It is then that he realizes that distance is more than the space between.

He is in the stable the first time it happens. Two Centurions enter with mead-rich blood and stinking breath, the low rumble of their language common to Lancelot's ears now, easily understood despite the slurred words.

"Prettiest thing you've ever seen." The larger of the two men smiles, his eyes hot on Lancelot as they sweep over him, then move away as if he were beneath notice. Lancelot feels the burning in his skin, his flesh pulsing with something he doesn't quite understand as he leans his head against his horse's nose, breathing the hay-sweet scent of her.

The man continues talking, bodies and heat and tight and hot and then his hands are on Lancelot's shoulders, jerking him down into the dirt. Lancelot struggles, his body alive with the instinct to fight and survive. He tastes blood and chokes on it as two hands hold him down and two hands strip him bare, and his voice breaks as he curses them and the man on top of him - inside him - laughs.

He spits blood at him, which only serves to make him laugh and promise revenge, swearing Lancelot will bleed far more by the time he's done. Lancelot snaps, teeth sharp and dangerous, until the man holding his hands digs his knees into Lancelot's wrists and forces a bit into his mouth, holding him down, keeping him silent.

The men eventually switch places; almost losing Lancelot as he wrenches away, his booted foot slamming into the chest of one of them, but they force him still, and the pain that follows beats past the searing heat that throbs in his leg where the bone is possibly broken.

When they leave him, he dresses slowly, noting the new marks that lace his flesh. Where hair feathers around his nipples, there are teeth and pinch marks, where hair sprouts at the base of his shaft there are bruises already darkening. He leans against the wall of his horse's stall, supporting himself on the firm wood, closing his eyes and breathing deeply before beginning the long walk back to his barracks.

He makes mention to no one, though he knows that Tristan sees, as Tristan sees everything. No words pass between them, but they ride together, drawing raised eyebrows from their fellow knights but nothing more after the first attack of Lancelot's bitter laugh and tongue sharpened deadlier than his swords.

His beard grows and his voice cracks one last time before it deepens for good, the throaty purr that accompanies it separating him from Tristan as the women of the garrison draw toward him. He finds pleasure in their bodies, giving all and taking nothing in return, letting his name fall from their lips as he leaves them sighing.

The second time it happens, he is drunk himself on the honey-sweet spills from between Drasta's thighs and the blood red wine she'd poured down his throat and onto his chest. Hands grab him and pull him in the darkened passage, his face held fast against the rough brick by the hand at the back of his head.

"Like a bitch in heat," the Roman's voice is no different for being drunker or the intervening months. "Legs spread for whoever wants a piece."

There are three of them this time - one on each side to hold an arm and pin a leg, the last to drive the pleasant haze of the night irrevocably from him as they spill good mead to slick his flesh and theirs, burning the tearing flesh with caustic spirits. The stone scrapes his face with every thrust of the body inside him and the hand at his head, the force pounding behind his eyes in time with his pulse and the push of the body inside him.

He offers no resistance, no fight despite the words they whisper to taunt him, the names they slur against himself and his family. He doesn't hear them as he burns their faces into his memory then closes his eyes until they're done with him, stumbling off spent and laughing into the night.

It is deceptively simple. Arthur asks his opinion and he gives it, staring at the line of Centurions outside in formation, their metal uniforms glittering in the sun. He gives the name of the man he knows, points out the other two. Arthur nods, agreeing with his assessment and then turns back to plan the rest of the attack.

Lancelot doesn't leave the window as Arthur continues, preferring instead to stare down at the line of men, his smile as dark as the festering poison inside him. Arthur touches his shoulder and he lifts his head, the commander's reaction letting him know he did not hide his eyes well enough.

"Ready?"

Arthur nods, something in his eyes. "Lancelot? Is there something…"

"There is nothing, Arthur, save Woads who need killing. We should find someone to do that job, should we not?"

The battle rages around them, but the flashing metal stays constant in the corner of Lancelot's eye. The Woads are falling fast and retreating as Lancelot swings off his horse and grabs the weapon of the dead Woad at his feet. The primitive axe sinks easily into the neck of the first Centurion, nearly severing his head with the weight of Lancelot's blow.

He jerks the axe free and spins, embedding it deeply in the stomach of the second man, the only sound between them a soft grunt, a mockery of the sound of satisfaction huffed in Lancelot's ear. Blood coats Lancelot's leather pants as he straddles the man and smiles down, drawing one sword and pressing it against his throat. "My legs are spread again, Roman."

He lifts his foot and stomps hard on the butt of the axe and buries it deeper in the Roman's stomach before turning on his heel, his boot now slick with blood, and drawing both his swords.

He kicks the third Roman in the back, blood splattering at the contact, staining the silver-gold metal. The Roman stumbles and turns, his smile widening at the sight of Lancelot. "Come for more?"

"I have come." Lancelot moves fluidly, sliding one sword between the plates of the Centurion's uniform. He punctures flesh and more as he slides it through until the hilt clangs against the plates, then he draws it out sharply. He kicks the Roman again and watches him fall before moving over him, his foot flat on the Roman's chest. One sword drips blood on the Roman's outstretched hand, the other presses an indentation in the flesh of his throat. "To show you the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

The Roman's smile is cut off as the sword tip pierces his throat, Lancelot bringing all his weight to bear on the blade. His hands shake as he practically lays across the hilt, feeling the tip puncture the ground beneath, spilling blood into the muddy grass.

He doesn't move until Tristan pulls him back, easing the sword from the Roman's throat. "Come. Before Arthur does."

Lancelot nods and sheathes his swords, moving back to his horse. There will be sharp lashes across his back for the loss of three Roman Centurions, he knows that. Their commander will not let Arthur excuse him for so great a loss.

He mounts his horse and stares down at the bodies, unable to stop the hard curve of his smile. He'll gladly take the sting of their whips. But no Roman will ever touch him again.