unknights

[unknights]

HAND AGAINST FLESH , HAND AGAINST METAL , hand against the soft skin between @kinsword's neck and back , a finger pressed so quickly it may not have been pressed at all, nothing left but the sound of metal against metal in a click , click , click as armor falls apart in lancelot's hands. outside of the tent, rain pours, water dripping into the ground and their boots are stained with mud & dirt & blood. THIS IS THE KING & THIS IS A WAR & THIS IS HOW THE STORY GOES. between lancelot & arthur there is only cloth and the weight of choice — his voice is quiet or muffled by the way the water drips , and drips , and drips. " i reckon we ought to light a fire. "

[unknights]

“do you realize… i - i would have gone through life half-awake… if you’d had the decency to leave me alone?”

[unknights]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃  :  [   𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫   ] 

arthur  is  opened  up  like  necropsy;  under  the  seams  runs  the  loss  which  has  no  name,  like  loneliness  that  is  stuck  between  his  mouth  and  lancelot’s,  an  absence  that  they  will  not  mention.  the  post-mortem  symptoms:  the  carcass  of  the  heart,  forgetting  its  own  death,  shudders  and  puts  itself  in  red  again,  and  beats  and  breathes,  burning  again.  the  unsayable  is  that  he  wishes  things  have  been  different.  it  is  as  devastatingly  instinctive  as  it  is  inevitable  to  look  at  lancelot  then  and  let  his  throat  soften  against  his  teeth,  or  to  breathe  in  the  dense  smell  of  him,  despite  the  piss,  the  wine,  the  alley.  the  raw  tolling  of  his  heart,  the  rhythmic  ache  of  it,  does  not  console  him  when  he  feels  those  lips. 

perhaps  he  had  seen  this  moment  unfold  in  his  mind,  lips  that  his  lips have  once  kissed,  where  love  had  lain  under  his  tongue,  unsaid  but  still  there,  dripping  from  lips  to  other  lips,  stirring  the  animal  of  the  lonely  body  into  awakening.  going home,     his  body  would  remember,  but  only  when  touched  so  gently,  that  it  would  reach  out  again  into  more  touch,  and  kiss  itself  into  another  body,  to  live  under  its  flesh — bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh, as the catholics say.

but  the  worse  kind  of  loneliness  is  the  one  that  comes  from  intricate  longing,  a  sort  of  hunger.  arthur  had  been  a  lover  once, he  knows  hunger.  but  then  he  was  something  in  between,  then  king  and  husband  and  now  a  temporary  sort  of  ghost  haunting  the  darkest  corner  of  an  alley,  somehow  still  leashed  to  this  ghost-love,  scratching  at  the  door  of  memory.  he  feels  stranded  in  his  own  body,  with  the  softest    “ yes "    perched  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  the  body  verging  on  submission.  ” yes “,     which  means     ” i yield “,     which  fits  so  perfectly  in  his  mouth,  and  it  tastes  just  as  he  remembers  it.  

it  requires  a  courage  he  did  not  know  he  possessed  to  swallow  it  down.  arthur  shakes  his  head,  he  steps  back.  arthur  says:           ❛     no.    ❜              &  his  hands,  like  altars,  remain —  upturned,  abstained  from  light,  and  refusing  the  abandonment  of  it,  as  they  itch  to  hold  again.  &  here  are  arthur’s  eyes,  like  firelight  glass,  or  sunlike  stars,  and  when  they stare,  the  color  of  them  is  the  thread  that  ties  lancelot  and  him  together,  the  thing  between  them  almost  tangible  if  he  thinks  too  much  about  it.  so  he  will  not.             ❛    no, lancelot. we cannot.    ❜              here  are  encapsulated  words  that  he  pulls  from  his  throat,  with  his tongue  still  thick  with  feeling.  he  bruises  from  the  effort  of  remembering  he  is  not  who  he  once  was,  that  arthur  is  now  only  what  arthur  should  be.  but  he  cannot  keep  the  sharpness  of  his  voice  then:              ❛    you said it once yourself.    ❜     

            light  ,   and then its absence   -   even as a young child, lancelot had never feared the dark  :   he sat on it, perched against a window, kissed by the glow of the moon against the water and against the self.  night ,   and the dark, where no creature may hide, and nature slips through the barriers of flesh holds comfort for the dual - natured  :  it is neither this nor that,  it only is,  where men nor gods nor fey may look.  and this is the self-evidence that god nor lancelot will tell  :  that men do not know light until men know love , which is when they know god, reflected in the gold eyes and the gold of the sun, wrapped and basked, made of and from.  he looks at arthur now, and thinks of an ekleipsis .  lancelot stands, forsaken by, and recoils from the light, back pressed against stone.  

