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Sep. 3rd, 2004 02:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sua_layI wonder if I'll get sleep tonight. Am kind of exhausted, but at the same time wide awake. I so totally hate that. I have to wonder if all this weird sleeplessness and angsting is because of the return. To work, that is.
It really shouldn't be! Because as of today, I'm officially okay with my work again! So there!
Since I have absolutely no other way to torment people (I usually sing, makes grown men weep!) I'll post that Lancelot snippet here. Must warn you! It's a melodramatic piece of sap. Also, mentions singing (even though haven't gone as far as to write an actual songfic...) and horses. Kinda Lancelot/Arthur, but not really.
from King Arthur. Beginning with the moment when Lancelot was shot, going completely differently from there.
A few lines of dialogue stolen from the movie. Sorry! Otherwise all mine.
Across the mountains
It was always quiet after battle.
Lancelot leaned his head back, his eyes closing slowly. He knew it was safe to relax now. There was nothing left for
him to do here; the enemy was dead, the battle was over. It was all right to rest for a while.
The smoke from the fires all around them burned his lungs, but not enough to make him cough. His chest felt tight,
heavy, like he'd accidentally tightened the armour too hard, like he had when he'd been just a boy. Not very
suitable for a man his age. Maybe he should get back up, to loosen the clasps. He thought about that for a moment,
but remained still. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, this feeling. Whatever pain there had been was now leaving.
For a long moment everything was still. The unreal moment of victory over a foe. He knew it wouldn't last for long.
There would be the cries of the wounded, the cheers from his brother knights. For the first time he wished there
would be no sounds. He was tired, so tired, and only wanted to rest here.
Almost like sleeping, this was. The hard earth like the softest mattress, lulling him to dreamland. Dreams never
felt this real, though. They were haunting, transparent. Fading away when the morning came. He didn't think he was
asleep, for he could still use his mind. Could remember the battle only a moments ago. Surely, he was simply
resting?
The sounds came back gradually. A wail, as he'd thought. A woman moaning words in a tongue he did not master. Harsh
words, sounding like the battle cries of the Woads.
It made Lancelot almost smile a cynical smile. Woads were not the enemy anymore. Saxons were. The fierce northern
men who came across the country, killing and burning everything. His lips didn't move to show his amusement, but
inside he was laughing. It felt good to laugh, the joy almost as burning as the expression on Arthur's face earlier
when they had returned to his side.
Swirling around him, the smoke was slowly turning into a mist. Not burning anymore, simply caressing his tired body.
He was relieved by that. Breathing would be now so much easier.
He did not open his eyes, but could feel the tendrils of air on his face, swirling faster. It was a pleasant touch,
soothing. Driving the sound of the wails and even shouts far away, bringing him peace. He could hear a faltering
drum in his ears, the beat growing slower and fainter, as if the drummer was tiring with his work. He wanted to tell
the poor lad to let go. It wasn't necessary anymore.
This was what freedom tasted like. Not forced to fight Rome's battles, but choosing his own. Choosing to follow a
cause or a leader he believed in. A strange concept, one that was as exhilarating as it was frightening.
Lancelot knew he had made the right choice. With free will came the chance of regret, and he knew that he had done
nothing on the battlefield that would later haunt in his dreams.
Another smile tried to slip to his lips, failing just like the previous one had. This however held only happiness.
The drummer was missing his beat, the sound growing fainter still. It was replaced by another sound, an echo more
familiar than the drums. A steady pounding of hooves against the ground.
Horses? Lancelot knew there couldn't be enough of them here to make such a sound. The heavy thunder of gallop.
Dozens and dozens of horses running free across the plains, simply enjoying the movement of their muscles, the sun
on their skin.
His heart ached at the sound, yearning to follow them on their path. The sound was pulling him across the mist,
towards something he had never seen before.
"No!"
The surprisingly faint yell made him jolt. Hesitating, he tried to hear if there were other words, for he knew that
voice well. It was the one he could hear shouted across a battlefield even if the screams of the dying men and the
steel hitting steel were deafening him to any other sounds.
Not certain what to do, Lancelot simply lay still, hovering in the strange weightlessness. Torn between the wild
call of the run and the voice even now teasing the edge of his awareness.
