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Title: Legends Of The Round Table: Gawain
Author: AndreaLyn
Fandom: King Arthur
Pairings: Galahad/Gawain, minor Lancelot/Arthur
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own them.
Summary: Over the many years, the Knights of the Round Table created legendary stories. These are some of Gawain's.
Notes: So, back in August, I wrote a story under the same title. The index to those is here: Legends of the Round Table. Thanks to mcee for all the wonderful beta help. This takes place in the same 'verse and I only hope people enjoy. So, enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3


Part 1

He did not cry the day they came to take him away. Of all the things that Gawain can recall – and of those things, there are precious few recollections – he remembered that he hadn’t shed a single tear. His mother had cried rivers enough for the both of them. He’d been such a small child, ratty long hair and dirtier knees, living in the shadow of his mother’s protection and care.

He remembered that she loved to wear dresses that seemed to swim in layers upon layers of fabric. One of the few memories he carried with him throughout the years was the texture and warmth of that material. She would wrap him in a grateful embrace, the folds of her dress overwhelming him for such small things; for cooking the meal properly, for protecting her from intruders, for performing the song of their ancestors; it was for these things that she would envelop him in her love. This time, however, she had wrapped him in a hug that had no warmth to it. It had only the cold and bitter air of separation.

“Make me proud,” she had whispered, her voice a broken and hoarse lament of despair in his ear. Perhaps he had wanted to cry, but couldn’t. Was he broken, too? “Gawain, my baby boy, make me proud. Be a good child, Gawain, be a good boy. Be brave, be proud, and always remember me. I love you,” she had murmured softly between her tears, her arms clinging tightly to him as she stained her dress with the dirt of the ground, her knees pressing hard to the mud. Gawain had gently wiped away his mother’s tears, which only brought on another flood of cries. Finally, the Romans had pried them apart and placed Gawain at the end of an infantry. They walked in constant pursuit of the horizon and Gawain spent this time waving goodbye to his mother, his home, and his memories of this life.

He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods of war to protect him in his pursuits. He prayed, then, to the gods to keep his mother safe and to pave his way with their blessings. “May the gods bless me and bless this land,” he murmured aloud, drawing strange looks from the boy on the horse in front of him.

“Prayers?” the boy scoffed. His arms were wrapped in torn rags that looked rather warm. “Those won’t last.” He smiled. “I’m Lancelot.”

“Gawain,” he introduced himself tersely, mounting his horse. He surveyed the group in front of him. “Where are we going?”

“To get more of us,” Lancelot answered, his hand absently rubbing over a wood carving of some sort. He hadn’t even turned back to speak to Gawain. There was something to this Lancelot that Gawain felt was oddly awkward and slightly rude. Gawain rolled his eyes, kicking his horse into motion so that he could ride by Lancelot’s side as equals ought to do. His horse strayed sideways and Gawain frowned, struggling with the reins to gain control, but there was no control to be found. Lancelot chuckled under his breath as Gawain fought with his horse, and soon the chuckles escalated into full laughter. “Your…you and your…”

“Shut up,” Gawain hissed.

“He can’t control his horse!” Lancelot yelled to some burly boy ahead of them who turned back long enough to laugh derisively at Gawain. After being subjected to the mocking laughs of some of the boys – and one of the Romans, yet – Gawain gave his horse a sharp tug of the reins. After that, his horse seemed to stay on the straight and narrow.

“I’m ready for this,” Gawain growled and beamed triumphantly at Lancelot.

***

Rough, tough, and ready to fight.

These were words that Gawain held strongly to. This was his dictum. His beliefs were littered amongst the gods he prayed to, the values his mother had taught him, and those that the men around him had burned into his mind. Fighting was a way of life, and this was something that Gawain accepted. If things were left to him, he would have some semblance of this truism stitched into his family crest for all future generations to live by. Fighting was his calling, and he’d been sworn into this service for it; and yet, he was expected to put up with this brat of a whore who could barely balance a sword, who couldn’t shoot an arrow straight, and whom they insisted upon calling by his actual name; Galahad. And what was even worse was that Tristan insisted that Gawain felt an affinity for the brat. The fact that Gawain really didn’t mind him as a boy was beside the point. They were there to fight, not have fancy afternoons in order to become best of friends.

Gawain’s head shot up at the hiss of an approaching arrow. He widened his eyes in alarm as he ducked behind a tree. “He almost hit me again!” he shouted accusingly, pointing wildly at the arrow that had landed merely a foot to his right. The whelp’s face reddened as he lowered his bow and shrank in on himself. Gawain sneered again and stepped out from behind the tree, heading to the fire.

Gawain passed Bors, who nudged Dagonet in the side. “We’ll handle it,” Bors decided authoritatively. Gawain turned and began to walk the remaining distance backwards so as not to miss a single moment of the scene. Bors and Dagonet stepped over and flanked Galahad, wrapping large arms around him. Gawain snickered to himself as he wandered the camp, searching for someone to talk to.

Arthur was holding court with some of the older Knights in the clearing and everyone else had been told to remain ‘at ease and rest’. Gawain picked up his axe by the amassed pile of weapons, overhearing strains of conversation behind him. He turned and watched the almost picturesque scene not far in the distance.

“You know how Woads pick off young Sarmatian Knights, don’t you?” Bors was confiding in Galahad.

The child blinked, immobile, his eyes wide. "No," he replied quietly, his voice smaller than his stature if such a thing were possible. Gawain snorted to himself. If anyone had the ability to threaten sense into the child, Bors would do it fastest. Tristan would do it best, Gawain figured, but who had that kind of time? He moved further away, hearing Dagonet’s words as he went.

“The snow is going to pile quite high in a very short amount of time…”

Gawain laughed to himself, feeling a little bit cruel and somewhat vindicated. He’d passed a cluster of trees and found Lancelot sitting on the stump of a long-dead tree just past the firs and plants. Gawain sat beside him, the two shoulder-to-shoulder and staring at the ground.

“This is ridiculous,” Gawain muttered. “We’re not supposed to be minding small children. We’re supposed to be fighting.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lancelot replied quietly and evenly. “I don’t want to fight. I just want to go home,” he murmured softly, poking his sword at the leaves on the ground. “It’s the anniversary of my sister’s birth. I want to be there.” He turned to Gawain and shook his head ruefully. “I hate this life already.”

Gawain didn’t know what to say. Silence reigned until the near-deafening shout of victory came from another part of their camp.

“The whelp got it! We can move on!”

Gawain shot to his feet, dashing over to find Galahad standing there quite proudly, clutching his bow. Percival had his hands on the boy’s shoulders, leaning down with his chin resting atop Galahad’s head and whispering something to him. Bors and Dagonet had already walked off, their purpose having been fulfilled. Gawain noted with a small smile just how happy the boy seemed to be about having succeeded at such a small task. It almost made Gawain nostalgic for the time he had first learned to properly shoot an arrow and had been handed his first sword by one of his tribe’s elders, gifted the responsibility of the sword with the simple words, ‘you have earned this’.

“I did it!” Galahad said, grinning stupidly. Percival gave him a pat on the shoulder. “And Percival said he’s going to teach me how to fight with a sword.”

“Better him than me,” Gawain murmured under his breath, leaving when Galahad and Percival neglected to acknowledge Gawain’s presence, engaging instead in an animated discussion.

Gawain made his way to his horse and patted him affectionately, watching Tristan get ready to saddle up. “Are we finally heading to our prison?”

“If you think of it like that,” Tristan commented, “it will never be anything but.”

“Well, I’m going to think of it like that,” Gawain stubbornly replied, turning to find Galahad leading his horse to them, a pleased smile still lurking on his lips. Gawain shook his head, amazed that such a tiny event could make the child so happy with himself. “Are you going to be so smug the whole journey?” Gawain asked nonchalantly, trying to keep the amused smile off his face. He did not want to be getting used to the boy’s presence; he was most certainly not getting to like Galahad.

“Depends on what the jail we’re going to is like,” Galahad said snidely. Gawain’s face lit up with pure delight as he looked to Tristan.

“See?” he bragged. “It isn’t just me.”

“Boys,” Tristan scoffed, shaking his head and mounting his horse. “Galahad, come. You and I are going to scout the path ahead.” Galahad looked to Gawain, who merely shrugged and watched as the two of them made their way forward. Lancelot came cantering up beside Gawain, and they sat waiting for instructions.

“So what do you think of this leader?” Lancelot asked, only loud enough for Gawain to hear. Gawain turned his attention to their commander, a young teen they called Artorius Castus. Lancelot tilted his head in consideration, adding, “He’s young.”

“He took a shining to you,” Gawain grunted, feeling slightly neglected in the way of attention. He recalled Arthur choosing Lancelot as sparring partner, leaving Gawain with Galahad and a slew of unfortunate cuts down his leg. “He seems fine. For a Roman, that is.”

“I suppose,” Lancelot conceded.

“And he gave you his spare sword,” Gawain continued grumpily. “Two swords for one person,” he harrumphed.

“I’m lovable,” Lancelot smirked.

“I’ve yet to see that.”

“Knights!” Arthur commanded, raising his sword into the air and gaining the attention of the whole cavalcade of horses and men. “We ride to our garrison. We ride to Britain.” Sitting proud and strong on his horse, he kicked it into movement, making for the sea by way of the seemingly perpetual fields of gold and green before their eyes.

“Britain,” Gawain muttered under his breath.

His prison.

***

It had been a scouting mission.

It had been a peaceful scouting mission to discover the lay of the land, but in a matter of seconds it had become an ambush.

Gawain used his strength, skill, and speed as he neatly slit the Woad’s throat. His enemy released an inhumane and piercing scream that collapsed into the sound of weakened gurgling as blood spilled out of his throat onto the grass to match the stains on Gawain’s clothes and skin. The Woad clung desperately to Gawain’s ankle in his desperation, but Gawain kicked him away with a growl and kept a fair amount of distance between them. The Woad’s dying words were jumbled and guttural as they mixed with blood and were spit into the air. Finally, there was silence as the Woad crumpled from his knees to the ground. Gawain watched every miniscule movement, his attention captivated as he stood there and stared through the heavy cloud of his breath as the Woad twitched, falling to stillness only with death. Gawain drew his stained sword back, wiping it clumsily against his breeches, enough to get the dull glint of the metal back. He sidestepped the body once it went still and slowly made his way back to the reforming group.

In the near distance, two corpses lay side by side on the ground.

“No,” Gawain exhaled as he struggled to run on a bad knee and joined the haphazard circle of remaining Knights.

Arthur was arranging the bodies, folding their hands over their chests and cleaning the blood from their faces. Gawain watched in horror as the small items of memorial – cuffs, small tribal decorations, keepsakes – were taken off their bodies. When the procession of Knights had collected all there was of worth, Arthur sank down to his knees between the heads of the two corpses.

No, not corpses. Not just yet. They were above ground and so they were still Agravaine and Kay. Gawain swallowed the sickness and disgust that rose in his throat. Galahad had been devastated when Percival had died, but Gawain was not prone to such fits of emotion; however, he had known these Knights. He had counted them as friends. They were akin to brothers.

In his heart, Gawain swore to never let a Woad die painlessly, if only for this reckless theft of lives. Had they not ambushed, this never would have...

He turned away and ended all thoughts of what might have happened as they were pointless contemplations. He could not stand to watch the morbid funeral proceedings and instead made his way from the bodies to a puddle of fresh rainwater, falling to his knees over it and plunging his blood-stained hands into the sullied standing pool. He scrubbed at his skin, trying fervently to get the poisonous, worthless blood off before the group moved on. Gawain had time; a glance over his shoulder revealed Arthur still on his knees, head bowed over the bodies.

He was praying, Gawain supposed.

He dried his hands on his clothes, and made his way back – not to the bodies, but rather to the circle of men around the fire they had built for this campaign. He wearily sat down on a soggy log and buried his head in his hands, unaware of Dagonet next to him.

“Your first kill?” Dagonet quietly asked, putting water on to boil. Gawain nodded slowly. “It gets better,” Dagonet said before leaving him alone.

It was a few more long moments before Gawain heard loud breathing near him and looked up to find Galahad, his expression doing nothing to mask the fact that he was still a lost young boy. Gawain plastered a bright smile on his face, the whole façade feeling tired and strained, but still he did it if only for friendship’s sake. Galahad approached apprehensively, sitting down beside Gawain.

“I saw…” Galahad started slowly. “I was there with you in the group. I saw Arthur.”

