[Mictlan's castle was asleep by the hour Lancelot stole out of his bed chamber and entered his personal training quarters. When he was finished with the punching bag, most -- but not all -- of his frustrations were drained from his body. It would take hours to get rid of them all. Hours and probably no skin left on his knuckles. He flexed his raw, bloody hands. They were numb with pain - but it was the good sort of pain. It dulled the other pain of knowing in a matter of days he and Arthur would be married men and their time together would be more and more less frequent until they finally put an end to their forbidden affairs. But that didn't mean the General intended to let himself bleed dry. Grabbing a gauzy cloth, he began winding it around his knuckles.
Arthur had no intention of leaving his quarters. Not at this time of night. He couldn't sleep, though. He hadn't slept a night through since leaving for Camlann in the first place and now that they were back in Mictlan, things hadn't improved.
It was probably no surprise that his feet led him in the direction of Lancelot's training quarters and it was certainly no surprise when he wordlessly tugged the gauze out of Lancelot's hands and, having pressed kisses to his general's knuckles, began to bandage Lancelot's hands properly. His eyes flickered up to meet Lancelot's gaze.
"You shouldn't be here," Lancelot murmured, sotto voce. He should have pulled away. He should have told the man to sleep. A servant could walk in at any given moment. Instead of heeding his better senses, he tugged Arthur in for a brutally hungry kiss.
Arthur laughed, muffled against Lancelot's mouth. He pulled back only briefly to whisper that he was the king, he could do what he bloody well pleased, and he wrapped both arms around Lancelot's neck, pressing up against him and kissing him hungrily, as though he was a starving man, as though he need Lancelot to survive (neither seemed far from the truth at that moment).
King, General -- the titles meant nothing in that moment. Lancelot shoved Arthur against the wall, pinning him there roughly with his body. He stripped off their clothes without any regard for the bleeding hands. There was nothing subtle, nothing to hide, about what he wanted. He wanted Arthur and he wanted him now.
Arthur didn't voice any objections because, quite simply, he had none. He urged Lancelot on, with his hands, with his mouth, with his wordless groans and prayed to gods, known and unknown, to grant them this world in which only they existed, like this, forever. In so doing, he was blinded to anything but Lancelot, and blind to anyone who might stumble upon them.
Lancelot sank down to his knees. He was too lost in Arthur, too intoxicated in the taste of him, and the sound of each guttural groan of pleasure, to notice the door open.
They had the luck of damned men and she that of a curious woman. Elaine, feeling rest was beyond her reach that night, wandered the halls in search of amusement or even company. In the end, she wanted to see if Lancelot was up. If he was like many soldiers she knew, then perhaps he would be found where he trained. And even when she heard sounds behind an open door that she should have been able to identify, she curiously peeked in, thinking it to be a grand tale to tell her princess in the morning. But what she saw before she turned around had been enough. Flesh and sweat, lean but strong limbs and -- yes, it had been enough. A quick thought for Polyxena flashed through her mind before her hands balled up. Elaine did not flee immediately, had not shrieked but did the one thing she could do in this situation: she marched in close enough to grab a boot and flung it at them. Only then did she whip back away to storm out, intending on disturbing her princess' sleep shortly.]
[filter; morgan, lancelot, hermes]
(scrawled, and blotted, and not at all like Arthur's usual steady handwriting)