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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R. Um…Lancelot is dead, so possible disturbing imagery.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot, Arthur/Guinevere
Feedback: Would be appreciated.
Disclaimer: These versions aren't mine.
Notes: Traditionally, Samhain was the night during which the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead were thinnest, and marked the beginning of the Celtic year. It was celebrated with huge bonfires. More info here.
Summary: After Badon Hill, Arthur has little to celebrate.
***
It is late, and though the bonfires burn bright red on the horizon, Arthur walks alone into the dark. The mist roils where he goes, rolling over his body and permeating his clothing until it feels as if he's within a clammy invasion, tendrils of cold moisture licking at the back of his neck and clasping his leathers till they are slicked with icy dew.
But as he walks, the air grows warmer, closer--firmer. And he can almost swear that there's solidity in the wisps, life in the phantom breaths against his cheek. Shapes dim and mocking wrap around the coiling fog, half-lit from behind by the lurid glow in the distance.
Christianity doesn't cover this-it's a religion of light, brassy brazen gold, and it doesn't deal with rough bark digging into the back, gulps of endless desperation that never quite fill the hole. Arthur clutches the tree, eyes staring into the no man's land of no living knowledge, and then he closes his eyes. Lets his head fall against the trunk, lets himself ride the tangibility of madness as the mist swirls tight around his shaking legs.
Guinevere returns from her people's celebrations, wild and flushed with drunken elation, eyes full of blaze and savagery. But her hands slow when they find the dark dappling on Arthur's hips, arms, ribs, and her gaze stills. He does not speak to her, but instead faces the window and remembers the rasp of mourning across his mouth.
***