“Did you now?” Gawain asked, pleasant enough to his own ears. “And was he in good spirits?” Gawain couldn’t stop the sharp edge of his words.

“Gawain, don’t,” Galahad protested tiredly. “It’s been too long a day. Don’t lie.”

Gawain agreed to this sentiment with a hearty grunt. With the sun descending into the horizon, Bors had joined them and was slowly adding to the fire, prodding at the burning logs and adding bundles of kindling to burn. Gawain and Galahad sat shoulder-to-shoulder, watching as the fire grew larger. Finally, Bors handed them a mug apiece.

“Best grow up now,” he muttered, wiping away at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

Gawain sat, staring into his drink and wondering just how long it would be before his hands would be stained with blood again. He was about to tell Galahad about the man he had killed, but something stopped him. Instead, Gawain merely saluted Galahad with the mug and began to sip half-heartedly from it, watched by careful and confused eyes.

***

“He’s…he’s intolerable, sometimes,” Gawain muttered. He was draped backwards over one of the benches in the stables and gazed upside-down at feathers, a beak, and a most bird-like form. Tristan’s hawk squawked in commiseration and Gawain took this as an opportunity to straighten up and have another long drink of ale – his fourth mug – before lying down on his back again, tilting his head and indulging in the dizzying rush of blood to his head. “Of course he’s intolerable. I’ve known him for five…six…five years,” he muttered drunkenly, “and he’s never been anything but a bother.”

The hawk seemed to take this as a cue to amble over and perch on Gawain’s flattened shoulder. Gawain sighed, shaking his head and knocking the hawk off of him when it began tugging at his hair as though picking at a dead carcass.

“Careful!” Gawain sat straight, his words sharp and echoing in the stables. “Else Tristan will have to wonder where you strayed to and I’ll be enjoying a nice bird for dinner.” Tristan’s precious pet – which he had found one day on patrol in the woods – flapped its wings in circles around the rafters and Gawain shook his head. “He’s intolerable, and yet, he’s not.” Gawain laughed. “He stole rations from a legion of Romans when he was thirteen and he lives to tell the tale with a smile. He’s only lucky I was there to help him talk his way out.”

He sighed, sloshing the last drops of his drink around and staring wistfully into the mug. “He’s like no other. His face…his damned face is angelic enough to earn reprieves from men, women, Romans…hawks,” he said, raising his empty glass to the bird in flight. “He’s like no other,” Gawain repeated quietly, conflicted to his very core.

“If you keep talking to my girl like that, I might have to separate you two for sanity’s sake,” a second voice echoed in both Gawain’s head and the stables. Gawain sat up, warily looking to the door. Tristan stood there, creating a perfect silhouette in the darkness. Within seconds, his hawk landed and perched on his forearm. The two of them carried on a strange conversation all the while Gawain wondered just how much Tristan had heard and just how drunk Gawain truly was and if this was a situation that would end terribly.

“Tristran,” Gawain stumbled on the name. Tristan raised an eyebrow, clearly not amused as he sat down on the bench beside Gawain. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to hear you talking about Galahad. What’s got in your head to have you so troubled about him?” Tristan prodded, draping the heavy cloak he’d been carrying with him over Gawain’s back. The nights in Britain were mercilessly cold and though the alcohol created a gentle and dull burn in his stomach, it was doing little to warm the rest.

“Galahad is growing up,” Gawain muttered, swathing himself in the dark and warm material. “He’s my best friend.” Tristan nodded at the obvious statement and Gawain wondered if he should really be telling so much aloud. “I suspect now that Galahad is growing up, things are changing,” Gawain settled on saying, keeping a cautious eye on Tristan. It would do no good to air his personal troubles out to Tristan to be spread around the garrison as fast as a swift and bitter wind in winter.

“The world changes, Gawain,” Tristan confided, clapping down a friendly hand on Gawain’s shoulder. “We must accept. We must not fight the inevitable.” He shifted slightly, squeezing down and leaning on Gawain to get to his feet. Tristan made it back to the doorway where he stood as though a demon in the darkness, then turned around. “Don’t threaten my girl,” he said coolly and sternly before walking off into the foggy night.

Gawain sat there alone, knocking the mug to the ground and listening to it clatter before rousing to his feet and absently shuffling back to his quarters, deep in thought.

Now that Galahad was beginning to grow into a man, Gawain found himself uneasily looking at him in a new light. It wasn’t as easy to just look at him and think of the boy as just that – a young boy to be taught and molded into the perfect knight. Gawain was beginning to think of Galahad as his equal, his friend… his best friend.

Of course, while Galahad was growing up, so was Gawain.

He caught himself staring. He let himself be overly attentive regarding Galahad’s actions. He was almost aggressively protective. He even found himself indulging in the looks Galahad would sometimes give him in appreciation for a favour, and even the looks of frustration. Gawain took them all as a gift. It was a strange sort of madness, really.

He arrived to his room by cover of darkness and let the door slam open under his strong push, tired from the alcohol, his deliberations, and a long day of training. He smiled as an image from earlier that day filled his mind. Galahad had been trapped between Lancelot’s swords and had smiled ruefully when Lancelot managed to spin him around and tapped Galahad on the arse with the flat side of the blade – once with each sword, ‘for luck!’ Lancelot had laughed. That rueful smile of Galahad’s had been in Gawain’s thoughts all day and remained in his mind as he crawled in beneath the heavy blankets that he prayed would soon warm him. He fell asleep to the memory of Galahad laughing and rubbing at his backside, muttering on about Lancelot being a pain in the arse.

When Gawain woke, he found that his thoughts had moved past sheer contemplation and into something much more physical. He groaned as he rubbed his eyes and tried to block out the sun that poured into his quarters. The pressure in his groin was throbbing and he was aching for release with more desperation than he’d felt in a long while. He’d been quiet about the changes overcoming him as he grew, which was for the best. He still recalled some of the embarrassment that the older Knights had afforded to Lancelot during his changing years.

He closed his eyes and gave a discontent groan as he moved his hips from side to side, working his hand under the sheets and wrapping his fingers around his cock, stroking slowly, enjoying every slow motion of his fingers. He exhaled slowly, his breath hitching halfway as his hips thrust up, his eyes closing and his body seizing up as he slowed his pace down even more, torturing himself. The pace of his breathing sped up as he quickened the strokes of his fingers, and soon, his back was arching upwards in a graceful motion, a sound lodged in his throat.

He gave a great cry, jumbled and torn as he reached his climax, letting out a soft sigh of content when his body relaxed into the sheets, sated for the moment. It was only when he was washing his hands with standing water from the basin that he realized just who he’d been picturing as he climaxed.

Laughing. Smiling. Singing in the tavern. “Galahad, don’t do that, you’ll spill it!” Fighting in the fields. “You can wear the tunic all you want, but it’ll be a long, cold winter of madness before I ever will.” His arms around a girl, whispering into her ear, somehow still smiling at Gawain.

Galahad.

He paused a moment to absorb this epiphany before finding the strength to will himself into movement. He grasped for his shirt and prepared to head outside for the day’s training. He left his quarters with his sword in hand and a warm smile on his face and immediately encountered Lancelot in the hall outside of his room, leaning casually against the wall.

“Yes?” Gawain raised his eyebrows.

“You’re happy,” Lancelot pushed himself off the wall and joined Gawain, as they headed down the hall. Gawain tucked his sword away and checked for his short dagger. Every time Gawain turned to see if Lancelot was still walking alongside him, he found that Lancelot was studying him keenly.

“I’ve been happy, yes,” Gawain concurred with a nod. “Is that not allowed any longer?”

“I think you’re besotted,” Lancelot smirked and clapped Gawain on the back. Gawain hesitated, his eyes widening slightly in reaction to Lancelot’s words; damn the man for being so close to the cause. When Gawain did not speak, Lancelot took that as a sign to keep talking. “Ha!” he exclaimed with triumphant confidence nearly dripping from his voice. “You are. I knew I was right. Now, tell me who this girl is.”

“None of your business,” Gawain smoothly responded as they turned the corner.

“Oh, come now,” Lancelot wheedled, shaking his head. “In all the years of friendship we’ve had, you cannot trust me with a simple name?”

“No.”

“Bastard,” Lancelot muttered.

Together, they pushed open the doors to the courtyard, Lancelot grumbling under his breath. The sun hit Gawain’s eyes, temporarily blinding him from seeing what was before him; he squinted and his focus immediately landed on Galahad, who was sitting with his legs spread atop a box. Gawain grinned, captivated and dazed by the sight as he finally adjusted to the brightness of the morning. Before he could walk over and teach Galahad a new trick with the dagger, he felt himself being dragged aside by a pair of strong hands. He struggled and braced his arms, pushing his attacker away.

“Lancelot!” Gawain hissed, being dragged around the corner. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s not a girl, is it.” Lancelot whispered with malicious glee, his eyes wide. “It’s Galahad.”

Gawain blinked, shrugging off the last of Lancelot’s lingering vice-like grip before storming off. He didn’t get far before Lancelot had a good grasp on his shirt, tugging him back into the alley. Gawain whirled on him, feeling more enraged than he had before.

“What business is it of yours with whom I’m smitten?” Gawain growled, his pace predatory and calculated. “You’d do best to busy yourself with the girls in the tavern than to bother with where my eye wanders.”

“Gawain, I could…”

“This is none of your business,” Gawain cut him off with a shout.

“…help.”

“Help me?” Gawain snorted. “And how? Would you give me your precious advice on how to start a relationship that will only constitute a roll in the sheets?” He shook his head. “I don’t need your kind of help, Lancelot,” he finished snidely.

The only expression that passed over Lancelot’s face was one of resigned hurt. Gawain ran a hand over his hair, immediately regretting his words. He let out a heavy sigh and opened his mouth to apologize, but Lancelot had left.

“Perfect,” Gawain muttered to himself.

He paused another moment where he was, pushing the encounter with Lancelot out of his mind and instead focusing on the more optimistic items of the day. With a few steps, he would be back training with Galahad – who had been much less irritable as of late. Gawain had finally given Galahad a hard shove after the tenth time that Galahad had whined about Gawain hovering, and that seemed to have stopped the complaints.

He rounded the corner and was greeted with one of Galahad’s most brilliant smiles.

It was going to be a long day.

***

Upon the seventeenth anniversary of Galahad’s birth, Gawain thought that he might go mad. His love for Galahad had neither tempered nor dissipated, and the worst of it was that his desire seemed to be increasing by the day. It seemed that with every month that passed, Galahad grew into an even more attractive man – both physically and morally, his strong beliefs shaping him into an idealistic vision to behold.

To put it plainly, Gawain wanted.

To make matters worse, it seemed that Tristan had deemed it necessary to have a private conversation with Galahad in the woods on the night of Galahad’s birthday and for the life of him, Gawain couldn’t figure out what they’d discussed. Feelings of jealousy and anxiety began to stir, shouting at him to discover the cause in order to make sure that Tristan wasn’t going to ruin any of Gawain’s very careful and intricate plans – which mostly constituted of waiting until the perfect moment to do anything.

That night, when he’d made sure that Galahad had made it to bed – slightly drunk and still angry at Gawain for having spoken for him – Gawain immediately made his way out to the woods where Tristan was carefully feeding his hawk and balancing his sword. Gawain planted his sword in the ground as he approached Tristan.

“What have you been telling him?” Gawain demanded. His stomach turned with the notion that Galahad might know the depths of Gawain’s feelings for the younger knight and the mere thought terrified him. Gawain enjoyed control more than anything.

Tristan gave a cool snort of laughter. “Calm yourself, boy. No need to brandish your axe at me,” he nodded towards the weapon clenched in Gawain’s hand. His knuckles were turning white from clutching it so tightly and his anger was flowing freely. Everything – utterly everything – would be ruined if Tristan said something that he wasn’t supposed to say. Galahad had seemed normal at dinner, but Galahad could often put up a front that was surprisingly convincing.

“Don’t call me…”

“I’ve told him nothing,” Tristan cut off Gawain’s indignant words. “Anything he knows, he figured it out himself.”

Gawain paced back and forth. “Oh, perfect,” he muttered to himself before turning on Tristan. “Do not ruin this, Tristan. I have wanted this for too long.”

“The only person who can ruin this is you,” Tristan responded mildly, shaking his hawk off his arm and watching it fly into the sky, circle three times, and then fly off towards the horizon. Gawain’s eyes followed the bird in flight, and when he turned back he found Tristan watching him curiously. “Tell me,” Tristan began, “what exactly are you so afraid I’ll ruin?”

“My chance,” Gawain replied simply.