            in the cold of camelot ,   lancelot looks like a wounded animal :  from his throat the guttural sound of ache, though the lips press so tightly against one another it is no more than a whine, more deer than boar when struck by arrow. the carcass of him stands, though barely, looking for balance and security on stone --- cold , impersonal , dark stone --- where it once found in arthur, and his eyes close so the waters of avalon do not reflect against them, now.   ❛  no ,  ❜   he repeats ,   and holds the words against his tongue ,  folding and unfolding them , setting the letters apart and putting them back together until the taste of bitterness drips into the mouth of him, slick as honey and never as sweet.  

                 [   he thinks now of the rot in the middle of the apple , which is like the rot in the center of avalon ,  which is like the rot in the marrow of him ,  & which spreads just as quick.   lancelot thinks no more of it , as home is not here , and lips are not strong enough to contain this woe.    ]

          here ,  where wine meets blood ,  lancelot begins to laugh , from a joke which is no joke , and so the sound bears no revelry  -----  instead , it spreads through the air in anguish, a sound so tortured and wretched that not even god would dare to look at.    ❛  yes, yes i did say that, didn’t i?  ❜    and now it is his turn not to look at arthur, so he turns his eyes to the skies as to not look at the hands, as to not think of touch, or the unreal thread which binds them together, a knot with no beginning and no end, interlaced and intwined so closely two hands become one, tucked in the warmth of one another.  it is not his hand arthur’s linked to,  and so he thinks of the cold silver of the moon and how it’d reflect against water instead.      ❛    if i told you i do not wish to return to camelot, would you leave me be?   ❜    

[unknights]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃  :    [   𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫  ]                     

there is no name for this:  the  way  arthur  stares  unflinchingly  at  the  light  of  lancelot’s  eyes.  lithe  fingers,  greedy  fingers,  that  for  a  moment  had  been  so  close  to  his  lips,  to  touch  them  in  kiss  that  is  not  kiss,  not  yet  touching  them  and  waiting  to  do  what  fingers  do:  touch  and  touch  again.  but  then  his  fingers  had  moved  to  a  lonely  hand.  it makes little difference — a touch is a touch, it burns still.  how  can  he  name  this  touch ?  &  arthur  is  besieged  by  paradoxes.  his  is  a  body  overcrowded  with  contradictions;  which  are  duty  and  desire,  the  past  and  the  moment  he  fell  into  lancelot’s  arms  and  remembered  the  feeling  of  it.  it  should  have  felt  like  a  trap;  it  only  feels  familiar.  as  if  he  is  clay  awakened  by  god’s  hands,  touched  and  suddenly  alive,  that  through  kiss  breathes  for  the  first  time,  as  if  he  is  god  worshipped  at  the  altar  of  conjoined  hands,  suddenly  alive  inside  the  flesh. 

once,  he  had  bursted  into  delight,  into  light,  if  only  flesh  could  have  contained  him,  if  only  he  was  more  than  a  mortal  man  and  not  so  easily  soothed  by  the  lips  of  another.  there  is  a  name  for  this:  homesickiness.

