Disclaimer : The movie King Arthur is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer. No copyright infringement intended.

Remnants

***

Grey mists stretched out in front of him as far as he could see. If he took a step, the mists would completely enclose his leg. If he took another step, the mists would travel farther up his body. And then another step- soon he would be completely hidden from view. A smile made his way to his lips. He would like that.

If there was only grey in front of him, he could close his eyes and pretend that he was somewhere else- he could pretend that he was back in that land he longed for- rolling green plains under a cerulean sky that stretched farther than the eye could see. His mother would smile at him, she would spin him around faster and faster until her laughing eyes would be all that he could see in that whirlwind of sound and colour. When the night would come with its mystic allure and the stars that burned so brightly in his eyes, he would turn his eyes away to gaze at his mother, who would come inside, closing the tent flap and the stars out. She would bend down to his level and her soothing, warm voice would lull him to sleep. The night wouldn't be able to get him.

If he took a step into the grey mass, home would be closer than it could ever be in this harsh, foreign country. Grey numbed all feeling, stole all colours and muted all sound. So if he took a step forward, it would be as if Britannia didn't exist.

If he only took a step, a little step…

"Galahad!" Galahad scowled and turned away, back to Gawain's voice, to the red capes of the Roman and the harsh reality he lived in. Behind him, the sun finally broke through the grey mass and the fog soon dissolved in the distance.

Red flecks were splattered all over his good riding breeches. He shook his head and bent down to look at them. They formed a pattern, almost intricate, nearly beautiful, if it wasn't the blood of a dead man. A man that he had killed. His eyes had been the colour of the sea on a grey day. Galahad had never seen such shock in the eyes of another man, as he had in that instant when his blade had pierced the man's soft skin and had entered his chest cavity.

He had fallen forward, against Galahad, who had stepped back in horror. Blood was smeared all over his clothes, his sword, and when he lifted a head up to his dark curls, he discovered with horror that it came away red. Everything was red, even the sky was red and he himself was red. Galahad fell to his knees and dry heaves shook him. Red was all that he could see.

"Galahad!" It was Dagonet's voice and Galahad looked up with horror-filled eyes, as he saw a Woad sneaking up behind his fellow brother in arms. He opened his mouth to shout out a warning, when the Woad fell, an arrow embedded deeply in his back. Tristan.

Galahad saw that the scout was watching him impassively from behind Dagonet, as did the others, who had formed a circle behind Dagonet, now that the battle was over. Galahad shuddered in shame and embarrassment and turned back to Dagonet, who was talking to him. "…never killed a man, have you?" Galahad simply nodded and avoided Dagonet's eyes. "Don't worry about it. It will get better in time…." Galahad only nodded again, couldn't do anything but nod. He was lying and he knew it, but how could he have explained that it was not so much this dead man than the red, which was everywhere? How could he have explained that all he longed for was a world of green grass and blue sky? They wouldn't have understood for they could deal with all the red, too. But he couldn't. And thus he avoided their eyes with shame, because he could never be like them and that was why it would never get better.

He didn't belong.

***

Later on that day, he stood on the Wall and watched the sunset, far in the West. He exhaled slowly. He didn't belong. He had failed today and he had nearly got Dagonet killed. Abruptly, Galahad remembered his mother's loving eyes and kind smile. Frustrated, he groaned and hit the stony wall with his fist. How was he supposed to cope fifteen years here, in this strange land? A sniffle made his way to his ears and another. Horrified he covered his mouth. He was not supposed to be crying. He was a big boy, a grown-up boy and grown-ups didn't cry. Everything would get better. Dagonet had said so after all. Everything would be better. Everything would be better. And even as he repeated that mantra numbly in his head, tears slowly started to make their way down his dirty face. He suddenly felt a presence close to him and he started violently, jumping up from the ground and wiping his dirty cheeks, embarrassed at having been caught in so weak a position by one of his brother knights. And out of all of his brothers, it had to be him. Tristan.

"What are you staring at me like that for?" he hissed, feebly trying to cover up his weakness. The scout didn't answer. He just gave him one of those unsettling dark stares, that had always sent chills down Galahad's back.

"You are probably thinking about the battle, aren't you?" he taunted further. "But of course, the mighty Tristan is never weak, is never afraid..." He turned away, unable to face the searching glare anymore. "Never scared..." he added bitterly and stared to where the sun was just disappearing with a last red glare. When that, too, nearly had vanished, he turned around to his companion again, who, to his frustration, was still at the same place, amber eyes fathomless as he continued to watch him. He did nothing else, just watched Galahad with that all-knowing look.

Galahad couldn't bear it any longer. "Say something, will you?" he hissed in part anger, part near-despair, aware that he had just ruined the last small advantage he might have had against the scout.