He walked away without giving Tristan a chance to respond, heading back towards the garrison. In his haste to keep Tristan away from Galahad, he’d encountered something that could possibly be called courage. He took determined steps back to the quarters, hesitating at his door and looking down the hall. He walked along and frowned when he reached Galahad’s door. It sat slightly ajar, while Gawain knew that he had made sure to close it when he’d escorted Galahad to his quarters earlier.

He crept closer, wary of intruders or enemies. He was about to knock lightly on Galahad’s door and ask him whether he was all right – and perhaps, only perhaps, he might bring about his offer to Galahad, his offer to merely care for him and love him – but he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of a broken moan ghosting out of Galahad’s quarters. He froze in his steps, slowly moving to the wall so that he could look inside through the tiny open sliver of the door, moonlight spilling out of Galahad’s quarters and lighting up the scene in front of Gawain’s eyes.

Gawain pressed his back to the wall, caught watching. Galahad was on his cot, writhing back and forth with one hand down his trousers, his eyes closed and a look of concentration on his face. Gawain’s eyes widened in surprise and the smallest of sounds escaped his lips. A part of him simply couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Galahad moaned loudly, his hips thrusting off the bed and in the light of the full moon and right in front of Gawain’s eyes, Galahad came with a soft cry, collapsing bonelessly onto his back.

Gawain fought to keep control of his legs and his voice, forcing himself to very quickly walk away. It was only when he’d slipped into the safety and privacy of his own quarters that he let out a loud exhalation and allowed his knees to buckle. He slid down the wall to the floor, one hand simply sitting in his lap.

Desperately in his darkened room, Gawain slipped his hand inside his trousers, closed his eyes, and brought himself to temporary completion. And as he stroked, he dared to imagine that it was not his own hand. He pretended that he saw the very same focused right in front of him, so caring and careful.

He didn’t move from his crumpled place on the floor, not even when he fell to sleep hours later.

***

It seemed that the gods of fate had no plan in mind to be kind to Gawain. Not soon after Gawain had witnessed Galahad in his chambers with his hand on himself and letting out soft cries in the night, they were removed from the slight comfort of their quarters for another mission. There had been a chance there, with Galahad so close, but the chance was far past now.

Instead of being gifted Galahad, he had been given a mission across a miserable island.

Gawain didn’t like this charge across Britain. First of all, he didn’t like the weather. It had been chilly and miserable – but then again, when wasn’t it? – and all too often, they were mired in terrible bouts of fog. Second of all, and the more important, he wasn’t sure this was best for him so soon after his discussion with Tristan. After their previous discussion, things had taken a turn for the worse if only in conversation and discomfort between the two of them. It wasn’t that Gawain held ill feelings towards Tristan for seeing what was likely to be very obvious as of late, but he simply did not want Galahad to suspect anything and when Tristan fell into a vindictive mood, anything could slip intentionally past his lips.

As morning dawned, Arthur took Lancelot aside to discuss their newest strategy, and in the absence of duty, Gawain felt a familiar rising of courage within him as his fingers faltered slightly before strongly grasping Galahad’s sword and heading for the tents.

“Galahad!” he called. Galahad turned quickly; just in time to catch the hilt of the sword that Gawain had thrown to him. Confusion flickered over his face while Gawain quickly made his way to Galahad’s side.

“If they’re going to have their talks, we might as well train,” he offered, hoping that he sounded natural despite all the times he’d practiced that one sentence within his thoughts. “After all, when we go into battle they can talk for their truces as much as they wish. You and I, we’ll just strike down our enemies.”

“Sounds about right,” Galahad grinned.

Gawain stopped, startled by the sheer warmth of the grin on Galahad’s face. It was so strange to think that Gawain could barely stand the sight of the boy when he’d first met him. “There’s that face of cheer and happiness,” Gawain murmured, unable to do anything but grin in return. “Galahad. Our beacon of light.” He led them into a clearing that he’d scouted out earlier, nodding in approval.

“Are you going to keep talking incessantly, or shall we train? Because you can join Arthur and Lancelot with all their talks if you insist on continuing.” Galahad rolled his eyes, unsheathing the sword. He dropped his shield to the ground almost casually, as though it were a toy. Gawain laughed heartily, grasping his own sword – perhaps a little more tightly than need be, but he needed his release as much as the next man, and training was often the best cure. He looked down to his feet as he assumed his careful battle stance.

They circled around each other, meeting blades. Gawain watched carefully and calculated his next move while Galahad spun away. He blocked Galahad’s parry – which had first appeared to be a feint, tricky boy – with quick footing. Their swords met three times in a quick progression, but then Galahad stumbled on a rock and Gawain lunged forward, grasping Galahad’s arm, spinning him, and then resting his sword flatly against the side of Galahad’s neck. Gawain’s eyes were drawn to the way Galahad’s pulse thumped, and he wrapped his free arm around Galahad’s mid-section tightly, preventing him from moving anywhere.

Galahad gave a great noise of protest and sighed.

It took Gawain a good moment to finally pry his eyes away from Galahad’s neck, but he finally did. “You’ve not beat me yet,” Gawain reminded him, his lips so close to Galahad’s ear.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Galahad grumbled.

“You waste your time,” Gawain released him with no small amount of regret, dropping his sword to the side. Noting another chance, he slid in again and pressed his front to Galahad’s back, wrapping his arms around him and resting his palms on Galahad’s forearms. He paused a moment to feel the heat. “All those wasted seconds you use to make your attacks fancier are going to get you hurt. Be quick with your wrist, don’t waste the seconds flaunting it about. And for pity’s sake, move quicker on your feet.”

There was an annoyed huff from Galahad, but after a moment he did exactly as Gawain had demanded he do. Gawain felt the muscles under his fingers relax and took it as a personal victory, guiding Galahad as best he could.

“Good,” Gawain murmured, stepping him forward. “Never circle your opponent and always, always make sure you have a clear path of escape. I don’t care if you’ve dug a hole that leads back to Sarmatia, if that’s the escape, so be it.”

“I’m sorry, but didn’t Arthur teach me this years ago?” Galahad sarcastically retorted.

“Yes, well, now I’m teaching you,” Gawain replied swiftly. He gave a snort of amusement at Arthur’s name, thoughts flooding his head. “It’s funny, though.”

“What is?” Galahad sounded with confusion. Gawain trained the sword, placing both of Galahad’s hands on the hilt. He nudged Galahad’s foot forward, putting him into a battle stance with the sword ready. Gawain smirked at the audible sigh from Galahad, but he soon complied and shifted his weight to the heel of his back foot.

“The way that…” Gawain began, but stopped, one hand firm on Galahad’s back. “Keep your back straight,” he sternly reprimanded. After another moment and yet another sigh, Galahad straightened his back. “The way that Arthur and Lancelot dance around each other with such expert grace and advanced idiocy. I sometimes wonder if I’ll need to use my axe to the back of Lancelot’s head to give him some sense.”

Galahad seemed to freeze, and it was so strange that – for a moment – Gawain wondered exactly what he had said wrong. He had managed to build up his courage and yet, here it was slipping through his fingers once more. He closed his eyes tightly, trying once more to focus on the training. He moved his hands down Galahad’s shoulders, taking his wrists into hand and feeling a pleased sensation go through him when Galahad allowed Gawain to take control. With a few quick steps, Gawain led him forward in a graceful battle step.

“Gawain. If I knew something, would you want me to tell you?” Galahad asked apprehensively, relaxing in his battle stance momentarily.

“Will it get me into trouble?”

“I…” Galahad began to answer, but Gawain was feeling panicked now. What sort of secrets could Galahad know that would be brought about with a discussion about Arthur and Lancelot and their inevitable coupling?

“Wait,” Gawain interrupted quickly, trying to sound amused. “It’s you. Of course it will get me into trouble,” he gave a long, drawn-out sigh in order to lightly tease Galahad. “What is it?”

It seemed that Galahad was choosing his words very carefully, which made Gawain a little bit suspicious. “It’s not necessary for you to beat sense into Lancelot’s head,” Galahad said after a moment. Gawain paused, letting the thoughts run through his mind. What did he mean by…he shook his head, leading Galahad through another few steps, allowing his hand to linger on Galahad’s stomach, pulling him a little closer than necessary. His other hand still clasped onto Galahad’s wrist, feeling the thrumming of his pulse; a feeling that would drive Gawain mad.

“And why…wait.” Gawain paused and stopped all remnants of movement as he realized. “Really?”

Galahad angled so that he could look into Gawain’s eyes and nodded, never parting from Gawain’s grasp. “For years now,” he confirmed.

“How do you know?” Gawain snapped out quickly and accusingly. His thoughts were rushing too quickly now. If Galahad knew about the things that men sometimes did, then there was the possibility that Galahad had thought about this before. Gawain felt terrified, courageous, and giddy in one drawn breath.

Galahad paused this time. “I…well, I caught them once.”

Gawain took a deep breath, resting his hands on Galahad’s shoulders. They stood for a moment, relaxing their stances and Gawain looked down to the ground for guidance, pleaded for a moment of brief clarity. He received none and took it as a sign to continue. “It’s a way to find comfort,” he scoffed. “And here I thought them blind. Sometimes, it’s just needed after years in the cold, alone with no one that truly understands this life,” he said softly, pressing a little closer to Galahad.

“Is it?” Galahad asked, his voice sounding thick.

There was silence once more.

Gawain closed his eyes and exhaled the words in one desperate plea. “If you ever want it of me…Galahad, I would be far more than willing to give you what you need. It wouldn’t be a chore.”

”I think…” Galahad’s voice trailed off quietly, and Gawain swore that he could feel his heart stop beating in his chest for one split-second of a moment. He murmured silent words that floated off his lips, small – ‘galahad, please’ – inaudible words mixed with fervent hopes. It was no small thing to love someone, but to have it unrequited was something that Gawain did not want to even contemplate. Gawain killed men for a living, witnessed death on a daily basis, and yet, he did not want to hear this rejection.

”Are you blind to this too?” Gawain interrupted angrily, fury filling him. “You notice them, but not me?”

Galahad pulled away quickly and Gawain cursed himself for yelling. Galahad’s face was an odd concoction of different emotions and the small hints of care gave Gawain faint hope that perhaps all those lonely nights on his cot could be over.

“Tristan noticed this,” Galahad murmured, and Gawain frowned. This was not where the conversation should be going. “I can’t, Gawain,” he said, taking further steps away from Gawain. “I hold you dear to my heart, and I count you as my best friend, but I cannot take this from you.”

A fool’s errand, then. That’s all this was. It was a stupid gambit and it failed.

