Entry tags:
FIC: Supposed to be (Arthurian)
TITLE: Supposed to be
FANDOM: Arthurian
RATING: PG-
WORDS: 288
Written for:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fahye
Supposed to be
The warrior was dressed in black and grey, with a sword belted to his waist because he felt naked without it. He was a young man, maybe only twenty-four, but the scar that ran across his jawline made him seem older.
He did not belong here.
His little son, dressed in monk’s robes with his thick sandy hair tonsured and serious voice explaining to his father about Easter, did belong.
He shouldn’t have had too.
“Ala.” His son’s dark blue eyes, so much like his mother’s, stare up expectantly at Lancelot’s face. “I-“
“You’ll like Easter.” Ala says eagerly, jumping in at his father’s pause. “We go down into the village and-and-and there’s a fair on the day after and we get to-“
“I can’t be there.”
After a while, the little boy says ‘oh’.
The young warrior had had a dream once, and it did not involve his only child being in a monastery. No, it had included a farm and siblings for Ala and…it didn’t matter now, of course. Not with Ettarde dead and buried for seven winters. And Lancelot, shocked and grieving with a newborn baby on his hands and in a strange country, had given him over to the monks here.
At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. An army was no place for a child to grow up, and the monastery was safe and at least Ala would learn how to read and write…
“Next year, I promise, Galahad.” Looking at his son’s face, scrunched up with the effort not to cry and utterly miserable, with his little hands clenched, Lance kisses his forehead gently, and bolts.
…that’s what Lancelot had told himself, anyway. Now he isn’t so sure.
FANDOM: Arthurian
RATING: PG-
WORDS: 288
Written for:
fahyeThe warrior was dressed in black and grey, with a sword belted to his waist because he felt naked without it. He was a young man, maybe only twenty-four, but the scar that ran across his jawline made him seem older.
He did not belong here.
His little son, dressed in monk’s robes with his thick sandy hair tonsured and serious voice explaining to his father about Easter, did belong.
He shouldn’t have had too.
“Ala.” His son’s dark blue eyes, so much like his mother’s, stare up expectantly at Lancelot’s face. “I-“
“You’ll like Easter.” Ala says eagerly, jumping in at his father’s pause. “We go down into the village and-and-and there’s a fair on the day after and we get to-“
“I can’t be there.”
After a while, the little boy says ‘oh’.
The young warrior had had a dream once, and it did not involve his only child being in a monastery. No, it had included a farm and siblings for Ala and…it didn’t matter now, of course. Not with Ettarde dead and buried for seven winters. And Lancelot, shocked and grieving with a newborn baby on his hands and in a strange country, had given him over to the monks here.
At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. An army was no place for a child to grow up, and the monastery was safe and at least Ala would learn how to read and write…
“Next year, I promise, Galahad.” Looking at his son’s face, scrunched up with the effort not to cry and utterly miserable, with his little hands clenched, Lance kisses his forehead gently, and bolts.
…that’s what Lancelot had told himself, anyway. Now he isn’t so sure.
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poor lancelot :(
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