Then, the dark man spoke. "You are a knight now," he said lowly. "Bloodshed will be your life for the next years. Maybe you will die in battle. Learn to deal with it."

With that, he simply turned around to disappear in the approaching blue night. Galahad stared after him, and for long years after he was still wondering, why the seemingly harsh words of the taciturn scout were a greater source of comfort to him than any gentle reassurances of Gawain and Dagonet could have ever been.

The arrow embedded itself deeply close to the centre of the simple wooden target and Galahad lowered his bow proudly.

"Hit the middle next time," an accented voice commented from behind.

Galahad let the bow sink with furious speed and turned around angrily to the one who had spoken. Amber eyes watched him impassively from beyond dark brown bangs of hair and Galahad felt, how his anger evaporated helplessly in face of so much calm.

"I did better than last time!" he accused feebly.

"But you did not do well enough." Again that impassivity and this time, even when faced with such a lack of emotion, the young man's anger flared up. "I am still learning!" he shouted.

"Won't matter on the battlefield."

Again such coolness and Galahad suddenly longed to throw all of his hurt and anger against that insurmountable wall that the other kept up, to make it crumble and fall down.

"You're cold!" Galahad shouted. "You're cold and ruthless and it doesn't matter to you if we live or die! You do not even wish to return home, do you? You are just bad as those Romans who have enslaved us for you don't care!"

His opponent's demeanour had never wavered from his cool ways, but at that last sentence, his amber eyes flashed up darkly and suddenly an iron hand shot out to grab Galahad's throat.

He struggled to break the hold, but to no avail.

"Be careful what you say, pup!"

Then abruptly, Galahad's throat was released and he rubbed it, staring after Tristan, feeling faintly guilty.

"You happy now, Galahad?" Gawain, and he didn't sound friendly.

"No," Galahad mumbled, still rubbing his throat. "I am not." But how could he have told Gawain, that he had only said such hurtful words to get Tristan out of his shell and to finally see that the scout was as human as the rest of them? How could he have said that he only wanted Tristan to expose some of the hurts that this land must have inflicted on him too? The truth was, Galahad was jealous.

They faced yet another battlefield, and Galahad let his sword drop wearily as he stared in the dead eyes of a Woad warrior. His gaze wandered over his comrades, each of them weary. Even Tristan showed signs of exhaustion, leaning against his grey steed.

Galahad sighed when he looked over the corpses of the Woads. Why were they even fighting those blue warriors from the forest? Wasn't their cause as just as that of their own forefathers had once been? Fighting for freedom, for lives without suppression, all the while subjected to the arbitrariness of the Romans? And who was he to hinder them, who was he to fight them for a cause which he could understand better than he could have explained?

They were fighting for their people's survival, as were they, Galahad realised. But while Galahad's people had given up on the fight long ago, the people of this green island still struggled. It was not right and that realisation brought tears to his eyes; the realisation that he was fighting people, who, if different in manner and language, actually continued to fight for the broken dreams of another people.

Another heavy sigh escaped his lips. Without even thinking about his reasons for doing so, he crouched down and closed the dead man's eyes.

"Galahad." He looked up in the eyes of his Roman commander and smiled.

"What are you doing?" Arthur sounded bemused. Was it because of his doings, shutting a dead enemy's eyes, him, the fiery knight who was renowned for his passion and quick action? He didn't know. All that he knew was...

"I am making amends," he told Arthur simply and walked away.

They were lying on a lush green meadow and Galahad sighed as he lazily twirled a blade of grass in his hands. It was one of Arthur's holy days, that was why the knights were free for today. No sword practice, no skirmishes with the Woads, no wet garments after a whole week spent in the dark forests of Britannia. For Galahad, lying here on this meadow among his comrades was as close to heaven as it could get. As close to perfection as an imperfect reality could get, but if he was completely honest with himself, nothing could ever be as perfect as Sarmatia to him.

He sighed yet again and got up slowly. The sun was getting to him and he nearly laughed out loud at the irony of it. The sun was getting to him- in a land like Britannia! Nevertheless he walked over to the shade of a few trees and waited until his eyes had become accustomed to the new surroundings.

And then he saw Tristan, who was sitting a little secluded, as usual, tending to his hawk, proud and untamed creature that she was. Galahad wasn't sure whether he was thinking of Tristan or the hawk in that regard. It probably applied to both. He shouldn't have been surprised to find Tristan here though. Tristan had ever been a creature of shadows and night- he didn't like being exposed to the harsh glare of the sunlight, probably also because it made scouting much harder, Galahad supposed.

