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He’s kneeling. He hasn’t knelt before Arthur since the day he was first knighted, but somehow it feels right that he do so now. With his eyes downcast, he can only hear the king’s footfalls approaching him, and feel a familiar hand reach down to the top of his head. There’s a comfort in the thick silence, but he knows that he must break it. “My liege?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” comes Arthur’s voice. “Although it’s long since either of us particularly acted like it. And perhaps that is the source of all the trouble.”
The hand moves down his face, under his chin, and tilts his head up so that he’s looking into Arthur’s face. The expression would make him startle if he dared to move–-gone is the gentle half-smile, the wisdom tinged with self-doubt in his eyes, the worry lines on his brow. Now his face is a mask, eyes hard and mouth set in a cold, firm line.
“But then again, perhaps not.” he continues. “For surely, to lay hands upon the wife of your friend is nearly as great a sin as to do so to the wife of your king.”
That statement sends ice into Lancelot’s blood and locks his muscles into stone. “Do you deny it?”, asks Arthur, voice still cool.
It is all Lancelot can do to force himself to speak. “I cannot.”
Fear twists with shame in Lancelot’s heart as Arthur’s new mask slips a little to reveal the pain underneath. “How could you do it?”
He opens his mouth, searching for anything to say in the face of his sins being laid out so plainly. And how does Arthur know….But of course he knows. He has a wizard loyal to him, after all (More loyal than you’ve managed to be hisses a voice within his mind), and he’s neither blind nor stupid, to miss how shamelessly Lancelot and Guinevere have flaunted their affections. And beyond even that, he’s Arthur. He’s the King. Of course there can be no secret kept from him for long.
Caught out by his sworn lord and closest friend, pinned in place by those green eyes, Lancelot has no refuge save for the truth. “Because I love her, my liege”.
Arthur laughs at that, humorless and hard and bitter. “I see. Well, that explains that.” His eyes close, his face becomes marble again. “And what do you suppose I should do to the knight sworn to my service who has dared to take my wife to bed?”
He can’t bear it. He turns his head away, closes his eyes. “It is not my place to say, my liege.”
“You are right; it is not”. And then Arthur’s hand moves down to Lancelot’s chest–has he been naked this entire time?--holding him more firmly in place as the tip of a dagger is pressed to his throat. “By the rules of propriety, I ought to do this in a courtyard, before the whole of Camelot, after telling them of your crimes.” Lancelot’s stomach turns, less at the thought of his crimes being publicly known, and more at the thought that Guinevere would be painted with the same brush as he. It’s almost a relief when Arthur continues, “But that is mainly formality. The simple fact is that it is my right to take your life for what you have done. Would you move to stop me, most famous of my warriors?”
Lancelot’s eyes are still closed, and he can barely raise his voice above a whisper. “No, my liege.”
A moment’s silence stretches into an eternity as Lancelot waits for the stab of pain, the end of breath, the beginning of eternal damnation. Instead, the dagger slides, feather-light, down his body as Arthur starts to speak again. “Then again, you are a very valuable knight, and popular too. You might be more trouble to me dead than you are alive. And after all….it is not the head upon your shoulders which has sinned against me….”
Lancelot feels himself tremble at what this musing implies, but though he may tremble, he does not flinch. If this is the punishment that his king decrees for him, then it is no less than what he deserves. But when the dagger is mere centimeters away from its new destination, it once again pauses.
“But, I suppose such a….permanent alteration would eventually be discovered, and that would lead to talk. So let us have something more classical, then, as punishment for an adulterer. Move over to the wall, please, and raise your arms to rest upon it.” Lancelot awkwardly begins to rise before Arthur’s voice freezes him again. “Not on your feet, I think. That would be rather contrary to the spirit of the undertaking.”
And so Lancelot stumbles across the floor on his knees, wishing that the cold stone would do something to quench the strange fire rising all along his skin. As he presses his hands and forehead to the wall, he hears Arthur come up behind him. Lancelot shames himself further by instinctively turning around, greeted by the sight of his King clutching a leather whip. “I shall have to find someone else to give Guinevere her treatment.” he muses, “I wonder where I shall find a lady I can trust with the task….”
That jolts Lancelot out of his penitent reverie and compels him to speak. “No!” He wilts slightly under Arthur’s raised eyebrows. “That is….my liege….I beg you to have mercy! She is not to blame.”
Arthur’s brow knits, an exaggerated show of confusion. “How can that be? It takes two to make an affair, after all.”
Lancelot’s mind races. He had sworn to protect her, he has to think of something– “It….it was not her decision, my liege. I took liberties with her, against her protests.”