arthur  thumbs  the  prominent  crease  between  lancelot’s  brows,  his  silence  bound  to  his  tongue’s  tip,  his  silence  pressing  against  lancelot’s  silent  as  his  thumb  presses  so  gently  against  his  forehead  and  then  stops  and  moves  away,  pulled  by  the  leash  of  arthur’s  longing,  that  he  brutalizes,  that  he buries  under  skin  that  will  not  be  touched.          ❛     do not make such a face.    ❜           he  knows  what  haunts  lancelot,  as  he  knows  him  and  as  he  knows  himself — arthur  swallows,  even  if  there  is  nothing  to  swallow  but  the  space  between  them.          ❛     it makes you look ugly.    ❜      

but  here  is  their  pre-established  prophecy,  when  lancelot,  violently  vulnerable creature,  puts  his  head  so  close  to  arthur's  throat.  &  arthur  holds  his  breath  under  his  teeth  and  hisses,  when  in  other  times,  in  other  places,  he  would  have  sighed.          ❛     i know.    ❜           it is the closest thing to a prayer, it is a whisper, it is a sigh.          ❛     me too.    ❜    

            the self is           fragile, fragmented, frail, a collection of carbages and scraps, sewed together into the cloth of being, unfit pieces stitched against one another until that which recalls a man is created. lancelot du lac is a collection of sharp edges, wrong sides turned and facing, skin so raw it bruises at the touch   :   the skin of arthur against the skin of him, the tender gentleness of it, and the want to want again, and again, and again. his skin, sugarcoated, melts under his fingers, and lancelot is done and undone, all at once, fragments falling into place.      ❛    come on, you were never one to kick a man when he’s down. you bruise me so.    ❜   

               [     desperation is a man clinging to another’s hand so tightly in the darkness of night that his fingers haunt the skin they touch     ]    .    

            here ,    where silence reigns absolute ,  lancelot presses his lips to arthur’s pulse ,  and counts his heartbeat so that it may be the only sound he hears.   he pours himself over the steady hum,  his weight giving in to the familiarity of the sound, so synchronised to his own it feels as home.  lips meet flesh again,  the touch as reverential as prayer, untainted by intangibility, and once, in a time before time itself, he would have kissed the spot over and over to affirm it was real.  now, here, somewhere within the heart and the streets of camelot, he stops, pulling back if only barely. lancelot, raw and un/bound by duty, presses his nose to the jaw of arthur, or perhaps it is only the fabrication of touch ----  to touch without a touch, flesh so close to flesh it feels its warmth nonetheless.  fingers touch fingers so tenderly, now, and the mouth finds a spot so close to the ear it grazes against skin, again, ever barely, ever almost.     ❛    arthur,     ❜     his voice is cut open &  left ,   stripped naked  &  raw        ❛    will you allow it?    ❜  

                [     desperation is two men clinging to one another as thought it is the last time.     ]  

[unknights]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃  :  [   𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫   ] 

what  is  that,  the act of talking in the dark,  if  not  prayer ?   if  by  any  other  name,  it'd  still  be  the  same  —  one  that  adores,  alone,  in  the  dark,  and  then  not  so  alone  anymore ?   at  the  altar  of  the  banausic,  where  common  things  become  heavy  with  new  meaning,  the  simplest  gesture  is  liturgical.  adjoined,  attached,  allegorical  hands,  praying  hands,  or  hands  that  touch  another.  what  are  they,  even  now,  if  not  refugees  from  childhood,  still  holding  on  to  each  other,  and  seeing  god ?   

the first god of a child: a friend  /  the first god of man: love.

❛     of cour—   ❜      he  swallows  and  then  starts  again.         ❛     i should not have to answer your questions when you will not answer mine.    ❜          arthur  acknowledges  it,  this  darkness  that  is  not  dark,  this  thing  which  is  arthur  and  lancelot  pressed  against  one  another.  &  it  feels  no  longer  like  camaraderie;  like  friendship.  he  is  nor  blind  nor  fool  nor  innocent.  this  is  a  body  longing  and  open  for  him,  this  is  the  fragmented  disorder  of  two  bodies  enlaced  in  the  dark.  arthur  falls  forward,  worshipped  at  the  cathedral  of  lancelot’s embrace, closer and then closer still.  &  the  air  is  thick  with  sweat,  and  wine,  and  ale  —  touched  and  untouched  by  lancelot's  breath.  everything  suddenly  softening  in  the  blur  of  inebriety:  lancelot’s  drunk,  arthur  as  well,  but  not  of  wine.  he  will  not  think  of  the  past,  of  faces  burrowing  into  one  another,  converging  until  there’s  only  one  stretching  flesh  atop  two  bodies  that  continue  to  seek  each  other.  he  will  not  think  of  it,  or  remember  it,  or  he  will  burn  as  lancelot  burns.        ❛     easy now, lancelot, or you will put us both to the ground.     ❜       

              in the quiet of night ,  where silence reigns resolved and absolute , the heart speaks, its language deistic, delish and divine.  it yaks, mumbles and whispers more than it speaks, inarticulates in the same manner it articulates, a language closer to tongues than english, closer to god than men,  and only the fool may translate the patois of lovers.  darkness encompasses and surrounds, and where no candle may find them, the faint glow of stars dictates what is seen and unseen, light enveloping and involving as it pleases.     