A hand jolted him, and the peace vanished in a heartbeat, bringing back the burning agony to his chest. He tried to
scream, but couldn't move, couldn't make any sounds. His mind was frantic to find an escape from the pain, reaching
out for the bliss that had surrounded him only a moment ago.
His mind so full of fire, he could hardly hear what the voice was saying. But he had followed that voice for most of
his life, he had to listen.
He strained to grasp even some of the words, missing most of them in the blur of pain. Then it cleared again, as if
the man was speaking right next to his ear.
"It was my life that was to be sacrificed! Not his! Never his!"
Lancelot wanted to ask what was going on, but he was too weary to do that. Pained and tired and lost in the mist, he
wanted to let go and sleep. Dream of the wild horses and home and hearth. As he sometimes did when the night was
cold and empty, he tried to reach out for his wolf charm, his only real link to home. But even that was lost in the
dark.
The pain was slowly going away, leaving him blissfully free. It didn't matter that he couldn't see. It almost didn't
matter that he couldn't form words with his frozen lips either, though he wanted to tell his friend not to sound so
worried.
Of course he always worried. About things he could deal with, but mostly about things he had no power over. Talking
to his God about his problems so often that God had to be tired of his voice by now. Lancelot knew he would never
stop listening.
Somewhere in the distance, Vanora was singing. It was the one thing that could still move him to almost shead tears.
Even though he couldn't form the familiar words, his mind joined in the song, his heart weeping with the longing.
Home. So far away, months from here. Maybe even years. But the tents would still be there, as would be his people.
His dream, his fantasy. He felt the moisture trickle down his face, and couldn't even be ashamed of it. All the
others wept to her song as well, even Bors quieting down and swaying slowly to the melody, his expression as soft as
a child's.
They were all singing now. Bors and Gawain and Tristan and Galahad and Dagonet. Something didn't seem to be right
about that, but Lancelot couldn't care anymore. They were all here, his brothers. Those he had accompanied on the
charge down the hill, those he hadn't seen for ages. Bedivere, Gaheris, Lamorak, Percival.... All joining in on the
song, each and every one whispering the words like a prayer. They might fight for this land, but eventually they
would all go home across the mountains.
Humming all around him, the song swirled like the mist. An eerie melody accompanied by the dozens of hooves pounding
the earth. Lancelot suddenly knew what it was he was hearing, and knew that he would never see Sarmatia again.
"Don't go!" The command drifted across the emptiness. "Please, don't go..." How strange to hear the harsh voice
break with such a plea.
Lancelot needed it to stop calling for him. He was already gone. Half way through the mists, knowing that the sun
would be shining on the other side. There was nothing for him here, only anguish. Couldn't his friend see that?
"Please, God! Don't take him away..."
More moisture landed on his cheek, and Lancelot realized it wasn't him crying. It was a shock, like an arrow to the
chest. He wanted to tell his friend he didn't need to mourn for him, shouldn't ask his God to keep him here, keep
him from joining his brothers.
There were no more words, only the sound of ragged breathing, so close to his face.
Laboured, almost pained. The sound drew his attention more than words ever could. Was his friend injured? He had to
see for himself. He couldn't leave if there was something wrong with him. Home and freedom and peace could wait. His
soul was still here, refusing to let go until it knew it truly was the time.
Arthur was calling. A call he had answered for almost as long as he could remember. His honor demanded him to
answer. His heart compelled him to.
He gathered his strength, lingering for one more second in the mists before forcing his eyelids to flutter open. The
inhale he took turned into a pained gasp as the sound of the horses running faded away, and the reality of the
battlefield returned as if he'd never been away.
There was a muffled yell, a curse or a prayer coming from his side. Still muttered with the harshness only a Woad
could utter. Closer by, there was a more familiar voice thanking God, and for once, Lancelot didn't mind the phrase.
His body still on fire, his mind was soaring like a falcon, circling above them before returning back to be cradled
in strong arms.
**
All righty then. I'd very much like a soundclip/vid clip of the scene where Vanora sings the whole home thing. If you know a place to find it, tell me! I even promise not to write more melodramatic crap!