Hesitantly, he came closer. Startling Tristan was never a good plan- and the scout looked barely aware of anything as he was sitting there. However, Galahad knew that this could also be a deception. Tristan made being always alert to his first priority, and thus, the younger Sarmatian finally only cleared his throat noisily as he sat down next to the scout.

Tristan didn't say a word, as he continued to tend to his hawk, stroking her feathers gently and even smiling faintly as she nipped at his fingers. Finally, the silence got too much for the younger of the two and Galahad ventured forwardly: "You have never told us her name."

Tristan gave him a sideways look from amber eyes nearly hidden under long, dark lashes and half-covered by some wayward dark plaits, which were swinging gently back and forth as the scout, seemingly disinterested, turned back to his hawk.

Just when Galahad thought he wouldn't get a reply and wanted to rise in annoyance, a gruff reply came: "Isolde."

Galahad nodded and tried it out on his tongue. "Isolde... What does it mean?"

Another reply came. "Fair Lady." With that, the scout turned away. Sensing, that he would get no further answer on the subject, Galahad leaned back and watched the clouds.

"Different clouds than in Sarmatia," he mused quietly, not expecting a reply. He was surprised and nearly sat up again, when it came.

"Stars are the same."

Galahad took a moment to muse on that and replied simply: "I suppose you are right." Testing his good luck this day further, he asked: "What do you remember of home?"

"Nothing." The reply was sharp and harsh, but Galahad ignored it.

"How can you remember nothing?" he asked incredulously. "I remember the sun on hot days, that made me close my eyes in silent gratefulness, remember the wind that called my name on grassy plains beneath a cerulean sky...my sister's hair shone golden, when the same sun rays stroked her face and I remember her light laughter, when we ran through the white, foaming water of a river that splashed up to our knees...the soft nudge of a horse's snout when you were lying unawares on the ground...Evenings spent at red campfires underneath an endless sky, while the tales of the old made long-dead persons come to life and made heated battles rage on endlessly...we children listened with wide eyes and baited breath to the legends of our people. And the winters...cold and still. Rubbing one's hands together did not even come close to keeping the cold away." Galahad smiled in wistful remembrance and thus he missed the dark anger in the eyes of his companion.

Eventually, the silence got too long for Galahad and he sat up, eyeing Tristan questioningly. As soon as he was aware of his gaze upon him, the scout growled:

"Your recollection of Sarmatia seems faulted. Remember those days in winter?" Tristan laughed bitterly. "Many died of illnesses, others because they were careless and froze to death. The plains would glaze over with ice and become deadly traps for both animal and man. Insects swarmed around in spring, spreading deadly diseases. The summer was hot and filled with swamplands, traders with narrow eyes and bronze skin, who brought tales of slaughters in the East. And then, one particularly grey spring, the Romans came and they brought death, too. Death and Enslavement."

Roughly, Tristan got up and Galahad stared up at him. Harshly, the scout growled, seeming almost embarrassed by his disclosure of so much of his past: "Grow up, pup. Life isn't meant to be fair and Sarmatia was by no means paradise."

With that, he got up and walked away, however, Galahad could not be truly angry, since Tristan's steps were heavy and those of a man in pain. Galahad only wondered what he done wrong.

Years later, when the black smoke of Lancelot's cremation filled the air and Gawain performed the last rituals for the man, who had liked the night and had preferred to remain inconspicuous; all of Galahad's questions were still unanswered.

He stayed for a long time, even when the others had already left. He stared at Tristan's grave and the long, curved blade sticking out of it. Although he had by no means ever understood the enigma that the scout had presented, Galahad had never hated him. No, now, when he looked back on all the years of their twisted, strange relationship, he thought that it had been something else instead.

He thought about it for a long time, and then, weeks later he returned to gaze at the sword and the mound. The first hesitant smatterings of green were starting to appear on the earth of the mound. Then Galahad started to speak.

"I guess you could say that we were friends, Tristan," he whispered to the wind that scattered his quiet words everywhere. "A twisted, odd friendship, I'd be the last to deny that," Galahad laughed a little, "but we were friends, weren't we?"

Isolde's haunting cry made Galahad look up and smile with a quiet feeling of peacefulness. He gave a last nod to the sword and turned around to walk back to his new life as a free man at King Arthur's side. He kept the dreams of a green land close, though, and he knew that he would return there one day, for he remembered a young boy, and a mass of grey fog. He could still take that step after all.

Fin.

Please don't ask me where this one comes from. Really, I have no idea, and it is past 1 am. I couldn't stop writing...Please, review? Constructive criticism is appreciated, too. This was first supposed to be only about Galahad, but Tristan managed to make his way in, too. I have no idea how he did it. So, but I am rambling and it's late (and I am tired so this all probably doesn't make much sense)...hopefully you'll like this.

Greetings,
Sachita (=