                  [   a  secret  :  the stars are not god , and the inhuman eye falters.  when lancelot looks  ,  only arthur is imbued in lightness.  the rest blurs and blends away , darkness encasing stone , wood and cloth as one.    ] 

here ,  where the body bends and folds ,   lancelot looks for arthur’s eyes.    lancelot, more-legs-than-man,  stands though barely, spine crooked in enough places he may look at the sight of arthur, the arch of the nose and the shape of the mouth, the details he has memorised again, and again, and again.  ❛      i am devoured, arthur. half man, half fay, half slain.     ❜       a voice that is no voice but a whisper, a confession in half parted lips and a head that bows.  arthur’s body which he knows as well as he knows his own ,  standing so close the cold wind of camelot’s night could not pass through them. he breathes , and breathes again , and fingers move to find fingers, and it is not harmless, and it is not innocent, and it is a dagger as it is his body.  lancelot’s head falls so that rests upon the curve of arthur’s neck, flesh against flesh, and were it someone else he might have cried.  instead , lancelot breathes.   ❛     you would not let me fall, you never had.  not even when you should.    ❜   he laughs , half broken , half pieced together.     ❛      i fear, your majesty, i may be homesick.    ❜                        

[unknights]

LANCELOT DU LAC & ARTHUR PENDRAGON  

hyacinth changed into a flower by nicolas rene jollain the younger  //  mary oliver // the xx // virginia woolf // the iliad // florence and the machine // edna st vincent millay // william shakespeare // richard siken // pentatonix // richard siken // pentatonix // achilles lamenting the death of patroclus by galvin hamilton // @kinsword // marie howe // @unknights // curtius // emily brontë // the queens of persia at the feet of alexander, also called the tent of darius  by charles le brun // richard siken // victor hugo 

[unknights]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 :   [   𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫   ]

their  strange,  shared  silence  is  not  intimacy —  not  now.  it  slits  like  razors,  like  teeth.  their  silence  resists  articulation,  then  folds  itself  back  into  shadow.  arthur & lancelot :   intertwined, interweaved, interrupted.  &  there  is  a  stillness  like  it  was  waiting  to  come  alive.  in  all  stories, night  makes  everything  into  liminal  versions  of  itself,  dark  and  yet,  luminous,   the  aftermath  of  light.  now,  ever  more  quietly,  the  quietest  moment,  is  the  shudder  of  arthur's  eyes,  his  gaze,  the  hesitant  gentleness  of  moving  a  hand  and  putting  it  over  lancelot’s  shoulders  and  touching  leather  as  if  it  was  flesh  and  then  wanting  flesh  over  flesh,  until  his  heart  hatches  into  a  deformed  kind  of  sadness.  it  occurs  to  arthur,  and  he  flinches  at  the thought  of  it,  that  he  misses  his  best  friend.

there  had  been  a  time  when  this  would  not  feel  unnatural;  there  was  once  arthur's  smell  on  lancelot's  smell,  interweaved,  arthur's  easy  smile  and  lancelot's  synchronised  with  his,  polished  and  refined  and  hypnotic.  but  now  camelot  rises  in  front  of  them,  stretching  itself  into  the  sky,  infinite  and  impossible,  and  maybe  they  feel  as  if  they  are  at  the  edge  of  something.  arthur  raises  his  face  to  the  stars  and  speaks:        ❛     et tu, lancelot ?  you sound like merlin.     ❜       it  is  as  if  he  had  misplaced  his  voice,  dropped  it  and  left  in  the  hollow  of  his  throat,  the  first  drops  of  sound  suddenly  asperous,  the  words  undisguised  of  their  sudden  bitterness.         ❛     i am myself and human — i cannot promise to be anything but it. i disappoint, not only my wife, but you as well. otherwise you would not have retreated into … this. will you speak to me ? about what affliges you ?     ❜      