“So be it,” he said evenly and quietly, bending down to pick up his sword. He walked away without looking at Galahad’s face, wondering just how long he could go without ever looking upon that face again.

~~~


Part 2

Gawain lay to bed some nights later thinking of the people who had aired their grievances against them during the day. Vanora had ceased to speak with him, and he was on strict warning from Arthur regarding Gawain’s most recent behaviour. “Your actions have been ill-advised, short of both temper and patience…” Arthur had begun.

“And you snap at everyone,” Lancelot had finished the sentence for Arthur. Gawain had narrowed his eyes and bit down hard on his cheek to avoid saying something that he would most certainly regret later. It seemed as though Arthur and Lancelot were not fighting this week, and how perfect for them, Gawain sneered mentally. Strangely, the one person he hadn’t been cross with had been Galahad himself. Gawain always said that the boy had a talent for evading trouble. It had taken no more than a smile and a small gesture of friendship when they’d arrived back at the garrison for Gawain to forgive him.

So he was cross with everyone and docile to Galahad, all at fault from Galahad’s dismissal of his advances. Perhaps the gods had a sense of humour. Of course, that still left Gawain to the misery of Galahad’s rejection through his waking moments and even in some sleeping hours.

Sometimes, however, his mind took pity on him. He would often have dreams of that same day in the woods, but instead of rejection, Gawain received a careful consideration in the form of Galahad’s palm caressing his cheek. Sometimes, he would dream of Galahad knocking on his door, murmuring, “I was wrong,” and crawling into Gawain’s warm and waiting embrace.

Tonight, there was a nightmare.

His hands were bound to the cot by coarse rope and there was a knife hovering above his torso, making rough and messy incisions. He didn’t scream out in pain, not once. He merely raised his chin to his tormentors and spat in their face. They taunted him and mocked him, made incisions in the shape of old words and newer curses. He tried to break free, but it never worked. The ropes were simply bound tighter, burning as they dug into his skin.

They marked him with words.

They burned him with ropes.

They cut him open and let him bleed.

The knife was poised and ready to plunge into his heart, ready to end it all. Gawain closed his eyes tightly in preparation for the end; yet, the final blow never came. He opened his eyes to find that his assailants were gone. He opened his mouth to call out, to make a sound, to say anything, but no noise came. He searched the room and strained to break free of the ropes, but still he couldn’t move.

“Don’t struggle,” a calm voice pierced his ears. “I’ll help.”

Gawain looked to the doorway to see Galahad standing there. He looked older and wiser and he was coming closer to Gawain, slowly sitting atop the bed and shifting until he was straddling Gawain. Gawain cocked his head upwards, ensnared in curiousity and shock. He watched, paralyzed in a seemingly unending silence as Galahad slowly untied each binding cord. Gawain could feel the heat radiating from Galahad’s body and he closed his eyes, simply wishing that he weren’t dreaming.

“Almost free,” Galahad whispered in his ear, pressing kisses up and down Gawain’s jaw. There was one rope left, binding his right arm to the cot. Galahad nuzzled in against Gawain’s neck, his beard rubbing against Gawain’s skin and causing a bit of a ticklish feel. Gawain desperately vied to shift in order to be able to kiss Galahad on the mouth and taste this first kiss, this first acceptance.

Galahad smiled wistfully and sadly, and Gawain wanted to ask what was wrong, but he still couldn’t speak. Nothing would come from his mouth, not a single sound. Galahad stroked his cheek with the back of his hand, and it was warmer than anything real. Then, Galahad smiled sweetly, kissing Gawain desperately, quickly, so real. Gawain gave a thrust upwards, his will breaking with the kiss.

"Yes," Galahad accepted and Gawain felt himself break a little more, breaking further and he realized what he would do for Galahad and instead of scaring him in its intensity, it only reaffirmed his desire for the younger knight. Gawain let out a broken and desperate cry, wanting so badly, and knowing now the extents of his desire for Galahad. “Yes,” Galahad repeated, rolling his hips against Gawain’s.

“Yes.”

Gawain blinked awake to the sound of cries outside his quarters. It had been a hot night, the summer rolling in on them almost unexpectedly. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes and groaned. His cock was hard and he wanted desperately to tend to himself, but the sounds from outside were unnerving. He rolled out of bed and forced himself to suit up, deal with the disturbance, and come back and properly deal with his arousal when that was tended to. He made his way outside to find the other Knights scrambling, Jols preparing the horses, and Arthur overseeing it all.

“What’s going on?” Gawain murmured groggily.

“Woads,” Lancelot replied tersely, handing Arthur weapons. He had a terrible sneer on his face and the sound outside the walls seemed to have quieted for the moment. Gawain found the silence more unnerving than the noise. “The Romans have gone East to help evacuate a village and reclaim artifacts for the Vatican. There’s only us. There are about a hundred of them,” Lancelot continued bitterly, sharing a silent look with Arthur that seemed to hold a conversation all its own.

“Only us,” Gawain repeated evenly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. There was a horrible chill that ran down his spine at the thought of that many Woads. “A hundred,” he echoed in a hollow tone. He looked around, finding Bors and Dagonet tending to their horses and Tristan checking his arrows. Gawain blinked, already falling into battle mode. He tried to think of any strategy that might help. “Arthur, we can’t possibly…”

“We can,” Arthur interrupted him. “And we will. I’m going to pray.” He turned to Gawain. “You’re going to wake Galahad and get him ready.”

Gawain was frozen in place watching Arthur walk away.

“Wake Galahad?” he finally found his voice amongst the dread and the worry. “I can’t…why don’t…why me?” he demanded.

“Wake Galahad,” Lancelot repeated the order, stepping into Arthur’s place and crossing his arms. “He won’t take the news that badly if it comes from you, we think,” Lancelot added quietly. “We need everyone for this battle. We can’t have him storming off in a fit. Wake Galahad.”

Lancelot walked off, leaving Gawain to stare at his retreating figure. He felt incredibly small in the big picture, and he didn’t want to move. If he moved, he would have to wake Galahad and make this into a reality. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned to find Tristan standing by him.

“Tristan, I…” Gawain started.

“You have to wake him,” Tristan said quietly, giving him a small push towards the direction of the quarters. Gawain stumbled forward and turned to look back at Tristan who had a calm, cold look on his face. This was serious, this was about to happen, and he had to move. “Go,” Tristan pointed.

Gawain looked down the corridor to the quarters and took the first step.

It was time.

Even now when he thought back to that morning, the details and words of that conversation slip his memory. He often wondered if he’d made Galahad any promises or if he’d revealed anything that Gawain had been keeping; yet, every single memory that Gawain held of that conversation was unfocused and disorganized in his mind. He could only remember what happened when the battle started. He’d made it into battle without making any errors, and when he’d parted from Galahad in the midst of a sea of enemies, his instincts had kicked in.

In the midst of the battle, he surrendered all logic and sense to the cries of the enemy. He lost himself to the old thoughts and familiar hate that he had kept in his heart. He slashed at them from his horse and only when an arrow grazed his leg did he tumble to the ground. From there, he let out a growl of pain and kept stabbing and killing as he went. The arrows rained down from above – Bors, Dagonet, and Tristan killing those around him – and Gawain could swear that they were protecting him and him alone as he went. Everywhere he looked around him, it looked as though they were killing more and more Woads by the minute. He plunged his short dagger into the heart of a Woad, twisting it vindictively, and kicking him to the ground, a muddy bootprint imprinted on the Woad’s skin.

The arrows from above ceased to fall.

Another arrow from a Woad’s bow grazed his torso and he let out a harsh cry as he threw his axe and landed it dead in the middle of the Woad’s chest. He staggered to the corpse and grasped the handle of his axe, plucking it out before turning to watch Bors take a vicious knock to the head. Dagonet was there almost immediately, dragging him off and back into the courtyard of the garrison. Gawain crouched down into a battle stance with his sword ready and let his enemies charge. When the Woads were close enough, he turned in a wide circle with his broadsword and killed three of them in one revolution. He let out a feral cry and took deep pleasure in the feel of knifing another Woad in the gut, sliding the sword in deeply and watching happily as blood spilled over his hands.

“Die,” Gawain growled. The Woad gasped for air as his limbs twitched in violent spasms, collapsing heavily to his knees when Gawain stepped back and released him. Gawain reclaimed his sword and turned back to the battle, watching as scattered groups of Woads retreated back into the woods. There were ten or so standing in surrender around Arthur, Lancelot, and Dagonet, but the more pressing scene was on the other side of the field.

Galahad had his sword in place to kill a Woad on his knees in front of him. Gawain watched as one of the retreating Woads raised his bow and aimed it directly at Galahad, who was none the wiser as to what was happening. “Gala…” Gawain started to shout, but it was too late. He stumbled backwards as the arrow struck Galahad in the centre of his chest. Gawain dropped his weapons and immediately sprinted to Galahad’s side, seeing Tristan behead the attacker in his peripheral vision. “Galahad,” he hissed in horror as Galahad keeled over and passed out. Gawain nearly dove to the ground to comfort his fall, cradling him into his arms. “Tristan!” he shouted. Tristan spun at Gawain’s sharp cry. “Help me! Dagonet!” Gawain nearly screamed across the field. “Arthur, Lancelot, damn it!”

“He’s…” Tristan said evenly, standing and shadowing Gawain.

“Help me,” Gawain snapped, struggling to stand up while balancing Galahad by draping his body over his arm. Dagonet came running and helped to shoulder Galahad. They paused to adjust Galahad’s body and Gawain took this time to stare at the blood spilling out of the wound, horror washing over him at the way the blood didn’t seem to stop. “Arthur! Lancelot!” he shouted loudly. “Are the Roman surgeons here?” he barked out as he hobbled, his own wounds hurting. He took shallow breaths, cursing while Galahad remained limp in his and Dagonet’s trusty hold.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Lancelot answered before Arthur could. Their leader stood there, cradling his arm, but not even the slightest glimmer of pain adorned his face. Gawain stopped and surveyed the collected Knights as they stood in a clumsy circle. Bors was inside the garrison and unconscious, Gawain himself had grazed arrow wounds on his leg and torso, Tristan was bleeding from the shoulder quite badly, Dagonet was limping, and Arthur’s arm looked to be broken.

“Help me,” Gawain pleaded quietly, nodding to Galahad – still unconscious. “I need you to save him. I don’t think I can, I don’t think I can fix this kind of wound.” His eyes were drawn to the arrow sticking out of Galahad’s chest.

“I will,” Dagonet nodded, already shouldering Galahad’s full weight and hobbling back to the garrison as best as he could once Gawain let go. Gawain watched them go, feeling the thin sheen of sweat that covered his whole body turn cold. He gave a small shiver as he turned back to the others. From behind them, Gawain heard Dagonet’s voice, drifting further even as he spoke. “Tristan, will you help?” Tristan gave a nod and wordlessly slipped away from the group.

Gawain stood there, shaking with every exhalation and desperately inhaling, if only to have one constant thing to concentrate on. He felt Arthur and Lancelot’s gaze on him, weighing heavily on his shoulders. The air was cloudy with smoke and Gawain was finding it increasingly difficult to swallow, let alone breathe. He bowed his head forward, rubbing his temples with his bloodied hands and let out a frustrated groan.

“Are you all right?” Gawain finally brought himself to ask the other men, lifting his head to give brief eye contact and finally sustaining it as he clenched his hands into fists.

“I think my arm is broken,” Arthur said evenly. “Lancelot?”

“I’m fine,” Lancelot said quickly. He studied Gawain carefully, his gaze always slipping back to Arthur’s arm. “Go on, we’ll finish this off. Go.”

Gawain nodded slowly, not needing any more. He turned and ran after the others as best as he could, his own blood spilling faster with every additional move; soon, his clothes would be dirtied without chance of repair. He didn’t stop to think until he made it into the medical tent, entering as the arrow was plucked from Galahad’s chest. Gawain watched from the entrance quietly, feeling colder than he had on the field. He watched, his mouth open and his eyes wide, as Dagonet pressed down hard on the wound and Tristan studied the arrow carefully.

“Well?” Gawain found his voice, small as it was.

“Infected,” Dagonet said.

Gawain stumbled and slowly lowered himself into a chair on the side of the tent, his whole body overwhelmed by shock. His face felt frozen and he could only stare at Galahad’s still form as the blood spilled down his chest in unending rivulets.

“Galahad, no,” Gawain murmured – though he knew that Galahad could not hear – and tried to quell the feeling of sickness within his stomach. He buried his face in his hands and let out a frustrated cry, his breathing shallow. Gawain was supposed to protect him. Gawain was supposed to make sure that Galahad did not die. He looked up, angry now. “It can’t be infected. He cannot die.” He glared purposefully at Tristan and Dagonet. “Don’t let him die,” he threatened in a low tone.

Tristan and Dagonet exchanged a look while Gawain shifted slowly, moving into a chair beside the medical cot they’d placed Galahad on. Dagonet moved to the door, his eyes on Gawain the whole time – flicking over to Galahad’s prone form every other second. “I’m sure I saw the Romans return. I’ll fetch some herbs to help the infection and find the surgeon,” he reassured Gawain, who hadn’t ceased glaring at his fellow Knights. Gawain nodded and grasped one of Galahad’s hands, giving it a brief squeeze before dropping it.

“Fight, you bastard,” Gawain muttered to Galahad, his voice nearly guttural. He lightly rocked back and forth as his eyes never left Galahad’s chest.

His heart nearly shot out of his chest when Galahad stirred slightly. Gawain stilled and watched as Galahad looked around, pausing a moment before he tried to sit up. Gawain and Tristan pushed him back down in tandem, one hand on each of Galahad’s shoulders.

“What’s…I…” he struggled to speak.

“You should feel special, Galahad,” Gawain said, his voice pinched. Though he attempted to smile from the relief of seeing Galahad awake – and the sheer happiness that Galahad had not been killed on the field – the overwhelming reality still weighed heavily on him. “The Romans have returned just in due time to patch you up.” Galahad gave a great cry of agony, his back arching. Gawain winced, wanting to take away the pain.

“Is that…” he began, panting as he spoke, “supposed to be a comfort?”

Gawain gave a sharp bark of a laugh and took Galahad’s hand back into his own, holding it tightly. “Depends if you’ve angered them lately,” he replied as lightly as he could, but it seemed that Galahad had passed out again without hearing his words. Gawain looked up and met Tristan’s gaze. They shared a quiet exchange of a look before Gawain lowered his gaze to the blood still emerging from the wound.

Gawain barely even noticed when Dagonet returned with a bundle of herbs in his hands, trailed by two Romans who had been medically trained. Gawain relinquished Galahad’s hand, but did not move his chair from beside the cot. He sat there watching as they patched him up and Gawain felt his whole world seemingly drift away from him. He had no idea what he would do if Galahad didn’t make it. He needed him to make it.

“This is bad,” one of the Romans was commenting.

“How bad?” Dagonet asked.

“He may not live the night.” The Roman picked up the arrow. “Infection.”

Lancelot pushed through the flaps of the tent hesitantly, wandering in only after the surgeons went back to their work. Gawain watched him wander in, judging that he’d heard what the Roman had to say by the look on his face. Gawain swallowed the lump in his throat, biting back another pointless and angry snap at the surgeons.

Gawain surveyed the scene around him, but when his gaze fell to Galahad, he was surprised to see the wound already treated. Time seemed to be jumping in and out for Gawain, nothing adhering to the rules of linear progression. There was only one Roman left in the tent and Dagonet was gone as well, causing Gawain to wonder just how long he’d dazed for. The remaining Roman was wrapping a bandage around Galahad’s chest and Tristan grasped a basin of water, slowly wiping away the blood, dirt, and sweat from Galahad’s face.

And then Galahad stirred.

Gawain looked away, unable to face him. The surgeon seemed to take Galahad’s movement as his cue to leave, dropping the bandages in Tristan’s hands and nodding to Lancelot upon departure. Tristan placed the bandages down for a moment and continued to clean Galahad’s forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that were collecting.

“Is…is Bors all right?” were the first tentative and weak words from Galahad. Gawain would have laughed if the Roman’s pessimistic words weren’t foremost in his mind. Galahad’s first words and they were out of concern for someone else. Gawain slipped another cushion to those already behind Galahad’s back. He was slowly sitting up, and not having a good time of it by the look on his face.

“He’s fine,” Lancelot finally answered when no one else would. “A blow to the head knocked him out.”

Galahad sighed with relief, and it seemed to cause a chain reaction through his body. He leaned forward, coughing hoarsely and in deep pain by the sound of it. Gawain pressed his hand to Galahad’s back just so that he could feel like he was doing something while Tristan continued to calmly wipe away any trace of sweat on Galahad’s face. Galahad breathed heavily, finally settling back against the cushions. No one spoke.

“Is everyone alive?” Galahad asked, his voice sounding small and afraid. Gawain bowed his head down, feeling weighted and saddened. There was still a long night ahead of them and Galahad didn’t look better for the wear. For the first time, Gawain felt as though he’d truly lost all his hope. He wondered if he would have to tell Galahad about his condition, but someone must have done something to answer his question as Galahad coughed out a pained, “Good.”

Gawain finally looked up and studied Galahad. He willed himself to think about anything but the impending threat of the infection and the chance that Galahad might not live the night. “Arthur says we snatched victory from the hands of certain defeat. How does it feel?”

“Oddly feverish,” Galahad replied in a strained voice, the sweating not stopping. “And possibly infected. Is it infected?”

“The surgeon says it is, but then again, the surgeon is Roman, so you may just have syphilis of some sort,” Tristan replied, cleaning the cloth and handing it to Gawain before picking up the bandage and beginning to dress the wound on Galahad’s chest.

Galahad lay back down and coughed again, wincing once more in pain. A look of clarity seemed to flash across his face and Gawain bit down hard on his lip, wanting to make this all better, wishing he’d killed that Woad before he could hurt Galahad like this.

“It feels like I’m dying,” he said coldly.

“Have you ever died before?” Gawain snapped, unable to even hear the words from him. He dabbed the cloth lightly against Galahad’s forehead.

“No,” Galahad quietly replied, sounding childlike.

“Then you can’t know, now can you?” Gawain sharply added, pressing the cloth a little harder to Galahad’s forehead. Galahad laid flat on his back, sighing softly as his eyes seemed to fight a losing battle to stay open. Gawain panicked, worrying that if he drifted off now, he wouldn’t wake up again. “Galahad, don’t you dare die on me,” he warned, but it was too late. Galahad had passed out again. Gawain blinked back tears of frustration and tightened his grip on the cloth in his hands. He looked to Tristan and Lancelot, feeling useless.

“We wait,” Lancelot responded to the unasked question and sat down in the chair that Gawain had previously occupied.