[lies]
It really shouldn't be! Because as of today, I'm officially okay with my work again! So there!
Since I have absolutely no other way to torment people (I usually sing, makes grown men weep!) I'll post that Lancelot snippet here. Must warn you! It's a melodramatic piece of sap. Also, mentions singing (even though haven't gone as far as to write an actual songfic...) and horses. Kinda Lancelot/Arthur, but not really.
from King Arthur. Beginning with the moment when Lancelot was shot, going completely differently from there.
A few lines of dialogue stolen from the movie. Sorry! Otherwise all mine.
Across the mountains
It was always quiet after battle.
Lancelot leaned his head back, his eyes closing slowly. He knew it was safe to relax now. There was nothing left for
him to do here; the enemy was dead, the battle was over. It was all right to rest for a while.
The smoke from the fires all around them burned his lungs, but not enough to make him cough. His chest felt tight,
heavy, like he'd accidentally tightened the armour too hard, like he had when he'd been just a boy. Not very
suitable for a man his age. Maybe he should get back up, to loosen the clasps. He thought about that for a moment,
but remained still. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, this feeling. Whatever pain there had been was now leaving.
For a long moment everything was still. The unreal moment of victory over a foe. He knew it wouldn't last for long.
There would be the cries of the wounded, the cheers from his brother knights. For the first time he wished there
would be no sounds. He was tired, so tired, and only wanted to rest here.
Almost like sleeping, this was. The hard earth like the softest mattress, lulling him to dreamland. Dreams never
felt this real, though. They were haunting, transparent. Fading away when the morning came. He didn't think he was
asleep, for he could still use his mind. Could remember the battle only a moments ago. Surely, he was simply
resting?
The sounds came back gradually. A wail, as he'd thought. A woman moaning words in a tongue he did not master. Harsh
words, sounding like the battle cries of the Woads.
It made Lancelot almost smile a cynical smile. Woads were not the enemy anymore. Saxons were. The fierce northern
men who came across the country, killing and burning everything. His lips didn't move to show his amusement, but
inside he was laughing. It felt good to laugh, the joy almost as burning as the expression on Arthur's face earlier
when they had returned to his side.
Swirling around him, the smoke was slowly turning into a mist. Not burning anymore, simply caressing his tired body.
He was relieved by that. Breathing would be now so much easier.
He did not open his eyes, but could feel the tendrils of air on his face, swirling faster. It was a pleasant touch,
soothing. Driving the sound of the wails and even shouts far away, bringing him peace. He could hear a faltering
drum in his ears, the beat growing slower and fainter, as if the drummer was tiring with his work. He wanted to tell
the poor lad to let go. It wasn't necessary anymore.
This was what freedom tasted like. Not forced to fight Rome's battles, but choosing his own. Choosing to follow a
cause or a leader he believed in. A strange concept, one that was as exhilarating as it was frightening.
Lancelot knew he had made the right choice. With free will came the chance of regret, and he knew that he had done
nothing on the battlefield that would later haunt in his dreams.
Another smile tried to slip to his lips, failing just like the previous one had. This however held only happiness.
The drummer was missing his beat, the sound growing fainter still. It was replaced by another sound, an echo more
familiar than the drums. A steady pounding of hooves against the ground.
Horses? Lancelot knew there couldn't be enough of them here to make such a sound. The heavy thunder of gallop.
Dozens and dozens of horses running free across the plains, simply enjoying the movement of their muscles, the sun
on their skin.
His heart ached at the sound, yearning to follow them on their path. The sound was pulling him across the mist,
towards something he had never seen before.
"No!"
The surprisingly faint yell made him jolt. Hesitating, he tried to hear if there were other words, for he knew that
voice well. It was the one he could hear shouted across a battlefield even if the screams of the dying men and the
steel hitting steel were deafening him to any other sounds.
Not certain what to do, Lancelot simply lay still, hovering in the strange weightlessness. Torn between the wild
call of the run and the voice even now teasing the edge of his awareness.
A hand jolted him, and the peace vanished in a heartbeat, bringing back the burning agony to his chest. He tried to
scream, but couldn't move, couldn't make any sounds. His mind was frantic to find an escape from the pain, reaching
out for the bliss that had surrounded him only a moment ago.