           how to treat a wound :         [    examine the wound. clean it with alcohol. apply tumeric to avoid inflammation. apply honey to avoid inflammation. bandage it. prescribe opium to help with the pain. observe it.    ]        this lancelot knows  ---   methods human and otherwise, with the prayers of the fey and the herbs of men, with the knowledge of his ancestors pouring over him, words and methods he has repeated so often it comes as second nature. lancelot knows how to treat wounds, but he does not know how to treat that which the human eye will not even dare to look.     here ,  in the spot where arthur’s hand meets his shoulder,     there , two ribs down from his heart , are the wounds that no eye will look, no physician will heal, no amount of prayers will resolve. here are the wounds which will grow, and fester, until they have taken a piece of all that he is, and all that he ever will be.   there is no point in observing the mutable, the ever - changing , that which clings to skin and flesh and heart, to name the heartache that a fey should never know.  his eyes, the pitiful sight of his eyes, do not leave the contour of arthur’s face. 

              ❛    merlin —     ❜       the name is as salt on his lips, and bitterness weights on the tongue of him, and he tightens his jaw so that teeth meet teeth and tart will curl itself back on the insides of him, instead of releasing it out into the world, tucked safely in between ribs and lungs and heart, hidden from the eyes of arthur, and the golden eye of god. lancelot chuckles, or chokes, which at times it feels as if one and the same, and looks at the ground where his feet stumble on one another, all limbs, all twisted, a foot in front of the other, and again, and again.        ❛   now you’re just trying to bruise my pride.   ❜     the air,  heavy with fog and heavy with the unspoken, cling to the walls of the castle, grey-smoke-with-grey-stone, illuminated by the stars and the moon, and light reflected onto them, bodies that walk so close together their shadows become one.       

               here ,   in the land between the said and the unsaid ,  one body makes a choice   :     lancelot , taller and ever stronger , uses the weight of him to drag them towards the darkened alley, a shift movement to the left, and away from the gates and the guards and the knights and the fog.    ❛    i can not bear to say it, and so you mustn’t ask.  not yet.  not quite.   ❜    his eyes, the bluest of grey, flutter closed, and he breathes in the cold air of the night as the world spins.  ❛   i moved too quickly.  tell me ,  does something ache in you?   ❜  

[unknights]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃      :    [   𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫   ]                                   

as  they  walk,  the  air  is  thick  with  the  memory  of  ghosts,  hard  to  breathe,  there  is  an  aftertaste,  maybe  ash  or  dust  or  the  lack  of  what  should  be  there  and  it  isn’t.  &  arthur’s  weak  chuckle  leaves  in  a  deliberate  half-smirk,  a  ghost  hopping  from  one  anonymous  corner  to  the  other,  while  the  other  man  stumbles  and  flutters  and  is  lumbering  across  the  street,  gripping  the  hand  that  will  not  leave,  holding  the  body  that  will  not  leave,  like  these  are  the  embalmed  remains  of  old  love;  it is not dead, just cold.  &  arthur  looks  at  lancelot  when  he  is  not  looking  back.  he  sees  a  man  sunken  into  himself,  a  shipwreck  or  a  fallen  city.  arthur,  even  now,  wants  to  invoke  his  name  into  the  folds  of  silence,  in  this  bedeviled  absence  of  words,  a  tangle  of  what  is  unsaid,  but  is  simultaneously  said.  to  fantasize  the  speaking  of  it,  his  name,  the  bridge  between  touch  and  untouch,  this  awful  loneliness  of  being  so  close  and  still  not  being  enough.  

arthur  wants  to  ask:  what is it ?  what is wrong with you ?  

