Arthur lowered his voice further, though no one else was near. “Then why did you come to my bed complaining that Roman women couldn’t satisfy you? All their skill and desire bored out of them?” He smiled again, his eyes watching Lancelot’s lithe form move around the enclosure slowly, the horse still keeping his distance. “Though if it’s Roman men that have bored them so, it does beg the question of why it was my bed you came to.”
Source: Broken to Hand, by romanticalgirl – King Arthur (2004) [Archive of Our Own] | https://archiveofourown.org/
Oh, this takes me back… The tension between Arthur and Lancelot here is too delicious for words.
…she goes to the graveyard often. Frequently angry, seething frustrated jealousy coiling beneath the light faint tic in her jaw. Rarely sad and acknowledging. She goes and she keeps company with the one sword while in their bedroom, Tristan perches on the windowsill and watches Arthur unwrap the other and quietly smooth a few tears down its shining blade.
If Tristan is careful, the corner of his eye will catch a flicker in the great mirror that hangs behind Arthur. He rubs his fingers together, remembering the warmed honey-thick air that clung to Arthur, and he drops his head.
Mature, post-canon, ghosts. This is a hauntingly beautiful look at Tristan’s afterlife, painfully isolated but unable to let go… until he forms an unexpected connection. Loved it, incredibly poetic and touching.
Afterthought, by Guede