Disclaimer: If I owned King Arthur or his Knights, do you think I'd take the time out of my day to write a disclaimer? So I think that's a big NO on the whole owning thing. ;o)

Explanation: This is not a songfic. This is an inspiration fic. See, I was inspired by the song, "Without You", from the hit musical movie RENT and I wanted to write a few stories on it. So, I've decided to take apart every phrase in the song and write a ficlet on it. It might not seem to have anything to do with the phrase but it is whatever my mind brainstormed on the subject. So, there will be sixty-three to sixty-four ficlets here.

Without You

Without you

Galahad wanted to rip it from his mind and forget, to wash his mind with soothing, crystal clear forgetfulness. He had tried to.

But he remembered the battle anyways.

He remembered the salt smell of sweat that tainted the air, the thud-thunk of swords as they hit against shields, the gurgling shrieks of the mostly dead, the metallic taste of blood when it sprayed against his lips as his sword sang through flesh. How much taller the Woads were than he was. His brothers' shouts of victory as the enemy fell beneath their swords or ran back to their demon woods.

It was all a blur, snatches of the whole scene that he might one day piece together when he was older, when he might care for the taste of blood, jaded, like Tristan already was.

What he remembered most clearly was that scream, that terrible, wavering death scream that had erupted from the throat of his most loyal friend during the battle. Galahad had been slicing at the bared skin of a Woad when that noise pierced through his heart with the intensity of any blade. The need to save his friend had risen in him like fire burning through his veins. He had raised his sword, swung, slashed, hacked, and fought but it had not been enough. Life had fled his friend with the same breath as the scream. He had crumbled to the blood-soaked ground, the mud seeping through the cracks of his armor, and cradled the head of his friend. His fingers had trembled against the rough brown hair as he tried to call breath back into those huge lungs, the pulse back into that so-still heart, the movement back into those muscles.

Now Galahad sat on the dewy grass beside the remains of a funeral pyre, his brown eyes staring listlessly at the pile of ashes. It was spring, his fifth spring in Briton, but the colorful vivacity that had stretched out across the countryside was lost on him.

"You always loved this land," Galahad muttered darkly to the mound. "More than I ever will, bloody green place. The grass here itches." A half-smile tickled the side of his mouth, quirking it upwards.

"I remember how much you liked the wild flowers. You would spend all day in the fields with them, just looking at their colors. Gawain always said you were a strange one." A thick sigh slipped though him. "I wish I had joined you there more often."

Galahad pushed against his forehead with the palm of his hand, an outward sign of his frustration. "What am I going to do without you?" he demanded of the ashes, eyes suddenly ablaze with anger. "You knew what to do in battle! How many times have we trained together, learning to avoid the sword! If you had just followed me…" Galahad brushed his fingers affectionately against the ashes. "I would have protected you. I swear I would've."

He lowered his head and his brown curls fell into his young face. It was time to let go. He knew it; he had heard it from the others for days. But it was hard. Lienas had been with him since he had left Sarmatia and no one could take his place. With a heavy heart, Galahad gathered a handful of ashes from the top of the mound and raised it into the wind. He slowly opened his hand to let the ashes pour out, flying with the wind towards the East.

"You belong here, my friend, my Lienas, a horse of the wind."