but  he  says:        ❛    i think i disappointed her the moment she first saw me. she might be thanking her god now; i would not hold it against her.     ❜         &  then  there  is  a  deepening  shadow  upon  lancelot  and  a  terrifying  and  violent  tenderness  in  arthur,  which  is  muscle  memory  overstepping  the  confines  of  a  body,  which  is  a  shiver,  which  is  a  tightening  of  the  jaw,  or  the  clench  of  lancelot’s  fingers  around  arthur,  which  hurts,  but  not  in  the  way  he expected — his chest clenches at it, the red of it paling,  like  the  hysteria  of  craving  something,  and  being  forever  parted  from  it.       ❛    she’s only a girl. i will not force her any more into it than they already have.    ❜      

               a quick tale  :    two young princes , no more than fifteen , train in the gardens of the otherworld.  the taller one has eyes as cold as snow, so blue they are almost white. the younger one has eyes of gold, and a heart warmer than the summertime.   their swords meet in clashes of iron and silver, the sound of metal against metal, each movement predicted by the other, a dance to which one guesses the next step, and again, and again, such is the result of understanding.  it takes but a foot place in the right place for the taller to be on the ground, a sword against his chest before it is replaced by a hand, stretched out  ----  but he is too proud to admit defeat, much less to take the hand that is offered. later that night, his mother will place her hands where the sword once was, and feel his heartbeat against her cold, pale, unnatural fingers. she will say     “   be careful with that one, boy .   ”.       though this tale will not be told to anyone else, lancelot du lac will replay it in his memory, again, and again, and again, and wonder if his mother knew, even then, how willingly he would place his heart on the palms of a boy with golden eyes.                             

            the body speaks ,   untranslatable as it may be  ,    it speaks nonetheless.    where his fingers tighten around the hand that holds and the shoulder that keeps him up , it pleads.  the body speaks what the tongue may not , what the mouth chooses to eat instead of present , what the heart attempts to hide. the body says :  do not go ,  the body says ,  oh gods, oh please, oh gods do not leave me.  the mouth says   :      ❛    arthur,  please. no one can ever be disappointed by you.   not you.    ❜        which is to say  :   it is you.    lancelot can see the stone walls of camelot , the fortress which he hid from. lancelot can see its shape in the dark , looming over and between them, and he considers stopping, for a moment, for a second  ----   perhaps if we stay,  he would say had he the courage, tomorrow may not ever come.   and then he thinks of guinevere, and her sad black eyes, and the loneliness in which they all shared tonight, and it gashes another wound to him, there, on the left side of him.   ❛   she must be frightened, i would not blame her.   do you remember, being so young and asked to lead a crowd of unknown faces, so far from home?  at least you had me.  and kay.   she  ---  who does she have?   ❜     and lancelot looks at arthur , and wishes he’d look at him ,   too.         

[unknights]

kinsword​ :  arthur pendragon    

the  night  is  the  reversed,  inside-out bowels  of  the  world — in  the  shadow-light,  all  things  look  like  something  else — arthur  and  lancelot  walking  side  by  side,  hip  brushing  hip,  &  hand  to  hand  touching  so  firmly  in  the  dark,  where  god  nor  soul  will  look.  in  the  shadow  of  an  alley,  bodies  that  endlessly  merge  themselves,  bodies  that  know  bodies  intimately,  so  hungrily,  are  just  shapes  untouched  by  light.  ❛     avalon is known for its apples, maybe we shall get you some next time, instead of ale and wine.     ❜  for  how  long  can  they  touch  without  flinching ?    until the body no longer remembers what it misses ?   arthur  pulls  him closer,  it’s  ritualistic;  abstraction  rather  than  muscle  memory.  &  arthur  holds  the  memory  of  lancelot's  body  with  something  akin  to  fervor,  as  they  stumble  and  bump  into  each  other. 

&  he  will  not  think  of  the  girl-lady  waiting  for  him  on  his  bed,  or  how  she  had  looked  so  sad  when  she  had  kissed  his  lips  for  the  first  time,  and  it  had  broken  his  heart  to  see  her  eyes  gaze  at  him  and  look  for  someone  else.  the  bells  too  had  sounded  so  sad  then,  even  when  he  found  lancelot's  eyes  in  the  crowd  and  felt  that  same  sadness  lunge  for  him  so  ferociously,  until  all  three  of  them  sat  in  its  mouth.  now  lancelot  trips  over  his  own  feet;  until  arthur  holds  him  firmly  again,  until  his  body  convinces  his  that  it  is  a  body,  flesh  against  flesh,  rather  than  memory,  rather  than  dream.  arthur  shrugs,  and  his  voice,  only  the  whisper of  it,  is  as  gentle  as  it  is  sure.  small intimacies,  even  now,  so  organic  they  take  root .       ❛     you would not have come with anyone else.     ❜