Gawain leaned forward, one hand remaining inches from Galahad’s own. He didn’t move it the entire night, not even when Galahad writhed and cried in pain, not even when Galahad’s body stilled save for his laboured breathing. It was only when the sun rose and the Roman surgeon returned with more herbs and mixtures to apply to Galahad that Gawain allowed himself to feel the flickerings of hope – but only the bare remnants of the emotion.

“Is he going to be all right?” Tristan finally asked.

The surgeon studied Galahad for a moment, poking and prodding lightly at the wound. Galahad was still having trouble breathing and Gawain closed his eyes, wanting to hear only good words. After a lifetime of waiting, the surgeon spoke. “The infection seems to have died down. The mixture Dagonet made was a miracle, it seems.”

Gawain exhaled and allowed himself to feel the exhilirating rush of hope.

Galahad was going to live. That was all that mattered.

***

For some reason, Gawain felt as though he didn’t want to wake up; in fact, his body seemed stubbornly opposed to the idea. He’d been having a perfect dream, so warm and wonderful, but all dreams had an end and Gawain awoke as he did every other day of his life. He rolled over, yawning groggily while trying to place himself. The sun seemed to be shining in from the wrong place. The overwhelming feeling of lightness of being and happiness continued to flood him, however. Then he remembered.

“Shh,” Gawain murmured into Galahad’s ear as he stroked Galahad’s cock slowly. Galahad writhed and arched his back in the achingly slow tandem of the slow speed of Gawain’s fingers over his erection. Gawain was well aware that the pace was so slow that it could be considered torture. “Shh,” he repeated quietly. “We won’t rush this.”

From the depths of Galahad’s throat, there seemed to be an unending supply of sharp cries of pleasure and desire. Gawain’s other hand delicated brushed the curls out of Galahad’s eyes while he inflicted such sweet torture on him, brushing his thumb against the underside of Galahad’s cock and flicking it again and again over the head, causing Galahad to inhale and exhale with infinitely short gasps of breath.

And just faintly, Galahad was pleading.

“Gawain,” he murmured, a cry not quite making it into the air, but turning into a failed whimper instead. His voice was needy and hoarse in its unending pleas, “Gawain, please. Please,” he begged. “Faster. Please,” that last demand was guttural and deep and desperate.

Gawain grinned and turned, careful not to dislodge his arm from under Galahad’s body and wrapped himself comfortably in the embrace, feeling triumphant in that he’d finally gotten what he wanted and it had been everything he’d hoped for. More than that, he wasn’t about to let Galahad go. He pressed a lingering kiss to Galahad’s temple and let his fingers trail over the bandages on his chest. Galahad gave a pleased murmur and made a noise that sounded like a purr.

Gawain grinned, slowly grasping for new cloths and bandaging up the wound carefully, as gently as he could. Galahad slowly opened his eyes and gave a dazed and happy smile. Gawain felt warmth blossoming everywhere inside him. This feeling of love was so comforting that he didn’t want to let go of it. It felt good to care for someone else, and that it was Galahad that he was caring for made it even better.

“You don’t have to do that,” Galahad commented as Gawain tied the cloth off in a knot. Gawain merely gave Galahad a slow and lingering kiss on the lips. He pressed a lighter kiss on Galahad’s forehead before prying himself away and getting dressed slowly. “Or that, though, I enjoy it,” Galahad called after him, the grin in his words.

“Galahad, do you never shut up?” Gawain asked him, smirking. “Or will it be days of keeping you quiet through other means?”

Galahad sat up, reaching forward and grasping Gawain by his hair – which sent shivers down Gawain’s spine of a more lustful nature. Galahad nuzzled his face into the crook of Gawain’s neck and bit down hard at the place where neck met shoulder, his fingers brushing over the mark as he pulled his mouth away.

“You may have to help in keeping me quiet. Minding me, perhaps,” Galahad conceded, getting up and searching for his clothing. Gawain put on his shirt and handed Galahad’s tunic to him. “Though, I hear you’re absolutely terrible when it comes to minding things and people. Tristan says you’ve lost his hawk, and Bors has said that you’ve let two of his children run into the wilderness under your eye.”

An amused chortle escaped Gawain’s lips. “You’re beginning to irritate me,” he commented mildly, raising one eyebrow.

“Only now?” Galahad replied, sounding surprised and giving Gawain his most innocent expression – Gawain had seen it before and the Romans had seen it countless times. “I haven’t been trying hard enough.”

Gawain looked at him, amusement pulling at the edges of his mouth, and finally he gave a great burst of laughter, cuffing Galahad upside the head and sitting down on the cot, doubled over with amusement. Galahad sat beside him, grinning madly, their thighs touching.

He stood and grasped his boots, sitting down in a chair to get them on and regretting having to look away from Galahad now that he’d been permitted the honour of looking to like whenever he so wished.

Just as he’d laced up his boots and redressed completely – shifting until his armour was comfortable – he found Galahad lying back on the cot wearing only his tunic and sitting with his legs slightly spread. Gawain also found that he was being regarded with a somewhat predatory and lustful gaze. Gawain smirked and looked down.

“What?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t really get to see you last night,” Galahad complained petulantly.

Gawain raised an eyebrow, briefly giving thought to the fact that he’d just dressed, but second thoughts onwards reminded him that he’d been given the day off and he’d planned on doing nothing. Well, before that current moment, he’d had no plans. His plans for the day were shaping up to be much more interesting. Gawain searched the room and found a bit of lamp oil on top of the table, smiling as his mind began to form a plan.

“You’d like to see more of me?” Gawain asked, slowly turning in a full circle. Galahad shifted to the edge of the cot, his legs spread just enough to drive Gawain a little mad at the thought of what was underneath the tunic, and of course, how the legs were spread perfectly, so that Gawain could nestle in and…

He cleared his throat and remained steadfast in his decision to go slowly according to his new plan. He turned once more for Galahad and then let his fingers hover at the base of his chest armour as he slowly lifted it atop his head and set it on the chair. Every movement was precise and certain, as though he were undressing for the night. Gawain caught Galahad’s gaze – a studious look through half-lidded eyes – and it made Gawain want to speed up.

‘No,’ he scolded himself. ‘You do this slowly. For the first time with him, you do this slowly.’

He swayed his hips from side to side before kicking up one foot to the chair and unlacing his boot, his eyes never leaving Galahad’s face. He tugged off the boot and placed it on the ground, making quick work of the other and placing it beside its companion. He stretched his arms high above his head as he stripped his shirt off slowly, allowing his hand to trail up the skin of his chest as he took it off. He was starting to feel his pulse increasing and he glanced to Galahad to find him half-hard and breathing heavily. Gawain wriggled and writhed his hips, pushing his trousers down and finally ridding himself of the last vestiges of clothing.

It had been for Galahad to see and for Galahad to study him with his eyes, but now Gawain was ridiculously hard, wanting to lunge forward and tear the damned tunic off of Galahad and properly take him.

“Gawain,” Galahad let out a desperate groan and it took no more than that for Gawain to lunge forward and straddle Galahad, pushing and clawing at the latches of Galahad’s tunic, desperate to get it off without putting pressure on Galahad’s almost-healed wound. Gawain was sure they could accomplish it. Finally, Galahad was free of his clothing and he arched his neck backwards, letting out a content cry as Gawain fumbled for the lamp oil, his other hand stroking Galahad clumsily. Gawain heard a few objects crash to the ground, but they were worthless for all he cared. He merely concentrated on lifting Galahad’s legs, spreading his thighs and applying the oil quickly, messily, desperately. Galahad was murmuring a stream of incoherent and incomprehensible cries that only pushed Gawain to go faster, any discipline and patience from before utterly forgotten.

He paused as he pushed into Galahad for the first time, caressing Galahad’s cheek with his hand.

“If it’s too much,” Gawain said, raising an eyebrow, “tell me.”

“Not enough,” Galahad growled, grasping Gawain’s hair and tugging him closer. The impatient tone to the words nearly sent Gawain’s control over the edge. He grasped Galahad by the hips, pushing into him -- so tight and so hot. He kept going faster until Galahad gave a broken cry. Gawain took that a sign to keep the pace as is and instead focused on pushing as deeply as he could, evoking that same broken cry from Galahad, that same spasm that made Galahad tug harder on Gawain’s hair.

Any idea that this might have gone slowly was completely gone from Gawain’s mind.

Galahad’s breathing was little more than short gasps, and Gawain was groaning in tandem with his thrusts, the pleasure running through him in overwhelming waves. They were both sweating profusely, and finally, Galahad let out a loud shout, quickly followed by his eyes widening while Gawain’s name tumbled from his lips like a falling rain. Gawain kept pushing in, grunting with every thrust until he found his own peak, climaxing not soon after, one hand absently stroking Galahad’s cock, his fingers memorizing Galahad’s body as best as they could.

Gawain slumped atop Galahad for the briefest of moments, but his cry of pain quickly reminded Gawain to get off. He rolled to the side and wiped his hand on the bedding, smiling lazily at Galahad as he stood up and gave another slow turn of his body for Galahad to study him.

“Was everything to your pleasure?” Gawain asked, his words slurred and heavy.

“Very much,” Galahad grinned. He beckoned Gawain with a crook of his finger. “Come.” Gawain spared no time in obeying Galahad’s wishes and promptly involved himself in the very thorough, very up-close study of Galahad’s body, careful of the healing wound.

Gawain wasn’t quite sure as to what was going to happen the next day or the day after that, but he had a fairly good idea of exactly how he intended to spend the current moment and those until their freedom. He was going to spend them in the company of someone he loved.

***

The summer after Galahad had finally acquiesced to Gawain’s requests was the most humid, hot, and intolerable summer they’d had the displeasure of experiencing. Not a day went by without having to go through at least three shirts and a mass of sweat. Gawain had taken to hiding in the stables where the temperature was at least a few degrees cooler thanks to the shade. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. Of course, not everything to do with the heatwave was terrible. With the high temperatures, Arthur had given the Knights permission to traverse the garrison without their shirts weighing heavy on them – a feat that was helped immensely by Lancelot, who had merely taken off his shirt and indulged in an impromptu session of bathing in front of Arthur. Gawain indulged every damn day in the sight of Galahad in simply his breeches. It did make concentration on actual training a bit harder, but the heat alone made them doubt their ability to think. Gawain supposed that he might as well lose all ability to focus at once.

He’d retreated to the stables once more when the sun hit its highest peak in the sky. Gawain lay upon a pile of hay in the stables, one arm over his eyes, groaning when another wave of feverish warmth washed over his body. They were, in all honesty, being ravaged by the damned heat. He heard hesitant footsteps into the stables and hoped every last hope that it was someone here to bring him some sort of relief.

“If you value your life at all, you will leave me in peace or you will bring me cold water, cold ale, and a brutal winter,” he groaned. When no one responded, Gawain sat up and pressed his hands deep into the hay. Lancelot was standing there, shirtless, sweating and looking generally worse for the wear.

“Gawain. We've been looking for you,” Lancelot said evenly. Gawain felt a terrible sense of dread wash over him. He quickly did a mental check. No one was out on a mission and he’d seen Galahad just an hour ago, so it couldn’t have to do with that. There was nothing out of the ordinary scheduled to occur, so perhaps this had to do with plans for the night.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “What's going on?”

Lancelot hesitated before taking a step forward; his steps looked so hesitant that Gawain thought for a moment that Lancelot had been forced into this. Gawain carefully placed one hand on the handle of his axe, just in case of the worst possible scenario. “There's been word from the Sarmatian tribes,” Lancelot went on, taking a few steps closer to Gawain.

“And?”

For a moment, Gawain merely studied the look on Lancelot’s face. It was a terribly wrong look for Lancelot, this look of sheer pity. Gawain had a terrible feeling now; something had gone wrong and it was all a matter of wrestling it from Lancelot, which could prove to be a trial all its own.

“Your mother has passed on,” Lancelot said quietly.

Gawain blinked, feeling utterly frozen in place. Time ceased to pass normally and though Lancelot was still speaking, Gawain paid no attention to the sound. Gawain stared in horror to the wall, Lancelot’s words – your mother has passed on – echoing in his mind again and again. His mother had been the sole family he’d had left, save for a few cousins that had drifted and been pressed into service in various garrisons themselves. Gawain had little hope that they would survive their tenure with Rome, but his mother was supposed to live. He let out a choked cry, more surprised than saddened, and sound seemed to be restored after that moment.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot awkwardly added.

“Yes.” Gawain nodded, unable to say anything else. He still felt paralyzed and worthless. Of all the fighting he’d done, of all the protecting of other people’s mothers, he couldn’t protect his own. He’d failed, and now he’d lost the last family he had left. He’d lost the last person that he cared for.

“We'd been searching for Galahad to tell him so that he might tell you...” Lancelot’s voice trailed off, every awkward word seemingly trying to fill the silence.

He closed his eyes tightly, willing the world to fade away, but it never drifted wholly from him, it never faded away. He’d lost every last thing he had to remind him of him. He’d lost every last thing he cared for. Though, if truth were told, he hadn’t lost everyone he cared for; things had changed since he’d left his mother. He wasn’t alone anymore. His mother might be gone, but he had someone to care for.

“Does he know?” Gawain tilted his head up to ask quietly.

“No.”

“Don’t tell him.”

There was another awkward pause before Lancelot clapped Gawain on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Lancelot offered once more before he turned and walked away quickly, appearing eager to be out of the awkward situation. As soon as Lancelot, his shadow, and his words had left the stables it was as though he had never been there in the first place. It was as though Gawain could have imagined it.

“Thank you,” Gawain murmured belatedly, his words hollow in the silence.

Every thought of home he ever had – distant and impossible as they had been – had been tied to one person; every dream and fantasy he ever envisioned of home revolved around his mother. Now, she was gone. He was glad that Lancelot didn’t tell him how her death had come about. He preferred not to know if it was natural or a death more indicative of Gawain’s lifestyle. He’d lost too many fellow Knights in battle, and it would be too crushing to lose his mother the same way.

He made it to his feet, intending to search for Galahad and seek comfort in his arms. He made it as far as four steps outside the stables before Arthur met and stopped him from going anywhere.

“Lancelot tells me that your mother has passed on,” Arthur began quietly, searching Gawain’s face with his eyes. It seemed that Arthur was always studying the situation. “I'm sorry,” he offered. Gawain shifted uncomfortably, distressed by both the increased temperature outside the stables and the vaguely sick feeling he had in his stomach. He felt lifeless on his feet, as though walking around half-dead.

“It's strange,” Gawain said, his voice devoid of emotion. “I feel as if nothing has changed, except I can't...every image of home is gone from my mind. Every one. I hadn't been clinging to freedom, not like Galahad, but now...now there's simply nothing there.”

Gawain blinked, realizing that his words were truth. With every memory he tried to recall of home, the only one he could remember was his departure. The only day he could remember was the day the Romans had come to take him away while everything else remained a distant and fading blur.

Gracefully, Arthur stepped forward, leaning in so that their words would be kept from eavesdropping ears. “You can return for a time. I would make concessions,” Arthur explained slowly, his eyes furtively shifting to the side and cautiously watching the Roman sentry guards. Gawain scoffed, slightly pleased that Arthur would make such allowances for him, but the thought of leaving the garrison filled him with no desire to do so.

“I'd honestly rather not,” Gawain muttered listlessly.

“I'm still relieving you of your duties for a few days,” Arthur replied.

“If you feel it necessary.”

“I do,” Arthur nodded. He placed both hands on Gawain’s shoulders and gave them both a quick squeeze. Gawain nodded bravely, forcing a smile on his face if only to reassure Arthur. He was holding up adequately if he did say so himself. He hadn’t crumbled in a pile of emotions and he hadn’t acted out as Galahad might have done. He felt empty and tired and a great weariness threatened to claim him, but that was the extent of his reaction. “I’m sorry,” Arthur said once more and relinquished his hold on Gawain, allowing him to make his way.

Gawain slowly walked away – tired already of hearing people apologize to him as though they had been personally involved with his mother’s death. He’d been meaning to go back to his quarters, but somewhere along the way he wound up changing directions and entered Galahad’s quarters without so much as a knock at the door. Gawain found Galahad lying on his cot and staring at the ceiling, one hand lazily drawing circles in the sheen of sweat on his chest. Galahad looked up at the sound of the door opening and was immediately at Gawain’s side, eyes wide with worry. Gawain supposed he looked terrible.

“What happened?” Galahad asked quietly, wrapping one arm around Gawain’s waist to support him as Galahad led him to the cot and sat him down. Gawain didn’t say anything, he merely leaned into the touch that Galahad gave him. He’d long ago dropped his axe and had no idea where it was now. Galahad was shaking him, but Gawain was only faintly aware of it.

He supposed he had to say something. “My life changed,” Gawain said evenly, not quite looking at Galahad, but rather at the floor. He tried once more to summon memories of home, his mother’s cooking, her face, but only the faintest outline would appear. Nothing more. He closed his eyes, pained that his recollection had become so terrible.

“Gawain, what happened?” Galahad demanded insistently.

Gawain turned to look at him. “You just became my sole reason for being,” Gawain explained slowly and simply, wondering if that would be enough and too much all at once. It appeared that more details were required as Galahad was regarding him with an impatient and angry look on his face. Any other day and any other time, Gawain would have snapped at him to wipe that look away because Galahad looked so much better when he threw away his displeasure. Currently, Gawain could only think about how immature Galahad could be.

“Gawain!” Galahad snapped. “Tell me what…”

“My mother,” Gawain interrupted quietly, his voice breaking in the middle of the words. He closed his eyes, his back slumping as he felt the fight go out of him. “She’s dead.” The words sounded false as they passed his lips. “She’s dead,” he echoed, trying them again; this time, they hit him viscerally. He felt himself folding into Galahad’s embrace and merely sat there; Galahad lightly rocked him every once in a while and eventually they slipped into a stillness that rivaled a statue’s immobility.

He didn’t know how long Galahad held him like that, still and silent.

“She’s dead,” Gawain murmured those words for the last time. He shut his eyes tighter to block out the world, pressing closer to Galahad and the warmth that lay there.

