A/N: Wow. It's certainly been a while since I've lurked around this particular fandom. Something new and different here. Hope you enjoy.
The first time Gawain saw the boy, he wondered on how young and small he looked. Perched on top of a dusty white colt which would one day, perhaps, become a magnificent warhorse, the boy's bundled feet barely reached the warm swell of the beast's stomach, a thick blanket swathed about him hiding his face from the curiosity of the slowly gathering trainee knights - the not commonplace arrival of a Sarmatian was always something which garnered interest. The two Roman soldiers riding next to him were large, solemn presences, overshadowing the youngster with their unconforming rigidity. His very own personal guard to keep him safe - to keep him prisoner. Gawain understood it all.
The blond haired boy stood in the stables, one hand's calloused fingers trailing up and down the grey, velvety nose of his own horse, rubbing absentmindedly at a scrape of dried mud until it crumbled to dust under his ministrations. The horse gave a slight whicker of pleasure, the beast's hot breath on his face, and Gawain ran his hand down its neck, his light blue eyes fixed on the activity unfolding just outside the darkening gloom of the stables, the figures highlighted in the doorway by the dusk light.
The company came to a halt in the yard, the two soldiers sliding neatly off their mounts, one turning to lay a proprietary hand on the reigns of the young white horse, the worn leather slipping compliantly from the hold of a pair of small hands which were immediately drawn back under the protection of the blanket. The man studied the boy for a moment from beneath his helm, then grunted and led the colt forward towards the small gathering, following the footsteps of his companion who was slightly before him, already saluting sharply to the heavy set, grey haired commander of the training barracks, Aulus Calpurnius Octavian.
"You are later than your message would have had us believe, Haterius."
The soldier nodded, deferentially. "Our departure from Gallia was delayed for three days by bad weather." He paused. "We also had a little trouble with the boy."
"Trouble?" Octavian raised one thick, dark eyebrow shot through with silver. He glanced over the other man's shoulder in the direction of the blanket-covered new arrival. "What sort of trouble?"
"He tried to get away from us in the dark as we were crossing the Gallian border, sir. Left his horse and made a run for it. It was a couple of minutes before the beast veered off the road and we realised he had gone. He hadn't got far by the time we caught up with him, but tracking took us longer than it should have done because of the poor light."
Gawain watched with a strange, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach as the commander's face subtly stiffened, the shadows deepening, his brows knitting together and his lips tightening. He made a gesture to the soldier holding the reins of the white horse, and the other man saluted and turned, bringing his heavily muscled arms up and wrapping them around the small body, dragging the unresisting boy off the horse awkwardly. The soldier placed him on the ground, giving him a moment to find his feet, before removing his arms and stepping back away from him. The boy stumbled slightly without support, a day's hard ride in the saddle having a telling effect, then straightened, gathering the woollen blanket about him more tightly as if attempting to shut out the pervading stares of both the Romans and the trainees.
Gawain saw that the grubby hands clutching tightly at the ends of the material were trembling slightly.
Octavian strode purposely forwards and stopped a mere three feet away from the small figure, towering over him with a stern set to his face. "Name, boy."
The blanket shifted slightly and there was a long, drawn out pause, the gusty, cold winds of the British springtime whistling through the newly budding oak trees. Then, so quietly that Gawain almost missed it, the reply came. One word, stark and lonely against the grey, unfriendly setting.
"Galahad."
And Gawain knew he would never forget it.
"Galahad," Octavian repeated, as if savouring the rough texture of the strange syllables in his mouth. He cocked his head to one side for a moment, dark, considering eyes still fixed to the wool covered boy in front of him. Then he nodded and glanced up at the soldier standing patiently to one side. "Very well. Remove the blanket. I want to see my new knight."
The Roman soldier stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, his large fingers enmeshing themselves into the coarse material. Galahad flinched, his hands tightening on the fabric for a moment, his knuckles going white, then slowly released his grip. The Roman nodded his approval, as if he had very much feared a rebellion, and gathered the blanket in his hands, de-cloaking the boy of it and revealing him for the first time to the curious eyes of the spectators.
Gawain, mumbling whispered words of comfort to his horse, shifted around the beast slightly, crouching down in the prickly straw by the stall's door. His angle of view was better as he peered out from around the wooden planks, eyes flickering over the proceedings, then lowering to study the boy with a close, solemn scrutiny.
Without the bulk of the blanket, Galahad was even smaller than he had first appeared. He was short and slender, his clothes too big for him, a tangled mop of brown hair falling into large dark eyes which were darting everywhere, scanning his surroundings from out of a thin, pale face. The vivid pink twist of his mouth was curling downwards in a frown, and his chin was strong and stubborn, his hands clenched into tiny fists by his side. He was scared - it was plain for all to see.
Octavian looked him up and down, critically. "They get damned smaller every year." He paused. "Was he punished for his desertion?" he asked, softly.
The soldier standing by his side shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. Twenty lashes with a horse crop. We thought it was… exceptional circumstances, sir."
"Exceptional circumstance, hey?" the man repeated, one eyebrow loftily raised. "Yes, I suppose so." He turned to Galahad who was standing still, staring at him, his expression unchanging. "Do you know what happens to deserters, boy?" he asked, quietly.
Galahad remained stubbornly silent, a muscle clenching in his jaw.
The man smiled cruelly and leant in closer. "Deserters are branded traitors, hunted down like the vermin they are and then executed." He paused. "I'd thank your pagan gods that you were considered "exceptional circumstances", if I were you, boy, for it certainly won't be happening again under my command. You run away like a coward, and you are treated like one, regardless of age or how well you believe you can fight. Do you understand me?"
The boy's gaze wavered and dropped to his feet. There was silence for a moment, then: "Yes, sir," he replied, softly.
"Good," the man said, straightening up. "I will be watching you, boy. Remember that. I have a job to turn you into a knight and, by God, nothing is going to stop me - not even the knight himself."
Gawain watched, his legs beginning to cramp on the hard, dirt-packed stable floor, as the Commander turned sharply and moved away from the boy, both soldiers beginning to follow as two stable hands rushed forward to relieve them of the three, travel weary horses. The three Romans moved across the yard and into the Commander's lodgings, where Gawain assumed they would be debriefed. They left Galahad alone, fidgeting nervously, standing in the centre of the stone-flagged yard, eyes wide as he warily watched as all the boys who had been watching the proceedings began moving again, the excitement apparently over for now.
It was always the same, Gawain thought bitterly, remembering back to his own arrival at the barracks a scant score of miles from Venta Belgarum. No one ever told the new trainees what to do or to expect. They were meant to figure it out all by themselves. It was character building, the older boys had explained when he had asked. It made the new arrival immediately know his place.
Gawain looked once more at the lost, small boy standing in the middle of the large military compound, then stood and made his way deeper into the stables, away from the tiny figure, away from the small spark of interest fanned to life inside of him.
He had tack to clean.
A/N: Reviews very much appreciated.