His mind so full of fire, he could hardly hear what the voice was saying. But he had followed that voice for most of
his life, he had to listen.
He strained to grasp even some of the words, missing most of them in the blur of pain. Then it cleared again, as if
the man was speaking right next to his ear.
"It was my life that was to be sacrificed! Not his! Never his!"
Lancelot wanted to ask what was going on, but he was too weary to do that. Pained and tired and lost in the mist, he
wanted to let go and sleep. Dream of the wild horses and home and hearth. As he sometimes did when the night was
cold and empty, he tried to reach out for his wolf charm, his only real link to home. But even that was lost in the
dark.
The pain was slowly going away, leaving him blissfully free. It didn't matter that he couldn't see. It almost didn't
matter that he couldn't form words with his frozen lips either, though he wanted to tell his friend not to sound so
worried.
Of course he always worried. About things he could deal with, but mostly about things he had no power over. Talking
to his God about his problems so often that God had to be tired of his voice by now. Lancelot knew he would never
stop listening.
Somewhere in the distance, Vanora was singing. It was the one thing that could still move him to almost shead tears.
Even though he couldn't form the familiar words, his mind joined in the song, his heart weeping with the longing.
Home. So far away, months from here. Maybe even years. But the tents would still be there, as would be his people.
His dream, his fantasy. He felt the moisture trickle down his face, and couldn't even be ashamed of it. All the
others wept to her song as well, even Bors quieting down and swaying slowly to the melody, his expression as soft as
a child's.
They were all singing now. Bors and Gawain and Tristan and Galahad and Dagonet. Something didn't seem to be right
about that, but Lancelot couldn't care anymore. They were all here, his brothers. Those he had accompanied on the
charge down the hill, those he hadn't seen for ages. Bedivere, Gaheris, Lamorak, Percival.... All joining in on the
song, each and every one whispering the words like a prayer. They might fight for this land, but eventually they
would all go home across the mountains.
Humming all around him, the song swirled like the mist. An eerie melody accompanied by the dozens of hooves pounding
the earth. Lancelot suddenly knew what it was he was hearing, and knew that he would never see Sarmatia again.
"Don't go!" The command drifted across the emptiness. "Please, don't go..." How strange to hear the harsh voice
break with such a plea.
Lancelot needed it to stop calling for him. He was already gone. Half way through the mists, knowing that the sun
would be shining on the other side. There was nothing for him here, only anguish. Couldn't his friend see that?
"Please, God! Don't take him away..."
More moisture landed on his cheek, and Lancelot realized it wasn't him crying. It was a shock, like an arrow to the
chest. He wanted to tell his friend he didn't need to mourn for him, shouldn't ask his God to keep him here, keep
him from joining his brothers.
There were no more words, only the sound of ragged breathing, so close to his face.
Laboured, almost pained. The sound drew his attention more than words ever could. Was his friend injured? He had to
see for himself. He couldn't leave if there was something wrong with him. Home and freedom and peace could wait. His
soul was still here, refusing to let go until it knew it truly was the time.
Arthur was calling. A call he had answered for almost as long as he could remember. His honor demanded him to
answer. His heart compelled him to.
He gathered his strength, lingering for one more second in the mists before forcing his eyelids to flutter open. The
inhale he took turned into a pained gasp as the sound of the horses running faded away, and the reality of the
battlefield returned as if he'd never been away.
There was a muffled yell, a curse or a prayer coming from his side. Still muttered with the harshness only a Woad
could utter. Closer by, there was a more familiar voice thanking God, and for once, Lancelot didn't mind the phrase.
His body still on fire, his mind was soaring like a falcon, circling above them before returning back to be cradled
in strong arms.
**
All righty then. I'd very much like a soundclip/vid clip of the scene where Vanora sings the whole home thing. If you know a place to find it, tell me! I even promise not to write more melodramatic crap!
[lies]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-09-03 08:19 am (UTC)Oh, the dreams and the strong arms. Oh! :)
It's really sweet.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-03 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-04 05:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-04 06:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-04 07:12 am (UTC)