Galahad glances around the empty field, the eerie silence hanging in the air as thick as the morning mist. He knows from the geared up stance of the other knights, and from the heavy anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach, that this peaceful dawn scene won't last long. Soon, he fears, the painted demons will spring like animals from the surrounding trees and run at them with their jagged flint swords and piercing arrows. He had heard the stories from the other men at the wall. And, in a more graphic and gritty style, from Bors. The other knights had tried to laugh off Bors' tales, but now the young knight was fairly sure these stories were true, and he was about to live them, in the flesh, for the first time. The sharp twang of a bow-string breaks the grave silence, and Galahad turns to see the body of a Woad tumbling from the branches. Before the corpse even hits the floor, legions of Woads leap from the bushes, hollering their war-cries as they charge. The knights immediately spring into action, firing their arrows into the thundering horde as they bound from their horses. Fumbling for his sword he tumbles onto the grass and begins to nervously edge forward into the battle. Assuming his stance he browses fretfully around the field. All the other knights are cutting down their opponents left right and centre. Readying himself for an assault he starts into the chaos. Suddenly a blade swings over his head, knocking him onto his back. He thrusts his sword upwards until he feels it slide slickly through the flesh of his assailant. Pushing the body to the side with his foot and yanking his sword out, he rolls over, momentarily glancing the hovering shape of a Woad standing over him. Wincing, he tenses himself in anticipation for a blow of cold steel. But no blade slashes through him, and only the resonating clang of metal against metal reaches his ears. Stunned and confused he stays still, like an animal playing dead. He feels a boot under his stomach flick him as if he were no heavier than a dog, and kick him out of the way as two blood stained swords clash and swing over onto the ground. The long-cloaked wielder of one of the blades weaves his way to his feet gracefully, spinning his weapon up over his head, before driving it down across the neck of the bold woad that had tried his luck. Panting and frightened, Galahad looks up. Tristan stands over him, casually flicking the blood from his curved blade. He turns to walk away, and before he disappears into the crowd as vaporously as he came, muttering coldly; "Don't get in my way boy."

"Lancelot?" Galahad stirs under the dark veil of night, and strains his eyes in the dark to see the outline of the dark knight silhouetted in the hazy orange glow of the dwindling fire. He is sitting beside Galahad, gazing at the small pendant in his hands. He looks up, quickly tucking the object out of sight. Not that it matters, Galahad knows what it is. Lancelot tries to divert Galahad's attention. "My watch is almost over, I should go and wake Arthur." But the young knight's expression does not change.
"Do you think about them often?" Galahad asks quietly, not looking at Lancelot in the eyes.
"Everyday." "I can still see their faces in my mind. I sometimes wonder what they look like now." He said, with the elder knight watching him intensely. "If they're still alive. I hate it, remembering everything about that day. The look on my father's face." Lancelot says nothing, but by the look on his face, Galahad knows he's feeling the same. The same sadness, the same anger, the same longing.
"I hope that, if I live long enough to have children, they won't be sons. Do you think we will, Lancelot? Do you think we'll see home?" Lancelot raises himself jadedly to his feet, and says quietly, "Go back to sleep Galahad."

Back at the wall, Galahad sits doubled over on his bed, surveying his hurts from their assignment in the dim glow of a candle on his bedside table. Stretching wearily, he reflects on the days past. His first mission as a real knight. Well, he thinks, not a real knight. But an official one at least. No, a real knight wouldn't have trembled like a frightened child under the attack of an enemy, relying on someone else to save his skin. He had thought he was ready. After five years of training, Arthur thought he was ready. But he wasn't. Not ready for the realism of the front line, living every minute in the knowledge it might be your last. Life was dangerous. Death was a constant threat. What were you to do with your time, not knowing how much of it you had left? Everything he has done seems worthless, every second seems wasted.
Seeing all those men, and women, fall to the swords of his companions, and his own, made him feel sick. They were people fighting for their country. In his heart, Galahad felt more cause to be fighting the Romans, if he was to fight at all. After all they were the ones that had invaded the island and driven the Woads from their land. The Woads had a cause. A home to fight for. More than he had. He had been taken from his home, just over five years ago, by the very same people that had taken the land from the Woads. Now it was his duty to fight them. His duty to protect a country not his own.
But the thing that had chilled him more than the death and destruction of the battle was Tristan. He has never been a favourite of Galahad's. Tristan is too fierce, too bloodthirsty. Always the first to leap into the body of the adversary and slice them open with precision and style. And the pleasure he takes in what he does unnerves Galahad somewhat.
Breaking from his gloomy thoughts, he carefully pulls a haggard tunic over his head, and lays back on his bed. As his curly hair peaks through his shirt he hears the door creak open, and the shadowy figure in the doorway enters the room, settling himself on the bed opposite Galahad's.
"Nice bruise. Get on the wrong side of a woad yesterday?" "No," Galahad smiles dourly and rubs his shoulder. "Tristan." Gawain laughs, but shows little surprise.
"You'll get used to him. Just so long as he gets used to you. Don't worry about him." The broad shouldered knight shrugs, and pulling the coarse sheets around his chest he blows out the candle between them. "Goodnight."

…

It's early, and the hazy red light of dawn begins to glow through the thinly thatched roof above his head. He sits up in his corner, pulling the woven blanket over his bare knees, he stops dead. A sound from outside makes his blood run cold. Hooves. Lots of them. Suddenly his mother bursts through the front door, looking at her young son anxiously. She says nothing, but by the look on her face he knows the time has come.
A short time later and he's stood outside his home, gathering his sack under his arm and leading his horse out towards the band of roman soldiers and other boys on the hill before him. His mother stands by the door, her arms around her two younger children and her eyes filled with tears. His brother and sister wave, and he does his best to smile reassuringly. He doesn't know whether he'll ever see them again. His father helps him onto his horse and reaches up, wrapping his arms around his boy, gripping him tightly. Brushing the dark curls out of his son's face, he pulls the boy's head towards his own and whispers, "I'm sorry son."