Work Text:
“Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.”
― Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur
Sir Hayden Pike was cradling his king the same way that he cradled his children. His head on Hayden’s lap, and Hayden’s hands running soothingly through the matted mess of his hair, and Hayden’s king looking up at him with wide, almost guileless eyes, looking decades younger than he had been in a very long time. If Hayden closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that his king was one of his children - one of the twins, or Arthur, or Amber; if Hayden closed his eyes, he could almost ignore the tacky feeling of the blood as it dried on his hands.
“You will be okay,” he told Shane. “Help will arrive soon. They will find us.”
He had been repeating this litany for hours, maybe. Over and over, until it sounded as flat and unconvincing as the lie he knew it to be. The first time he had said it, he had thought that it had been okay. He’d been certain that Shane had believed him, even as Hayden had swallowed back the burn of tears and the urge to wail and pound his fists on the ground and scream that it wasn’t fair! His voice was hoarse, scraped raw - had been, after the din of battle and the yelling that came with trying to be heard over the clash of metal and the screams of the dying, and was hoarser still after hours of trying to keep up a one-sided stream of reassurance.
Hayden had been one of the most loyal knights that Shane had ever sworn into his service. He’d fought giants for his king, and waged wars on the continent, and toppled emperors, all for the glory of the vision of a just and fair Logres that Shane had set out before them. One where all could be equal, where ordinary men could be elevated to the same heights as magicians and warriors, and where songs could boast of happy endings instead of tragic ends. And he’d been happy to do it - happy to do it with his brothers, for his brother, and he would do it all again, if it meant spending just another moment at Shane’s side. It was his sworn duty, after all, and when Hayden had been taking from the King’s side, just for a moment, in the heat of the battle that had raged over Camlann -
Well. Hayden was by Shane’s side yet again. And he was waiting for the King to die.
Hayden had thought Shane immortal. He’d seen him survive blows and wounds that would have destroyed any ordinary man. He’d seen him face insurmountable odds and win, every time. Enemies had been rebuffed from Camelot’s defensive walls, and plots had been foiled, but Hayden supposed that this time was different. That it had been personal. That it had been a betrayal that Hayden did not think either of them had come to terms with yet.
Shane was paying for it now, with a head wound that would not stop bleeding and none of his men aside from Hayden around to help him. Hayden was no healer. His hands had never been gentle enough nor patient enough for the work of a physician. They were firm enough to staunch some of the flow, but that was not enough. That would not save Shane’s life, only prolong it in this interminable state of agony. Long enough that Hayden - not gentle, but certainly strong - had been able to bear Shane forward, slung over his shoulders, and carry him hence from the smouldering remains of the battlefield to a lake that appeared as if it existed a million miles away from it all, for how untouched and unspoiled it was.
He had never been to Lake Avalon before this, but he had heard the stories often enough to recognise where it had all began. This was where Shane’s Logres had taken root, where it had began. Shane had been so young then, and so alone and so scared, and Hayden’s heart ached to think of it - of that moment when a boy’s life had stopped being his own and had started belonging to his people, when he had become a symbol rather than a person. And Hayden hated himself a little bit for that as well, because he believed in the symbol and because - despite th loyalty that he claimed in the man - he had failed twice to cast away the sword when he had been asked to. Because the sword was the symbol and Hayden’s hands had shook as he had held it out over the water and he had thought this is how it ends.
He’d thought of his wife and his children, and the safety that they would have in Shane’s Logres, and he’d drawn the sword back towards him and hid it in the bushes.
“What happened,” Shane had asked, “when you cast the sword away?”
“Nothing,” Hayden had replied.
Voice steady, Shane had said, “liar.”
So, Hayden had thrown the sword. He - Sir Hayden Pike, who had been sworn into the Round Table on the point of it - had taken the sword by the hilt and he had thrown it to the waters, and he had watched as all the hopes of Logres had been thrown with it. Excalibur had served a purpose, just as the Sword in the Stone had served its purpose before, but Excalibur's purpose had been far from over - Logres was far from just and fair and good - and Hayden had wept at the thought of seeing it vanish, and he had wept at the thought of raising his children in a Logres undefended by its blade and the King who wielded it - and Hayden had watched as its glittering arc was halted. A hand, clad in white, thrust from the still waters of the lake. It held it aloft a moment, as if to acknowledge the weight of the moment, as if it was trying to send Hayden a message, and had then drawn the sword down, down, down into the depths of Avalon.
Hayden had looked back to see if Shane had seen, slumped a few metres away from the shoreline, but Shane had been hidden amongst the long grasses where Hayden had hunkered them down before, his view obscured. Still, when Hayden had lifted him back into his arms, Shane had twisted to look across the lake as if he already knew what Hayden was had seen and was trying to find the evidence of it, lingering for him.
