Sophinisba Solis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sophinisba) wrote2010-06-29 07:36 pm
sophinisba) wrote2010-06-29 07:36 pm
Entry tags:
Merlin fic: Prison of Love
Title: Prison of Love
Fandom: Merlin
Wordcount: 1275
Pairing(s): Lancelot/various
Rating: PG-13
Contains: public humiliation, angst, violence (not graphic)
Summary: Why Lancelot fights in a cage. (Takes place during episode 2x04, "Lancelot and Guinevere" - image under the cut to help you remember.)
Notes: For the "confined/caged" square on my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo card. Thanks to themadlurker for helping me talk through this and for looking it over!
There are other ways of making a living, Lancelot thinks as he waits in the darkness of the tunnel underneath Hengist's feast hall. There are other ways of training his fighting skills than going up against the likes of Jarrett, who's just run out to the roar of the crowd. Men who bellow and thrash like the blind beasts that share this tunnel with them, men whose only job is to kill or be killed.
Lancelot may not be of noble birth, he may not be good enough to be a knight of Camelot, but there are other kingdoms that would take him on, lend him a sword and their colors to wear. They'd have him kill their monsters to protect their people, or even send him to war to protect their borders. That would be an honourable life, if not the life he used to dream of.
Or he could be a teacher, a farmer, a smith. It's absurd, the way he goes on clinging to fighting as a way of life, as if putting on a show for these men is any way of avenging his family and his village. No, he failed at that task a long time ago.
Lancelot doesn't do good. He does this.
Outside the cage, he's done his part for the other men's happiness, and for his own. Not for Hengist himself, but Jarrett and a few of the others. Hengist says they can get up to whatever they want, as long as he only has to see them as warriors. So they stick to the dark places, corners and stables and tunnels. More than once Lancelot’s leaned against the wall of the tunnel, in this very spot, and let a man twice his size fuck him while the Wildren snarl and slobber and watch with their beady eyes from their cages. It feels good, that hot breath on his neck and cold sandstone under his arms, but it's nothing compared to the fight.
There are other ways of making a living. Lancelot doesn't do this for the coins, or for the practice, or for the glory, or Hengist's satisfaction. He does it because after the first time he fought a man in a cage he couldn't wait to do it again. He loves the sweat, the danger and the dirt, the brawny ugliness of his opponents. (And perhaps next time Lancelot will give up his errant knight's costume and let himself be one of them, bare his skin but for a few bands of leather, bear his skin and his teeth for the enjoyment of the crowd.) More than that, he loves the pressing heat and the noise around him, the leers of the toothless old men who clasp at the bars of his cage trying to get a closer look. He loves the way half the spectators ignore him, more interested in the body on their lap or the hand on their thigh than whether he lives or dies.
What he loves best of all is to pretend he's somewhere else. He's still in a cage, but instead of some warlord's castle he's in the court of Camelot, with a newly crowned King Arthur on the throne.
Lancelot's not stupid enough to close his eyes in a fight, but he'll watch his foe, and then he can trick his brain, the corner of his eye, into thinking someone else is watching him. Hengist, only half interested in the show, will call for more ale, and Lancelot will make himself hear Arthur’s voice.
Lancelot's won five of these fights in the two weeks since he came to this castle, and Hengist barely noticed, hasn't bothered to learn his name. But if Arthur were here, he'd put all his focus on the fight.
What kind of attack is that, Lancelot, are you even paying attention? he'd shout, exasperated. Come on, you jumped-up dung beetle. Have you learned anything from our training sessions? Anything at all? Do I have to start over and send you back to clean out the stables? And Lancelot would bow his head and swear to do better.
Merlin would be standing next to the king, not saying a word. He'd have shared his secret with Arthur by then, but he'd be keeping his distance from Lancelot.
And Gwen, the Lady Guinevere would have her own throne at Arthur's other side. She'd be frowning, disappointed in her knight. Perhaps thinking of how she'd teach him a lesson later.
So he'd fight harder to do them proud. Move faster, anticipate his opponent's movements and penetrate his defenses. But if Arthur sent him back to the stables he'd go, and he'd thank him. If Arthur ordered him to kneel it would be a joy, whether it meant he was to become a knight at last or only to service the king with his mouth.
