253. Awesome
The first time Arthur heard Pelagius speak to a crowd in Rome, his eyes had burned and his throat had been parched because of his inability to blink or to swallow. He thought if he moved or made a noise, the magic he felt flowing through the crowd from his teacher would be lost or broken.

The young men – and a few women, Arthur took note – stared transfixed at the brown-clad man, whose voice was as affecting and powerful as any pope or member of the senate, no matter if Arthur breathed or moved or not.

At that moment, Arthur knew he could not be what Pelagius wanted for him – to be a learned man, a champion of the downtrodden, defender of the weak, wielding the blade of righteousness that Uther Castus had done. He could not speak like that. Not like that!

Pelagius had been electrifying. He made weekly stops at the foot of the forum, his simple clothing and easy manner of word snagging many passersby and catching them unawares – the man was gifted.

He wrote monthly when Arthur received his commission in Britain; Arthur smiled as he read the reports of how each speach had gone and how many had listened – his mentor didn’t really care about that, but Arthur knew that Pelagius wished for even one true believer among all the hangers on.

About five years into it, the letters began to slow to a trickle. Worrying at first, Arthur wrote back to Pelagius, asking for details, how is the campaign going? Do they believe in good men at last?

The answers, when they came, were short and non-descriptive. Everything was fine – he’d had to move his location, as some of the ‘higher ups’ in Rome weren’t too pleased with how big a crowd Pelagius would draw. Arthur shouldn’t worry about it, and didn’t he have enough to do with those new Sarmatian knights?

Rain pelted them like stones on a winter evening; the skirmish they had ran into that day had ended in a bloody, muddy mess, Arthur’s ala eventually walking away with what could be called victory. And yet, his men, his true and full of such heart men, seemed downtrodden and angry and weary. Arthur sat with them at the edge of the fire they’d managed to build despite the pissing sky, and he laughed weakly at their jokes and ate the bread they’d brought and tried to steer conversation away from the dead knights they’d buried along the road back to Camboglanna. It was a four day trip back and they did not want to be burdened with too much weight; Arthur had felt sick to his soul giving that order, but Lancelot had taken a short, sharp look at him, and then had barked the order back to the others without pause.

They understood – he hoped.

At last silence ruled, the only sound the pattering of the rain onto their damp and exhausted backs and heads. Arthur’s gaze fell on each of his men in turn, and without thinking about it, he stood, water sliding off his heavy armor to soak the already sodden ground.

“Knights,” he called, his voice ringing solid and true around the campfire. “We are the lucky ones. We few who stand or sit here still this evening. And yet, we will – we must - never forget the blood shed for us by our brothers; those same men whose valor and spirit will honor this land.”

He licked his lips, but found his desire to speak was not abated.

“You want to go home, alive. I want for nothing else. I have my duty – you have yours – and despite what I feel in my heart, I must listen to my head and do what I was born to do. We will beat back our enemy, defend this outpost of Rome’s glory – but my friends, my dear and noble friends, I promise you this,” the volume of his words rose, as if he wished for God to hear as well.

Drawing Excalibur, Arthur raised his father’s large broadsword until its tip seemed to graze the heavens. “I will expend every breath and every piece of my body and soul to see you get home. Every one of you that is lost is a bit of me that will remain here in this land – and if I must shed my own blood and leave my own flesh behind so that you can achieve your freedom,” he lowered the sword, and with a sharp, quick slash, opened a cut on his palm. He slammed the blade home into the wet earth, the sword quivering with the violence of the motion – and lifting his bloody hand into the air, he squeezed until the viscous fluid dripped onto the soil that they defended.

“So be it, my brothers.”

Arthur did not doubt one word –

the knights around him stood in twos and threes, and each man saluted him, and each man cried one thing.

Artorius!

Lowering his bleeding fist, Arthur nodded at each man, and turning, left the campsite, the mud and rain sucking at his booted feet as he walked swiftly to the edge of the area where they had set up for the night.

He found his horse and steadied himself by sliding a hand over the animal’s neck.

He then promptly bent in half and vomited on the soil of the land his knights were buried in, the land he was sworn to protect with his life.

Arthur stayed kneeling on the ground, his great white war horse nudging him gently with its nose. A few tears leaked from his eyes, and he wondered for the hundredth time if Pelagius knew just what sort of influence he’d been on a wide eyed, easily impressed young boy.

He had a bad feeling it would only prove worse.

~