He lifts his chin and, even though he doesn't recognize the words the Roman uses, he knows the tone, he knows the threatening stance. He didn't, however many moons ago that they'd been traveling, in a dark flat plain of grasses when one of the men had grabbed him and dragged him off, out of the site of the other boys, the other men. He'd heard the hooted calls that followed them and he'd fought, refusing to be led to his death like a lamb.

The Roman had slapped him hard enough to make him bleed, and Lancelot had gasped for breath, only to find himself face down in the dirt and stripped, his flesh parted and penetrated. When it was over, he wrapped himself around the pain and lay there, bleeding in the grass until morning came and one of the other boys helped him back to his horse. He walked that day rather than rode, listening to the other boy tell him how to ignore the pain, how to avoid it.

Lancelot doesn't believe him. He knows the pain will be his time and again. His delicate features and thin body bound to draw the hungry eyes. He knows it. He's learned in one lesson how the world works, and he will not forget.

He doesn't forget it now as the Roman comes closer, intent as bright as the moon in his eyes. Lancelot pushes off the rock and stands. This is something else he's learned. They may have him, they may own him, but they will have to take every piece of them they want.

The Roman laughs and grabs for him, enjoying the game. He catches Lancelot's tunic and pulls him close. His breath stinks of rotting meat and ale as he looks down into Lancelot's face. There are no words and no warning, just the hard crush of lips and the sharp bite of teeth. Lancelot cries out in surprise as the Roman's teeth sink into his lip. He tastes blood again, lost in the copper tang that he barely notices the Roman turn him, strip him, take him.

His fingers dig into the rock he's pushed against, grey dust crumbling beneath his nails. It is training, the other boys whisper, for what's yet to come. Lancelot disagrees, even as the Roman spills inside Lancelot's torn and tender flesh. Whatever will come, one day Lancelot will have a sword in his hand.

And then the training will begin.