                lancelot laughs ,   though it comes out more as claws scratching against the flesh of his throat than laughter, so peeled off he feels exposed.    ❛    now,  whatever is the fun in that?   only were you to promise me they are fey enchanted, then, perhaps, we could discuss the matter.  ❜       he feels as though an open wound, left raw for all those to see, bone sticking out of flesh in all of its gore.      here ,    the physician will say, is the loss of guinevere, the black eyes and cloud laughs, the avalon-honey kisses stolen in a night so far away.       here ,      he will point out, where iron meets skin, is the carved initials of all that has and has not been. lancelot has been nurturing the loss of arthur since he was five years old and a boy with molten gold for eyes looked at him with such eagerness it made his heart ache, even then, when he wanted to hate him so.   he has poured over it meticulously, and endlessly, understanding what would come and still holding on to the foolish hope it would not.   were the physician to examine him,    here ,   he would prescribe him rest and prayer ,  and the bless of a miracle in the face of an incurable haemophilia. his mother told him not to give his heart to the race of men, and still he did it so eagerly, offering up in a plate of silver for gold-and-black to eat it whole.

                 their breaths ,  almost synchronised ,  come out as clouds of smoke against the ever - growing dark, unlit by long gone candles, with only the moon and the stars to prove them to be there. they are a clash of linen-against-linen, linen-against-cotton, cotton-against-velvet, and mud, somewhere, staining their boots and bodies,  and lancelot’s fingers dig into arthur’s shoulder with such urgency they might dig holes into the fabric, and skin may meet skin.  lancelot has never seen the appeal of catholicism, but now finds himself repeating their hymns and prayers nonetheless, quietly and methodically. lead me not into temptation, father, mother, father, lead me not.    ❛    kay could have taken me back, one punch from him and one’s out.     ❜      silence stretches, hip against hip, hand against hip, so close he might crawl into the insides of arthur, and keep his body there, where god nor marriage nor death may tear them apart.     ❛   who would have thought  ----  the great arthur pendragon, disappointing his lady wife in the first night of marriage.  it’s a little early, even for my standards.   ❜                                                

[unknights]

kinsword​ :  arthur pendragon. 

a  drunk  man  is  a  combination  of  long  legs,  long  awkward  glances,  words  too  made  long  by  slurred  speech.  a  damned  man  is  a  man  with  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  another  and  somehow  craving  more.  &  lancelot's  eyes  then  look  like  those  of  an  endangered  animal,  so  bared  open  it  is  almost  sacrificial,   violently vulnerable under arthur’s hand.   they  know  their  intimacy  implies  the  absence  of  privacy —  and  they  despise  it,  this  tension  which  drips  and  lingers  instinctually  between  silence  and  the  lack  of  it.  there  are  subtleties  there,  like  poetry,  or  the  sullen,  sinister  part  of  it.  this  is  what  is  left  unsaid:   how dare you punish me for what i am not guilty of ?   

&  arthur  wishes  he  was  in  bed, alone in bed,  &  not  here,  with  his  hands  pulling  on  lancelot's  arms,  with  his  boots  in  the  mud,  with  his  eyes  somehow  burning  in  the  dark.     ❛     is that what the prince of avalon has become in my absence ? a cynical, drunken cockalorum ?     ❜ ,  he  pulls  again,  more  insistently,  until  he  can  pass lancelot’s  arm  over  his  shoulder.      ❛     i would not be here if you would not have forced me to play the wet nurse tonight. up you go, let’s get you to bed.     ❜ 

         love ,   and the absence of it.    scattered throughout his body, on the shoulder and the neck and the hip, he nurtures like a garden the absence of touch.  here ,  in the spot haunted as a ghost , emptiness blooms and bruises with all that once was and all that won’t.  arthur’s eyes pierce through him, and it burns, as an arrow or something else,  and he glances away  ----  there are little things as deadly as disappointment. lancelot leans into the touch           ( he knows he should not ) ,  leans into the warmth     ( he knows he should not ) ,  leans into the smell of sweat and ale , and closes his eyes , if only for a moment.