~~~


Part 3

Though a week had passed since he heard news of his mother’s passing on, the lingering effects of her death were still present in Gawain’s mind and on his emotional state. Though he smiled with the others during training and drank with them at night, he would always return to his cot and lie silently in Galahad’s arms, unable to speak about her or about any feelings he had. Worst of all, he’d lost everything in his memory of home. There really was nothing to go back for, which only made it worse between Galahad and himself as Galahad was so determined to go home. Galahad still had his memories.

The fateful night that snapped Gawain out of his misery and into a whole different state started as any other did. He’d been eating dinner with the rest of the Knights, and he’d even been jostling and playing around, the shadow of a genuine smile on his face. He’d wrestled Galahad atop the table for the last piece of bread and when he’d lost, he’d ‘accidentally’ poured half an urn of wine into Galahad’s lap to Lancelot and Bors’ discontent – “All that wine to waste!” Lancelot had uttered, horrified.

He’d been out for a walk outside the walls of the garrison when it had happened.

There was a rustling sound by one of the trees that was making Gawain suspicious. He knew he wasn’t hearing things; though he’d been drinking, he hadn’t drank that much. He slowly made his way over to the source of the sound, his hand resting cautiously atop the hilt of his sword. He finally found the disturbance in the form of a Woad lurking about the trees. Gawain immediately unsheathed his sword and had it pointed at the Woad’s throat so quickly that he was both surprised and proud of his efficiency. The Woad stumbled backwards until his back hit the trunk of the tree, Gawain following him with every step and keeping the sword trained on his throat.

“What do you want?” Gawain asked threateningly. The Woad had raised his arms in surrender, his eyes wide with fear, and the remnants of blue paint adorning his face and arms. “Why are you so close?”

“I-I have information,” the Woad stuttered, tripping over words in Gawain’s native tongue – clipped, unnecessary, and badly expressed. Gawain narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“What sort of information?” Gawain slowly asked, not moving his sword the slightest inch. “Is this some sort of trap?” he leaned in and growled, not in the mood for tricks and foul play. He quickly looked to his left and right, but neither heard or saw any others. He sneered. “You’re here alone, bearing information, and you don’t fear for your life?” Gawain laughed and spat in the Woad’s face. “What sort of information do you have for me?” he repeated scornfully.

The Woad blinked, his whole body quaking with fear. Gawain took deep pleasure in that.

