Author's note: Just a short little vignette I wrote in an attempt to get over a terrible bout of writer's block. A big sorry to all those awaiting the nineteenth chapter of Heroism, hopefully I'll be over this soon and I'll get that chapter to you as soon as I am. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this.
Home
Galahad likes to think he can remember his home. In the dark of the night, when he feels cold and alone, he will sometimes lie back, close his eyes and return to the memories of somewhere he pretends to remember.
His has one true memory, of his mother, the way she enveloped him in a crushing embrace when he caught his first fish and then sent him running back to the hut to fetch a knife.
There's a blank spot there, where the hut should have been. He fills in the gaps with a fantasy of his own, he builds himself a house around the patchy memory of a rug and a toy horse, adding a couple of beds, a small table, some odd chairs, a bridal and saddle. His mother's cooking pot stands outside above a small fire, water bubbling, ready for food. A lone horse grazes nearby and the blue sky stretches out above him.
Long ago Galahad built himself a home. It's not much; Galahad doesn't want much. He doesn't care if it's not real, he doesn't care if in reality he had even less than he imagines.
All Galahad wants is to remember.