Every man has his price. Even Lancelot.

He stands at the end of Arthur's bed, watching as the other man moves around the room, discussing strategy and reasons and excuses. They are miles and miles from Rome, no Romans come this far save to die in battle, and yet they spill his brothers' blood so easily to hold this land against the Woads. Once something belongs to Rome, it remains Rome's until death or benevolence sets it free.

He does not believe he's ever seen benevolence, though death he has seen and dealt his share of.

"Arthur." He breaks into the litany of Arthur's words, sin and saint alike warring for space in the room around them. Nothing has gone right this day, and two more knights are dead. Their numbers are fading, depleted and tired, sore and battleworn. "Would it do any good for me to simply agree with you? Would that earn me a fond good night and let me fall into bed?"

"You're exhausted." It's half question and half statement, though Lancelot doesn't believe that Arthur had seen until he'd spoken. He's so much furniture sometimes, a sounding board for Arthur to vent frustration with Rome, with God. Arthur is destined for faith, and yet he fails at it, wanting so much more than faith allows.

"We are all exhausted, Arthur. We have ridden and fought and died and we are tired. Loose another campaign against the Woads on the morrow. I cannot fight again tonight." He shifts, unsurprised that he sways slightly. Perhaps more tired than he thought. "My skills at strategy at this moment are limited to simply thinking we should kill them all and let your God have at them. My plan for that is to hope that they accidentally fall on our swords while I'm sleeping." He sways again and laughs, shocked at how much like a sob it sounds. "Please, Arthur."

Arthur catches him as he falls and guides him down to the cot. It is softer than his bed in the barracks, though not by much. Perhaps it is the cushion of Arthur's arm beneath him that makes the comfort greater, for he misses it as it disappears. He sighs with something akin to relief or perhaps it is a yawn. He's beyond the telling of it.

Arthur sits beside him, looking down on him with a mixture of bemusement and concern. "You trouble me, Lancelot." He reaches out, his fingers light on Lancelot's brow.

"I trouble everyone," he assures Arthur with a hint of a smile. "It is a skill I apparently acquired at a young age. But what have I done recently to earn such a look?"

"Nothing different." Arthur continues tracing his brow, smoothing the rough furrows in the smooth skin. "I have ceased trying to understand you, my friend. I merely take you as you are."

"It's the best way," he agrees softly, sleepily, surrendering to the gentle pressure of Arthur's fingers. "I will fight for you tomorrow, if you wish it. More tomorrow. Just…ask nothing of me tonight. I am sick and tired of wearing blood and leather, tired of burying boys younger than I. I'm tired, Arthur."

"We're all tired, Lancelot." Arthur presses his fingertips lightly to Lancelot's eyes, guiding them closed. "Sleep."

"And what will you do?" He doesn't open his eyes, can't quite manage it. "Worry? Work? Pray?"

"I think," he speaks softly, the words whispered against Lancelot's skin as he stretches out beside him, rough cloth and leather rasping against the heavy blanket beneath them, warm skin pressed against Lancelot's sudden chill, "I think I will lie here. The Woads will be there tomorrow. And tomorrow is soon enough for someone else to die."

"Too soon," Lancelot mumbles into Arthur's neck, letting the dark pool of exhaustion flood around him. "It is far too soon." He doesn't think, just feels warm and safe, no matter how misleading that safety might be. There is nothing safe about this place, this time, this man. But Lancelot holds on to keep himself from drowning. "It will always be too soon."

Arthur murmurs something and Lancelot can't hear it, doesn't need to know anything more than the reassuring low rumble of Arthur's voice. This is Lancelot's price. This comfort, this man, Arthur's self-confessed sin.

He pays it in blood, he pays it in sweat and cold and death. He pays his price daily in battle. He pays, and yet he has no claim here. One day this will belong to someone else, something else. Eventually the blood he pays with will be his own, spilled like so much wine on the ground.

This moment, wrapped in Arthur's arms with no thought to lust or need or desire, this is the moment when he pays most dearly, when they cost exceeds even Lancelot's price. He slips free of Arthur's arms and drags his weary bones to his own bed, letting the ice-like cold pervade him.

Some things are not for sale.