“My people are p-p-planning an incursion against a nearby village,” the Woad stumbled on his words. Gawain snarled at him, pressing the tip of the sword just a little closer to his skin, causing beads of sweat to cluster and stream down his face. “Tomorrow!” he added quickly, a tiny squeak of fear capping off his confession.

“Why should I believe you?” Gawain challenged.

“It’s the second village to the West, I swear,” the Woad’s eyes were still as wide as Gawain had ever seen. “They plan to k-kill women and children. I want no part of that. I only want to be able to help! I want you to stop them! It’s become madness. I won’t be a part of t-that kind of slaughter.”

“So you want to help us,” Gawain smirked.

“Yes,” the Woad winced as he swallowed and the sword dug in a little deeper without Gawain even pushing it forward. “Yes,” he moaned with more conviction. “You and your Knights can stop it. P-please. There will only be about seventy-five or so.”

Gawain regarded the Woad with cold fury, placing this man’s face in place of the one that had almost killed Galahad. He wondered if this one was a part of that rebellious battle, if this was the Woad that had almost taken the last thing that Gawain loved from him. He wondered if this was one of the Woads that had killed his fallen knights, and with an icy smile on his face, Gawain realized just what he could do to make everything right.

“Tomorrow?” Gawain questioned. “The village two over to the West? Seventy-five strong.”

“Yes,” the Woad murmured in quiet relief. He muttered something happily in his own language. Gawain narrowed his eyes and relaxed his sword, but only slightly.

Gawain didn’t take his eyes off his enemy once. He gave a brisk and short nod before retracting his sword – long enough for the Woad to relax his posture and let out a long exhalation. Gawain withdrew his arm backwards and positioned the sword to the side, perfectly lined up with the Woad’s jugular. The Woad seemed to comprehend what was about to happen.

“No!” he shouted.

Gawain swung for the kill, the edge of his sword contacting the Woad’s neck with great force and not slowing until he had completely beheaded the man. Gawain watched as the body crumpled to the ground, the head rolling off to the side. He stared down at the dead body and felt himself go numb, even as he stared and realized that this wasn’t self-defense or prevention. This was murder. He shivered a little at the thought and briefly wondered what made the distinction. Gawain managed to turn himself around and forced himself to walk back to the garrison. He pushed heavily on the gates and aimlessly wandered down streets, heading towards the faint sounds of someone cleaning up in the tavern.

“Who’s there?” Bors called out. Gawain rounded the corner and saw that Bors was alone in the tavern, a cloth in his hand as he wiped down the tables. His other hand was atop the hilt of his sword, just as Gawain’s own hand had been earlier. Slowly, Gawain looked down to see that his sword was still in his hand – both his hand and the sword were stained with splattered blood.

Gawain felt relief wash over him, but when he spoke, he couldn’t hear any emotion in his voice. “Bors.” Bors rushed to Gawain’s side and helped him sit down on one of the benches. Gawain looked off into the distance, avoiding Bors’ gaze. He felt unclean and he didn’t feel proud of what he’d done, though he still believed that it had been necessary.

“What’s the trouble?” Bors nudged Gawain and finally got his attention.

“The Woads are going to attack,” Gawain commented evenly, his voice neither rising nor falling. “They’re going to attack a nearby village tomorrow. There are going to be about seventy-five of them, or so.”

“How’d you find this gem?”

“I found it.”

Bors didn’t press.

“It’s the second village over to the West,” Gawain went on, his voice as lifeless as ever.

“Why don’t you toddle off to sleep,” Bors offered uneasily, “and I’ll tell Arthur about this.”

“Sleep,” Gawain murmured. He rose from his seat stiffly, his body feeling nearly paralyzed. Every step seemed to take a lifetime, but he eventually got himself to start moving. He wasn’t tired at all, quite honestly. He made it back to his quarters to find Galahad sitting on his cot and waiting for him. “Galahad,” Gawain greeted him, his voice still devoid of inflection. He dropped his sword to the ground in a great clatter.

“Where have you been?” Galahad immediately demanded, his voice hitting Gawain like quickly fired arrows. “Gawain, you’ve been gone for hours. Where have you been?”

Gawain hadn’t even been aware of the length of time he’d been away. He wondered how long he had been wandering the fields before he’d found the Woad, or if perhaps he had lost time after he had killed him. Galahad was looking at him suspiciously, getting up to cross to Gawain’s side. He took Gawain’s hands into his own and held them tightly, Gawain’s palms flat to the ceiling.

“What have you done?” Galahad asked slowly, his gaze on Gawain’s hands.

“Nothing!” Gawain snapped defensively. “Why are you still awake?”

“Don't lie to me,” Galahad said sharply, his expression cross. “You're shaking. Damn it,” he hissed, “what have you done?”

Gawain looked down at his hands and realized that Galahad was right. His hands were trembling, and if he looked closely enough, he could see the smallest of bloodstains on his fingers. Galahad must have seen them by now as well, and it didn’t help that the trembling of Gawain’s hands was not stopping.

“What did you do?” Galahad repeated, more grave this time, every word slow and precise.

“What I had to,” Gawain replied in the same tone of voice that Galahad had been using. Galahad took a step back, relinquishing his hold on Gawain’s hands. He looked at Gawain with an uneasy stare that sent a chill down Gawain’s spine, but before Gawain could say anything more, Galahad slowly began to circle Gawain. Without Galahad’s hands on his own, Gawain found himself slipping back into the emotionless void he’d been in before.

“What you had to? Gawain, there is blood on your hands. You were gone for hours, and your sword has blood on it. You’re barely looking at me. Gawain, what have you done?” Galahad asked, horror in his voice.

Gawain couldn’t answer.

“Gawain!” Galahad shouted, louder now. He continued his slow circles around Gawain, shaking his head. He stopped when he and Gawain were face-to-face and grasped him by the collar of his shirt, giving him a shake. “Answer me!”

Gawain said nothing. Murder, his mind crowed at him.

“Gawain!” Galahad shouted once more, and this time, he affixed his words with a swift and hard punch to Gawain’s jaw. The attack snapped Gawain out of his numbness. He stumbled backwards in reaction and he snarled with great anger as his hand quickly passed over the place that Galahad’s fist had hit. He lunged forward out of instinct, tackling and pinning Galahad to the cot. The intensity didn’t leave Galahad’s expression once. “What did you do?” Galahad asked again slowly, every word angrier than before.

“I killed a man,” Gawain snapped, his knees digging into the cot, forming a vice around Galahad’s hips. “I killed a man,” he growled, “who was a Woad and deserved his death. He may have been innocent, but the crimes of his people dictated that he too should die.”

Galahad looked up at him with growing horror, his eyes growing just as wide as the Woad’s had been. Gawain’s mind drew up an unwanted comparison in which Galahad was the Woad and the Woad was Galahad. In that one terrifying split-second of a moment, he saw himself behead Galahad in his mind’s eye instead of the Woad. He recoiled automatically, but didn’t move; he kept Galahad pinned to the bed, even though Galahad writhed in an attempt to escape. Galahad gazed up at him in disappointment, in fear, in anger, in a variety of emotions that Gawain had never wanted Galahad to associate with him.

“Gawain,” Galahad quietly said. “Get off of me.”

Gawain didn’t move.

“Gawain,” Galahad said a second time, his tone a warning. Still, Gawain did not move. Galahad shook his head, his face clouding over with disappointment. Galahad moved his knee and brought it up hard against Gawain’s groin, sending him rolling off of Galahad in great pain. Galahad didn’t miss his chance to lunge off of the bed, grasp his sword and turn it on Gawain. Gawain writhed in pain, biting down on his lip.

“You miserable son of a whore,” Gawain muttered under his breath, hurt by the pain. He spat to the floor and glared up at Galahad, noticing that the sword was pointed at his throat. Gawain laughed darkly, turning and stretching his neck to give Galahad a larger area to position the edge of the sword against. To Gawain’s surprise, Galahad actually moved the sword there, placing the cool edge of the blade against his skin. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson?”

“You need to listen to me,” Galahad began lowly. “You have murdered an innocent man. You didn’t pay heed to my sole request just now. Your mother may be dead, but I’m not. You’re not. You have things to live for. Why are you trying to get yourself killed?” He retracted the blade and threw it to the ground. “Damn it, Gawain,” he growled.

“Galahad…” Gawain started, not even knowing what to say, but knowing that something must be said.

Galahad shook his head angrily. “I’m going. Don’t follow me.” He bent down to pick up his sword, glaring at Gawain. Gawain sat on the cot, the pain in his groin dulling, but not disappearing as he watched Galahad slam the door shut behind him.

***

There was a harsh knock on Gawain’s door not an hour later. He hadn’t been thinking about the possibility sleep, let alone the ridiculous idea of actually drifting off. All he could think of was killing the Woad and how he hadn’t allowed Galahad to escape his hold. He wondered if he really did want to die. Gawain opened his door to find Dagonet standing there with his axe in hand.

“We’re leaving for the battle,” Dagonet explained. “I was sent to fetch you.”

Gawain nodded wordlessly and began to prepare, leaving his door open even as Dagonet left. He felt slightly put out that Galahad hadn’t been the one to come and get him as he usually did, but all Gawain had to do was recall the fear in Galahad’s eyes as he writhed beneath Gawain. Gawain grasped his sword from the floor and stormed out to the stables. Once there, he found the rest of the Knights already atop their horses. Silently, Galahad handed Gawain his axe.

Gawain didn’t say anything in return. He merely took his weapon and mounted his horse.

“Knights,” Arthur cantered his horse to the stable doors. “We ride West as quickly as possible. Once there, we devise our strategy.” He spared a glance to Gawain. “It was fortunate that you found out about this,” he said in a quieter tone, meant for Gawain’s hearing only. A flicker of guilt passed through him as he realized that only Galahad knew what he’d done. It was their secret.

The ride to the village felt as though it spanned three of Gawain’s lifetimes. The journey was made in complete silence and Galahad refused to ride alongside Gawain as was the normal way of things. He instead rode behind the cavalry on his own while Gawain rode alongside Tristan. He rode and relived the memory of his fight with Galahad and the actions that had caused the argument.

They rode in darkness, under the pale light of the moon and upon arrival, the sun had barely begun to creep upwards from the horizon. Gawain couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept, but it didn’t matter anymore. There was a battle to fight. The village was quiet, but Gawain could make out the silhouettes of peasants as they arrived.

They led the horses on foot into the stables of the village and Arthur led his Knights every step of the way, assembling curious villagers and folk who were willing to help. Gawain barely spared them a second glance, knowing that they would not fight this battle; they didn’t matter. The village bore great resemblance to their own garrison, the gates, pathways, and fields nearly identical in architecture. Gawain stood back with the others as Arthur surveyed the area and spoke with some of the villagers.

“….need oil,” Arthur turned to the Knights. “I want about three layers of oil spread thickly just past the entrance and then brush to be layered atop it and pressed to the ground so it looks natural.” Several of the villagers nodded and went running. Arthur paced back and forth in front of the Knights. “Gawain, Galahad,” he began. Gawain winced slightly, noting that Arthur was still placing him and Galahad together in battle, though he had no reason to do otherwise – he had no inclinations to know anything about their private life. “You two start in the Eastern corner of the courtyard.” Arthur pointed to the area. “You’ll be firing with your bows before you join the thick of battle. Bors, Dagonet. The Western corner. Same thing.”

He crouched to the ground and picked up a handful of dirt.

“We’ll lay the ground with oil and brush. Milady,” Arthur turned to a woman. “My Knights will need torches, will you bring them?” She nodded and hurried off into the homes. Arthur turned back to the Knights. “Tristan, Lancelot, and myself will form a barrier by the main gates. Tristan, when I give the command, I want you to dip a few arrows in the fire and hit this mark,” Arthur said, striding to the gates and tapping the ground beneath him, “that’s been coated with oil. Only after the majority of the Woads have stormed inside the courtyard, however.” Arthur stood, tall and proud, ever their Commander. “Is everyone clear?”

“Understood.”

“Clear.”

“Yes, sir.”

Amidst the chorus of assent, Gawain nodded. He exchanged a brief and terse glance with Galahad before marching off to the corner where they’d been assigned, but not speaking a single word. Galahad walked beside him, seemingly abandoning the concept of personal space. Gawain stopped when they arrived at a few stacks of hay, ducking behind them and sharing another brief look with Galahad. Gawain pressed his back up against the bristling hay while Galahad did the same. They exchanged arrows silently, checking that the tips were sharp enough to kill on contact, but not once did they make eye contact and the only sound was the occasional grunt of approval regarding an arrow. Finally, Gawain knew he had to give in and say something, if only that he would never forgive himself if something happened because of his stupidity.

