this man left his chambers now, with no word. His breathing quickened, though not with the desire and anticipation of before. 

“Arthur. I’m here. Just for tonight.” Lancelot’s voice came strongly from the pillow beside him, Lancelot having climbed on beside him silently. 

“I did not think I would have any night,” Arthur admitted as he calmed. It seemed easier in the darkness, the same way it felt easier to fantasise and dream of men. “I did not think myself good enough for you.” 

Lancelot did not answer, did not need to as he pressed a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “Sleep. We will meet again.” 

Arthur felt the tug of exhaustion and post-orgasm haze and gave in to it, believing him. 

In the grey light of dawn, Arthur woke to cold sheets, listening to the faint sound of a single rider echoing across the courtyard until it could be heard no more.