“What happened,” Shane had asked again, “when you cast the sword away?”
“It fell,” Hayden had replied, a strange lump in his throat, “and was caught by a white arm, who lowered it into the waters.”
Laughing, though this was little more than a few pained gasps of breath, Shane had said, “then the Lady has it, for when I need it next.”
Hayden had agreed, drawing Shane up and onto his lap as though they were kids again and did not have the separation of rank and title between them, and he had smothered the noise of his grief against the crown of Shane's head, keeping his lips there like a kiss - ignoring the wet taste of copper - so that he could not cry out. He knew that if he cried out, it would be an awful, violent and bitter thing. You will never need it again, he nearly snapped, and you're never going to hold Excalibur once more, and you're going to die, and I cannot stop it. He didn't say it, of course, because it would be unkind, but he thought that Shane could tell what he was thinking, could read it on his face, because Hayden had never been the best at keeping things from him. And Shane was kind enough to not call Hayden out on it, so they sat like that - the two of them, like boys again - and they waited for the King to die.
Hayden had long since ran out of words to say. His reassurances had paled, lost conviction, and fallen away into silence. He had tried to talk to Shane about his children and about his wife, hoping to fill the silence with something for Shane to live for and to return to. He had even spoken of the Lady Rose, though the King’s wife had vanished between one breath and the next, and the rumours of where she had gone varied between nunneries, infidelity and jealous sorcerers. Shane had not wanted to search for there then - Hayden thought that he knew more than he was letting on - but he had wondered if his wife would be enough for Shane to live for, if death would reconfigure some issues of perspective. But Shane had gotten paler and paler, face drawn and grey, and the blood that seeped from him had begun to dry on Hayden’s hands, coating his skin in crimson.
Shane stared up at the trees, just beyond Hayden’s face. “It’s time,” he said, softly. “Hayd - Hayd, will you return to Camelot?”
Hayden held him closer. “Of course. I will take you back and -”
Shane shook his head. “I am not going back. But I need you to promise me that you will. Someone in Camelot needs to fight for it, for the future that we have tried to build together. It cannot be me. It will have to be you - you an any Knight of the Round Table who has made it away from Camlann.”
“I’m not going to leave you here -”
“I will not be alone,” Shane interrupted. And he raised a shaky hand, pointing out across the lake’s surface.
Hayden looked up, following his finger, and blinked. Because there, on the lake’s surface, where there had been nobody before, was now a small barge, bedecked in colourful silks and beaded curtains, the glitter of embroidered golden thread flashing in the sun. Hayden had been in Camelot long enough to recognise the influence of magic when he saw it - and this barge was in no way free of it. It cut through the water in spite of the lack of wind, and moved with an unnerving, silent grace. Hayden watched, holding Shane tighter, as it drew up onto shore. He felt, instinctively, that it was this moment that would drive the final separation between himself and Shane, and he could not bear the thought of it.
From the barge, a man dismounted. Hayden did not recognise him immediately, but there was something familiar about him that tickled at the back of his mind, as if Hayden was glimpsing him through the film of a half-remembered dream. Blond curls framed a classically handsome face, and the lean, muscled lines of his body were clad in a rich, flowing tunic, lined with fur. He moved with an easy, predatory grace, and his feet left no impression in the sand of the shore as he approached. He was quick, certain, and his attention was locked on Shane, where he was bundled in Hayden’s arms. Hayden’s hands twitched towards his sword, where he had plunged it into the earth, but Shane clung tighter to him, so that Hayden could not reach it.
“Lord Ilya,” Shane breathed, and Hayden realised where he recognised the man from.
Lord Ilya of Gore, a kingdom far north from the border of Logres. People whispered about him often, about the evil works of sorcery that he wrought in opposition to Shane’s dreams of a kinder world. They said, often, that he was unnatural, and Haydn well believed these rumours. He had heard the testimony of knights who had fallen into Lord Ilya’s custody, of men transfigured into rocks and enchanted cloaks that could boil the skin off the wearer and set them alight from inside. Ilya did not seem like such a threat now, but Hayden knew better than to trust appearances.
“Peace,” Shane said, and Hayden’s heart panged at how thready his voice had become. What did it matter, he thought despairingly, if he had to protect Shane from Ilya of Gore? Shane would die anyway. Hayden would accomplish nothing, except for deciding what stories they would sing of his friend when he was dead. “He is a friend.”
“A friend,” Hayden repeated, incredulously.
Ilya dropped to his knees beside them, reaching out with gentle hands for Shane’s face. Hayden wanted to push him away, but found that he was frozen, every inch of his body tensed and unwilling to obey his singles. Sorcery.
“My love,” said Ilya, “what have you done?”