“Don’t die on me,” Gawain ordered, not quite looking at Galahad.

“You’re not exactly in a position to make demands,” Galahad muttered his breath.

“We’ll sort this after,” Gawain said through gritted teeth. “But I ask that you don’t go carelessly into battle because of this. Don’t die on me.” He sighed and added the last part of his sentence in a rush. “You’re all I have left.”

Gawain finally looked up hesitantly and found Galahad with his mouth open, the anger on his face thawing slightly. Before he could say anything, Lancelot’s voice carried over the courtyard, shouting “Attack!” Gawain drew his bow and raised his head above the hay, gaining a clear view. The fire blazed and blocked the Woads from escaping; Tristan had hit the mark perfectly, as always. Gawain fired off three arrows in quick succession, noting that he and Galahad were behind the attacks of the other Knights. Dead Woads littered the ground, some ran about desperately to extinguish the fire that had caught to their clothing, and others were charging towards Arthur as quickly as they could. Gawain fired again and again; out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Galahad was keeping up with him.

“Five,” he muttered aloud, marking how many arrows he’d used.

“I’ve killed seven,” Galahad sneered at him, his gaze not straying from his bow.

Gawain let out an aggravated snarl. “This is not a competition, Galahad.”

“Nine,” Galahad replied lightly, his tone triumphant and taunting.

Gawain fired two arrows at once, pleased when both of them hit their mark and struck two Woads dead to the ground. He looked down to find his quiver empty and checked Galahad’s as well to find only two arrows remaining. Gawain dropped his bow and grasped his axe in one hand and his sword in the other, ready to stain them both with blood that wasn’t from murder. Without looking back at Galahad, he charged forward, ready to kill the remaining Woads, whose numbers were visibly dwindling. Those who remained were currently under siege from all sides as Arthur had begun to charge forward, Lancelot and Tristan defending his back.

Gawain drove his sword through the heart of a Woad, turning when he heard a feral war cry pierce the air, spinning in time to see a Woad charging with a sword in his hand and sprinting to stab Galahad in the back, not three feet away from Gawain. Gawain cursed profusely under his breath as he dropped his weapons and bent his knees down, tackling Galahad to the ground, covering Galahad’s body with his own. With the uneven weight, they rolled down into the ditches, the both of them breathing heavily, Gawain on top of Galahad, and their bodies pressed close.

The cries of battle were dying down, and Gawain faintly heard Bors screaming, “Victory! Artorius!” Gawain kept breathing heavily, not moving from his place atop Galahad’s body and feeling like the others were another world away. Galahad blinked furiously, gazing up at Gawain, and this was how Gawain found himself in a strange mirror of only scant hours ago. Galahad did not writhe under Gawain’s grasp, however, and Gawain took this as a sign that he had permission to try and make things right.

Silently and slowly, he rocked his hips upward, careful and watchful of Galahad’s reaction. Galahad’s mouth dropped open and he let out a small, pleased sigh. Gawain pushed their hips together with more force and leaned down to press a kiss to Galahad’s lips, out of sight of the others.

“I’m sorry,” Gawain quietly breathed out the words. “Forgive me.”

“Is that an order or a request?” Galahad raised an eyebrow.

“What I did,” Gawain swallowed, didn’t move, “was wrong. It was murder. I don’t have a wish to die, Galahad. I don’t. Not with you still by my side.”

He stood up and offered his hand to Galahad, pleased when Galahad took it without a single moment of hesitation. He pulled them both up, and staggered backwards up the sloping hill to the pathway. Gawain bent down to reclaim his sword and axe, walking over to the others, shooting them a half-smile when he saw that they were victorious with few injuries.

“Well done, Knights,” Arthur said proudly. He was beaming. Everyone was breathing heavily, and the fire by the gates was slowly dwindling to low flames that flickered with the wind, turning to ashes before their eyes. “I believe this deserves a celebration at the tavern tonight.”

“Artorius!” Bors shouted triumphantly, raising his sword into the air and evoking laughter from the others. Bors grinned, tucked his sword away and clapped Galahad down hard on the shoulder in one smooth movement. “See now, boy. Those are the kinds of battles we like. The kind where you don’t go and almost die on us. Wouldn’t you agree, Dag?”

Dagonet nodded, a small smile on his face. Dagonet had a long and shallow cut running down his arm, but not once did he show any pain.

“You caused an awful lot of trouble the last time with all your antics,” Bors went on, walking off with Galahad. Galahad seemed to wince under the hand clasping his shoulder, but Bors paid no mind. Gawain trailed behind with Dagonet and Tristan.

“I’d hardly call them antics,” Gawain countered. “It’s not as if he asked for the arrow.”

“Technicalities,” Lancelot voiced from behind. They walked over the ashes of the near-spent fire. Jols and a few of the stable boys were leading the horses out behind them and were stomping out the remaining flames so that the horses could walk safely. Gawain watched with affection as his horse obeyed every word that Jols whispered to him. When Gawain turned back to the Knights, Lancelot had darted ahead of him and had clapped his hand down on Galahad’s other shoulder. Gawain stifled his laughter at the sight of poor Galahad trapped in between Bors and Lancelot. “I promise though, that I’ll buy you the finest wine and get you the drunkest you’ve ever been tonight.”

“To what occasion?” Tristan asked, confused. “And why don’t I get this promise?”

“Do I need an occasion to spoil Galahad?” Lancelot asked innocently.

“Yes,” everyone chorused, Gawain louder and sterner than the others. Lancelot turned and gave his most angelic face – which was surprisingly innocent looking. Gawain could understand why Arthur surrendered to this face and he could also begin to understand how Lancelot had charmed so many into his bed. That face was a dangerous weapon.

“Well, then, does anyone mind if I spoil Tristan?” the sneer in Lancelot’s voice was unmistakable.

“I don’t.” Tristan replied evenly. “Spoil away. I’d enjoy not paying for my ale for one night.” He flashed a smile that should have been cheerfully light, but came off as sly and devious instead, as though this were all a calculated game for Tristan. “I would even worship you as you no doubt are so used to.” Gawain snorted with laughter and grinned when Galahad escaped the holds on him when Bors and Lancelot began to bicker about getting free wine and ale from Vanora because of their close relations.

Galahad drifted to Gawain’s side, pressing closely as they turned and waited for their horses to be brought to them, sharing a private smile as Gawain felt relief flood him with the simple knowledge that he had not lost Galahad in his fit of foolishness. There would be recriminations and nightmares and ill memories, but nothing that could not be mended. Gawain helped Galahad to mount his horse and brushed a kiss to Galahad’s hand when no one was paying them any attention.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?” Galahad asked, furrowing his brow.

“Don’t ask. Just accept my thanks,” Gawain instructed him, mounting his own horse.

“All right,” Galahad replied, sounding confused and pleased at the same time. “You’re welcome.”

***

Of all the days that Gawain struggled most to awaken, today was the worst. To wake up meant that he would have to acknowledge that the past few years – good years mostly, not without their problems, but dominated by more good things that far outweighed the bad – were over and that the last few weeks had actually happened. Gawain had been drinking heavily ever since their return from the village North of the wall and the funerals to bury those that fell at Badon Hill. He had still been affected by the slightest of drink during Tristan’s funeral and the burning of Lancelot’s body, not enough to show, but enough to cast a strange haze on the events.

Today was one day after they had cast Lancelot’s ashes to the wind.

He’d been having nightmares. In every nightmare, he dreamt that somehow he had saved them from their deaths. He had shielded Dagonet better on the ice. He had been there when the Woads struck down Agravaine and Kay. He’d pushed the Saxon aside before he ever had a chance to shoot Lancelot. He’d distracted Tristan from fighting the Saxon army’s leader. Every Knight he could have saved, he dreamt of saving them in his dreams. Gareth, Percival, Tristan, every face he’d seen go blank was no longer a corpse, but still his friend in his dreams.

He roused himself from the cot, standing up grudgingly, his head thudding with the lingering effect of too much alcohol. Galahad was nowhere to be found and Gawain supposed that he would have to forcibly drag him from the graves again. Gawain realized that it was a longstanding habit of Galahad’s, but this was getting ridiculous. He put on a few layers of clothes and stumbled out of his quarters to find Guinevere leaning up against the wall – a startling and strange mirror of how Gawain had found Lancelot so many years ago.

“Milady,” Gawain nodded politely, walking off towards the cemetery.

Strangely, she followed him. Gawain frowned, thinking to himself that perhaps there weren’t so many differences between Guinevere and Lancelot. He even found himself realizing just how Arthur could fall in love with the lady so quickly when one looked at the similarities. Gawain raised a curious eyebrow, slowing down his pace.

“Did you require my presence or aid?” Gawain asked, confused.

“I wanted to talk to one of the Knights,” she said, crossing her arms. Her dress sashayed on the ground as they went, and Gawain listened to the sound as they walked. “And since the big one doesn’t want anything to do with me,” she sneered, “and the other won’t talk to me so much as glare at me.”

“Bors has a family to worry over, and you’d do well to watch your tongue regarding Galahad,” Gawain warned. A look of amused interest flickered over her face as they walked. “He’s mourning. Now’s not the time to disturb him. I take it I was the only remaining option.”

“Arthur has requested that we marry,” Guinevere confided quietly and quickly, her blunt nature rearing its face.

Gawain stopped in his walk, his eyes widening with surprise. “What?” he demanded. He blinked, feeling shock overcome him in a rush. He knew from conversations with Galahad that Arthur and Lancelot had been at odds for a great many months, perhaps years before Lancelot had died, but even this seemed sudden. After all, during their arguments and while they were at odds, Arthur and Lancelot had many moments of brief happiness they found in each other; finding solace if only for one night. “Guinevere, lady…Arthur is hardly a man of idle whims and rash decisions…” Gawain began, inwardly chuckling that Galahad was more the Knight to personify those characteristics.

“Yes, and?”

“And I suspect if he’s asked this, he’s given it due consideration.”

“I think it has more to do with uniting the people under one leader,” she replied, sounding bored. “I do believe he bears interest in me. He doesn’t seem the type of man to live a lie.”

“He’s not,” Gawain agreed.

“I wanted your honest opinion,” Guinevere stated. “Would I earn the blessings of the remaining Knights, or would you condemn our marriage?” she said evenly, searching Gawain’s eyes for the answer. “I don’t fancy walking into something where I’ll be hated for choosing to love someone simply because he’s been your leader for fifteen years and you feel you own him first.”

Gawain laughed. “Lady, I’m the wrong person to ask.”

“You’re one of the three remaining Knights,” she insisted. “You’d be an influential part of deciding whether to hate or accept me.”

Gawain shook his head, scoffing. “You think I bear that much influence? Guinevere, milady,” Gawain continued, politely, “Bors will decide to do whatever he so chooses and once he makes up his mind, the only person who could ever change it was Dagonet or Arthur himself. So long as Arthur gives the command that you are not to be hated, you will have Bors on your side. As for myself, I bear you no ill will, and I don’t hate you in the least.”

“There’s one more,” she reminded him.

“You’d do best to hope that Galahad has taken a liking to you,” Gawain arched an eyebrow in amusement. “He’s a stubborn arse who will stick to his original judgment no matter how wrong it may be.”

“That bad?”

“And worse,” Gawain added. “But he’s been so distracted with the funerals that I don’t think he’s had much time at all to form any thoughts of you. With a little help and a little luck, I believe you will be able to wed Arthur with the blessings of the remaining Knights.”

She nodded. “He’s in the cemetery, if you were looking for him.”

Gawain walked away without saying thank you or goodbye, simply nodding politely. He made it to the cemetery to find Galahad sitting and staring not at the graves, but rather out to the East. Of everything, it had been the most difficult to convince Galahad to forget about home, but Gawain had come around to admitting that his home resided with Galahad, which seemed to please Galahad and even got him to stay in one place – for the moment, at least.

It still didn’t stop Galahad from these moments when he would do nothing but stare to the East. Gawain stood behind Galahad and studied him for a few minutes before he lightly rested his hand on Galahad’s shoulder, getting his attention. Galahad got to his feet quickly, brushing the dirt off of his tunic and directed his full attention to Gawain.

“Guinevere and Arthur are going to marry,” Gawain quietly confided. Galahad’s eyes widened in surprise. “She wants our approval.”

It took a moment for Galahad to get himself out of his surprised state. “I barely know her,” Galahad muttered with a shrug. “I assume we’ll have to attend the wedding.”