Of course it made no sense. Lancelot knew that Arthur would never be the kind of king to preside over crude spectacle such as this. He'd host a proper jousting tournament, not a cockfight like this. Besides that, as she'd kept trying to tell him, Gwen is a maid. She's got no more chance of becoming queen than he has of becoming a knight, even if Arthur wanted her – and Lancelot had seen no evidence that he did. He doesn't know where it all comes from, but it's the fantasy that gets him get through his life after Camelot. He just can't think about it too hard, or it falls apart.
The applause for Jarrett dies down and Hengist calls for the challenger. Lancelot steels himself to face them and jogs out. For a moment he just lets himself float on the roar of contempt coming at him from all four sides of the cage, but then he turns to salute his host and sees…
At first he thinks his eyes must be fooling him – perhaps he's gotten a little too good at wishing her here – but no. It is, it is Guinevere, seated at Hengist's side, dressed like a lady in blue and purple finery. Lancelot’s face heats with shame, familiar and suffocating as a lover’s embrace. It can't be, but it is, it's her, and she's seeing him, here, like this.
"Only one of you will emerge from the cage alive," Hengist says. "Do you accept the challenge?"
And Lancelot lets the words tangle up in his mind so they sound like, Only one of you will emerge from the cage to grovel at the Lady Guinevere's feet. He bows his head and turns away.
If he tries to make sense of it he knows there's something terribly wrong. Gwen shouldn't be here at all, and Hengist certainly shouldn't be allowed to touch her. She looks frightened. She needs his help, and she'll get it…but he needs to defeat this man first, before he'll have the honor of serving her.
But even knowing all that, that it's not supposed to be this way, it's like a dream come true. She's seeing him as a trained beast in a cage, jeered by the lowest of the low, and it's so perfect he can barely stand to move.
Until Jarrett's charging at him, and then his reflexes are as quick as always and before he can think he's fighting back. Ever since he was a boy, Lancelot's dedicated his every spare moment to swordplay, but when he thought he was doing it to become a Knight of Camelot he was wrong. He was doing it for this moment, so that he could lay down his worthless life for the Lady Guinevere.
Fandom: Merlin
Wordcount: 1275
Pairing(s): Lancelot/various
Rating: PG-13
Contains: public humiliation, angst, violence (not graphic)
Summary: Why Lancelot fights in a cage. (Takes place during episode 2x04, "Lancelot and Guinevere" - image under the cut to help you remember.)
Notes: For the "confined/caged" square on my
kink_bingo card. Thanks to themadlurker for helping me talk through this and for looking it over!There are other ways of making a living, Lancelot thinks as he waits in the darkness of the tunnel underneath Hengist's feast hall. There are other ways of training his fighting skills than going up against the likes of Jarrett, who's just run out to the roar of the crowd. Men who bellow and thrash like the blind beasts that share this tunnel with them, men whose only job is to kill or be killed.
Lancelot may not be of noble birth, he may not be good enough to be a knight of Camelot, but there are other kingdoms that would take him on, lend him a sword and their colors to wear. They'd have him kill their monsters to protect their people, or even send him to war to protect their borders. That would be an honourable life, if not the life he used to dream of.
Or he could be a teacher, a farmer, a smith. It's absurd, the way he goes on clinging to fighting as a way of life, as if putting on a show for these men is any way of avenging his family and his village. No, he failed at that task a long time ago.
Lancelot doesn't do good. He does this.
Outside the cage, he's done his part for the other men's happiness, and for his own. Not for Hengist himself, but Jarrett and a few of the others. Hengist says they can get up to whatever they want, as long as he only has to see them as warriors. So they stick to the dark places, corners and stables and tunnels. More than once Lancelot’s leaned against the wall of the tunnel, in this very spot, and let a man twice his size fuck him while the Wildren snarl and slobber and watch with their beady eyes from their cages. It feels good, that hot breath on his neck and cold sandstone under his arms, but it's nothing compared to the fight.
There are other ways of making a living. Lancelot doesn't do this for the coins, or for the practice, or for the glory, or Hengist's satisfaction. He does it because after the first time he fought a man in a cage he couldn't wait to do it again. He loves the sweat, the danger and the dirt, the brawny ugliness of his opponents. (And perhaps next time Lancelot will give up his errant knight's costume and let himself be one of them, bare his skin but for a few bands of leather, bear his skin and his teeth for the enjoyment of the crowd.) More than that, he loves the pressing heat and the noise around him, the leers of the toothless old men who clasp at the bars of his cage trying to get a closer look. He loves the way half the spectators ignore him, more interested in the body on their lap or the hand on their thigh than whether he lives or dies.