My love, Hayden mouthed. Shane did not argue against the moniker.
“It’s just as we were told,” said Shane, with a strange, wry humour underlining his voice. “Camelot’s undoing, my fall. A betrayal from a man born at the beginning of May.”
Ilya’s hands roved over Shane’s head, threading through his hair. “A mortal wound,” he murmured, and something caught at the back of his throat. “You will die.”
“I know.
For a long, silent moment, they exchanged no words. They merely looked at one another, and Hayden felt as though they were communicating something in a way that he could not hear, in a way that no one could hear. It seemed a personal thing, honed and as sharp as the blades that they had born, and as familiar as the sort of trust that assured them that those blades would not be turned against one another. Shane reached over, and clasped Ilya’s hand, letting their joined grip rest on his chest. It pulled Ilya closer to Hayden, who was still cradling Shane, and meant that Hayden could see every jarred, fluttering breath that hitched at Ilya’s lungs.
“I can make it go away,” Ilya said eventually. “We can go to Avalon.”
“No,” Hayden snapped, and finally managed to make his hands obeyed. He shoved Ilya, but it only sent the man rocking back a little, taken by surprise but not effective in the slightest.
Ilya’s expression was thunderous. “What?”
“Hayd, it is alright -” Shane began.
Hayden cut him off. “I can’t lose you. Shane, Shane, you’re my brother, my best friend, my king. I swore to guard you with my life. Don’t let this be how I fail you.”
“You haven’t failed me.”
“I have,” Hayden choked out, “in every way that matters, I have.”
“He will return when Logres’ need is greatest,” said Ilya. Hayden had not expected him to speak. He startled, turning towards the man. The sorcerer’s voice was even, his face open when Hayden tried to study the intention on it. The words rang of truth, but Hayden could not tell how much of that was because of his own hopes and fears.
“I will be gone,” Hayden said, testing out the words, choosing to trust - it felt wrong, to tumble headfirst into believing this without proof, and yet. And yet. “When Shane returns, I will not see him again. I will be gone.”
“Yes,” Ilya replied, “but he will not be.”
“Hayd,” Shane breathed.
“That’s all that matters,” Hayden said firmly. To know that his king would live? Yes. Yes, that was what mattered to Hayden.
“You may help me bear him to the barge,” Ilya offered. “Say goodbye.”
Hayden did not think that he could speak without weeping, and so he said nothing. Ilya rose to his feet, giving them space, and Hayden followed suit, tightening his hold on Shane as he bored him upwards, tucked protectively against his chest. Shane made a bitten off noise of pain at the movement, that bottomed out into a groan, and Hayden tried his best to shield him from the jarring of Hayden’s walk as he moved towards the barge, pulling him closer as if Hayden could hide him from it all. He couldn’t, but he saw the white-knuckled grip that Shane kept on his forearm and the way that Shane bit down on his lip, growing steadily paler and clammier, and knew that Shane was making an attempt to hide his agony from Hayden.
It was almost a relief when Hayden could lie him down in the barge, leaning over the side to lower Shane onto a soft bed of downy pillows, drawing a throw up and over him until Shane looked almost like he was only going to rest for a little while. A relief, because it meant that Hayden was not hurting him anymore through the process of trying to move him, but Hayden felt the absence of him in his arms almost immediately. He dreamt of snatching him up and running, taking him far, far away from whatever lonely fate had been allotted to him, but -
Ilya boosted himself up into the barge after Shane, settling in at his side, and Hayden did not think he would get very far if he tried to run. He thought, as well, that maybe Shane would not be as lonely as Hayden had assumed him to be.
So, he leaned over the side, hand smoothing away the dark hair that had fallen across Shane’s forward and pressed a kiss against it, letting his lips linger as he soaked in this last moment.
“Shane,” he murmured, “my liege. The Once and Future King.”
Shane reached up and gripped his hand. His hold was iron, and he did not release it, ven as the boat silently began to pull away. Hayden waded out with it, letting Shane cling to his hand and clinging to Shane’s in return, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on Shane’s face, trying to catalogue every inch of it and commit it to memory. The water sucked at his legs and pulled at him, dragging at the heaviness of his armour. Eventually, it reached his waist and Hayden could go no further. Shane’s hand was pulled from his. Still, Hayden reached out towards it, knowing that he would never reach it. The barge continued without him, steadily, as if the world had not just ended for Hayden, rearranging itself irrevocably into a stranger’s form.
It grew smaller and smaller, but Hayden stayed until the very last moment, when it was tiny in the distance and he could no longer make out the forms of individual people. Then, it was swallowed by the fog, and the last vestiges of the Golden Age of Camelot slipped from his grasp, and he mourned them with the devotion of a pilgrim and a brother both.