             the side of him fits against the side of him ,  weight put on weight ,  and the bite of wind could slice through skin were it not for the warmth.  slow breaths and slower steps , and he chews on the words.       ❛    avalon is known for its celebrations. i am making my mother proud.   ❜    moonlight reflects against arthur’s cheeks, and even the faithless would find a hidden piece of divinity glowing underneath his skin, the chosen one in all of its glory, crownless and unclean ,  the filth of mud against linen.    ❛   arthur,  ❜    lancelot says, the name as a prayer, and just as desperate. there will come a time in no time at all when the vulnerability of words will be hidden, or forgotten, but it is here, nonetheless, and there is power to a name, to the reverential way in which it is said.      arthur, arthur, arthur.    more steps , slow , slugged steps.      ❛   why did you come?  i did not force your hand.  why did you not sent gawain, or your guards?   ❜      

[unknights]

kinsword​ :   arthur pendragon. 

✦  @unknights   /   lancelot dulac !

light  becomes  light  only  for them,     when  the  moon  and  the  coldness  of  it  come  from  in  between  the  clouds  to  press  itself  against  them,   and here is an interruption between one breath and another:   &  arthur  stares  at   the half lunar shade   of  lancelot’s  cheek,  as  if  he  is  a  ghost,  and  just  as  luminescent,  but  bleached  by  the  white shadow  of  the  moon,   and it hurts to see him then,   amongst  the  grass  and  the  mud,  just  as  much  as  it  angers  him.  it looks like a loneliness that is worse than loneliness.  &  even  now,  arthur's  heart  should  have  been  closed  like  a  fist,  but  it  is  swollen  and  throbbing  in  his  chest.  he  thinks  it  is  anger,  but  it  could  be  something  else.  how  could  he  look  at  a  man  so  drunk  he  barely  looks  a  man,  only  the  half  shape  of  one,  a  thing  so  crooked  and  bent  and  shivering  in  the  shadow  that  he  merges  with  it,  and  touch  him  with  anything  other  than  tenderness ?    

❛     lancelot     ❜,  he  says.  he  touches  palm  to  shoulder  and  only  so  lightly  presses  against  the  warmth  of  it.     ❛     what have you done to yourself ?     ❜

        is a loss still a loss  ,  even if it bears no name?   he has no name for the wound hidden in between his ribs, but he finds that it exists, nonetheless, sharp and greedy, begging for the attention he has long refused to give.  what can you call it ,  the loss that is no loss ,  unattended and unacknowledged for so many years that its sting now threatens to become unbearable?  what can you call it, without giving power to the nameless?  lancelot finds there to be no answer, though it may be nursed with ale, and wine, and the finest --- and the cheapest  ----   cider  that knighthood may offer,   and the blissful numbness it grants, even if for the shortest of times, is sweet enough to endure any stench of mud, or grass, or manure,  and the biting cold of camelot’s nights.  it is better than to give it a name, to allow it to grow, and fester, or to admit that it already has, and perhaps it always will.    now, especially.    now, more than ever.  

          at first ,      he is certain it is a trick of the mind, a result of one, or two, or three, too many glasses of whatever opioid was at hand.    but then  ----  he know this touch, has known this touch, could not fabricate this touch.   ❛   i got lost.  ❜      lancelot considers to slap the hand off, to cut the thread before it is too late  ( for him ,  of course.  arthur ,  honorable and just ,  would never fall for such temptations. ) ,  but he allows it there nonetheless ,    a well placed knife.   ❛   with all due respect , your majesty , should you not be elsewhere?   ❜    his speech is slurred ,  words said slow as to not blend into one another ,  and perhaps he blinks too much.  

[unknights]

“It was a mistake to keep this single knife in my heart so long, but it is my knife, and my heart, too,”

— Richard Jackson, from “Basic Algebra,” Richard Jackson Greatest Hits: 1980-2004 (Pudding House Publications, 2004)

[unknights]

“Can we love without greed? Without wanting to be first?”

— Marie Howe, from The Teacher in “Magdalene: Poems”