This will change his fate back to death, he knows. And perhaps this is a fitting end, dying for his crimes, protecting a great Lady as a knight is meant for. But instead Arthur just regards him, seemingly dispassionate. “I don’t believe you.”
“What?”
“I don’t. Believe you. You told me not five minutes ago that you loved her, under circumstances that rendered the making of such a claim no protection to yourself. Would a man in love do as you have just claimed to have done.”
“I….my passions overtook me, and….”
Arthur holds up a hand. “Spare us both this foolishness. She took you willingly–why should she not?--and now you seek to protect her.” He pauses for a moment. “If that is truly your goal, will you take her lashes yourself, as well as your own?”
Lancelot can hardly agree fast enough. “I will, my liege, thank you–”
“Enough,” Arthur all but snarls. “Now turn back to the wall again. We have quite the task ahead of us, you and I.”
Body and mind afire in ways that he cannot explain, Lancelot turns back to the wall and braces himself against it firmly. Crack! The whip finds its mark for the first time. The pain is intense–Arthur is clearly not inclined to hold back–but mixed with it is a strange, exquisite kind of relief. As if, with every strike, Lancelot comes closer to returning to the Knight the world looks up to. The Knight who always does the right thing.
The Knight Arthur knows he can trust.
Every few strikes, Arthur will pause to ask him a question. Crack! "Why is this happening to you, Lancelot?"
"Because I have committed adultery, my liege."
Crack! "And why else?"
"Because I have made free with what belongs to my sworn lord."
Crack! "But the real reason, Lancelot?"
Lancelot feels a tear run down his cheek that has nothing to do with his wounds. "Because I have betrayed my friend."
The lash after that one is particularly vicious. "You most assuredly have." Crack! "And was that a knightly thing to do?"
"No, my liege."
Crack! "Was it virtuous?"
"No, my liege."
Crack! "Was it good?"
Oh, it had felt good. But that is not what Arthur means. "No, my liege."
Crack! "Of course it wasn't. But you did it anyway. Like a pompous, thoughtless, spoiled creature, masking your greed with piety and service, you took what you wanted with no mind to who you hurt. Turn around."
Lancelot does so, re-bracing himself and hissing as the open gashes on his back meet the cold stone wall.
Arthur stares at him, an intensity in his eyes that Lancelot has never seen before. "Your lashes are taken," he says. "But for the privilege of sparing your lady", Lancelot swears he can hear a sob suppressed in that word, "you must take her lashes upon your chest. So."
And he begins again, Crack! Crack! Crack! The pain is ten times worse in its new home, but the underlying relief has multiplied along with it. Lancelot cannot keep himself from crying out at the combination.
It is not long before Arthur pauses again for his next question. "Did you have any right to do what you did?
So overwhelmed is Lancelot that he can barely form words, but at the urging of his rightful punisher, he must try. "N…no, my liege."
Crack! "Is she yours?"
She had once told him that she was, but, "No, my liege."
Crack! "Did I grant my blessing? Was I given the chance?"
"No, my liege."
Crack! "Have I wronged her so, for her to flee into the arms of another?"
His mind is growing hazy. He knows that he deserves to be punished, but does he really deserve to be continually made to talk? "She has never told me that you have, my liege. And I could not believe such a thing of you."
Crack! And Arthur brings his face a mere inch away from Lancelot's. "You say that you love her. Do you love her more than me?"
The pain, the strange pleasure, the impossible question; it's too much. He opens and closes his mouth, but no sound will come.
Arthur's face twists in contempt. "Can't answer? Won't answer?" That bitter laugh comes again. "I ought to execute you after all for such insolence. But no, I think I shall simply…"
Crack! The whip falls again, harder than ever. And again, and again, and again, and all the while Lancelot cannot tear his eyes from Arthur's, as his king, his true love's husband, his closest friend's face is gradually suffused with the light of a savage joy.
This! thinks Lancelot suddenly, this is how I shall wash myself clean of my transgressions. To give the man he has wronged the chance to feel this satisfaction, this outlet for all of his discontent. They say all kings are cruel, but Arthur has always given lie to that. It makes some people nervous, wondering what will happen when Arthur the Benevolent finally succumbs to the nature of power. But if Lancelot can lie here, and absorb all of Arthur's cruelty–he, who so fully and completely deserves it–then all will be well and all will be holy.
The strikes come faster, and Lancelot arches his chest out to meet them. Yes, perfect king, perfect man that I am not, let me atone for my sins against you, pour your sin into me, who has so much that yours could never be noticed among them, yes, yes, Amen–
***
He wakes, alone, cheeks stained with tears and bedclothes stained with something else. As the vivid images fade from his mind, and he pulls himself back to reality, he wonders; should a person seek penance for doing false penance in a dream? Or...perhaps for allowing one's dreaming mind to commit slander.