What he loves best of all is to pretend he's somewhere else. He's still in a cage, but instead of some warlord's castle he's in the court of Camelot, with a newly crowned King Arthur on the throne.
Lancelot's not stupid enough to close his eyes in a fight, but he'll watch his foe, and then he can trick his brain, the corner of his eye, into thinking someone else is watching him. Hengist, only half interested in the show, will call for more ale, and Lancelot will make himself hear Arthur’s voice.
Lancelot's won five of these fights in the two weeks since he came to this castle, and Hengist barely noticed, hasn't bothered to learn his name. But if Arthur were here, he'd put all his focus on the fight.
What kind of attack is that, Lancelot, are you even paying attention? he'd shout, exasperated. Come on, you jumped-up dung beetle. Have you learned anything from our training sessions? Anything at all? Do I have to start over and send you back to clean out the stables? And Lancelot would bow his head and swear to do better.
Merlin would be standing next to the king, not saying a word. He'd have shared his secret with Arthur by then, but he'd be keeping his distance from Lancelot.
And Gwen, the Lady Guinevere would have her own throne at Arthur's other side. She'd be frowning, disappointed in her knight. Perhaps thinking of how she'd teach him a lesson later.
So he'd fight harder to do them proud. Move faster, anticipate his opponent's movements and penetrate his defenses. But if Arthur sent him back to the stables he'd go, and he'd thank him. If Arthur ordered him to kneel it would be a joy, whether it meant he was to become a knight at last or only to service the king with his mouth.
Of course it made no sense. Lancelot knew that Arthur would never be the kind of king to preside over crude spectacle such as this. He'd host a proper jousting tournament, not a cockfight like this. Besides that, as she'd kept trying to tell him, Gwen is a maid. She's got no more chance of becoming queen than he has of becoming a knight, even if Arthur wanted her – and Lancelot had seen no evidence that he did. He doesn't know where it all comes from, but it's the fantasy that gets him get through his life after Camelot. He just can't think about it too hard, or it falls apart.
The applause for Jarrett dies down and Hengist calls for the challenger. Lancelot steels himself to face them and jogs out. For a moment he just lets himself float on the roar of contempt coming at him from all four sides of the cage, but then he turns to salute his host and sees…
At first he thinks his eyes must be fooling him – perhaps he's gotten a little too good at wishing her here – but no. It is, it is Guinevere, seated at Hengist's side, dressed like a lady in blue and purple finery. Lancelot’s face heats with shame, familiar and suffocating as a lover’s embrace. It can't be, but it is, it's her, and she's seeing him, here, like this.
"Only one of you will emerge from the cage alive," Hengist says. "Do you accept the challenge?"
And Lancelot lets the words tangle up in his mind so they sound like, Only one of you will emerge from the cage to grovel at the Lady Guinevere's feet. He bows his head and turns away.
If he tries to make sense of it he knows there's something terribly wrong. Gwen shouldn't be here at all, and Hengist certainly shouldn't be allowed to touch her. She looks frightened. She needs his help, and she'll get it…but he needs to defeat this man first, before he'll have the honor of serving her.
But even knowing all that, that it's not supposed to be this way, it's like a dream come true. She's seeing him as a trained beast in a cage, jeered by the lowest of the low, and it's so perfect he can barely stand to move.
Until Jarrett's charging at him, and then his reflexes are as quick as always and before he can think he's fighting back. Ever since he was a boy, Lancelot's dedicated his every spare moment to swordplay, but when he thought he was doing it to become a Knight of Camelot he was wrong. He was doing it for this moment, so that he could lay down his worthless life for the Lady Guinevere.
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What's more, all those images of Gwen and Arthur measuring him and putting him through different type of services and punishments are extremely hot. I love this Lancelot's mind and his enjoyment of juxtaposing both kinks and reality in his mind but knowing the differences. He's deliberately creating these scenarios and settings in his own mind, finding his own kinks through what we saw in the show in a very nicely fabricated consensual setting.
Now I find myself wishing he's able to continue playing his kinks happily when he does get back in Arthur's court, both for him and because it's all extremely sexy.
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