How Gawain and Galahad came to be friends, because all great friendships have to start somewhere! More to come, if you like it, as I thought it'd be interesting to see their friendship develop over the years. Hope you enjoy!

…blood a horse twitching on the ground no mother don't please I can fix him…dark skies have you no older sons to give? then we shall have to take him you owe the emperor your loyalty…no don't take me please my son he is too…mother's throat pale and slashed with red father screaming no Minna no sweetheart wake up… wake up…

"…Wake up! Hey, I'm here, I'm here boy. Wake up, now."

Galahad twitched violently as hands shook him from his nightmare, bringing him sharply back to the warm closeness of the tent. The older boy he had been paired with was leaning over him, looking worried. Galahad coughed and sat up, then burst into tears. The older boy looked alarmed as Galahad sobbed and sobbed, frightened by his dream and overcome by a crushing wave of homesickness.

"There now…" said the older boy uncertainly, patting him on the shoulder. As if an invisible barrier between them had broken down, Galahad threw himself at the boy and sobbed into his rough homespun tunic, his nose tickled by the fur lining of the collar. The boy stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and hugged Galahad's trembling body to his, speaking gently to him the way he remembered his mother used to speak to him after a nightmare.

"Miss m'mum," mumbled Galahad, looking up at the boy with tearful eyes. Gawain had to swallow quickly, for the younger boy's words threatened to reduce him to tears as well. He had to be strong, his father had told him. He had to do his tribe proud, and return home where he would be honoured.

"Me too," he whispered as the younger boy crawled onto his lap and laid his head against his tunic, making it damp with tears. Gawain struggled to breathe around the painful lump that had suddenly grown in his throat, and he tried to take deep calming breaths, imagining the cool air of the steppes racing through his veins. After a while, the younger boy quieted, having evidently cried himself out, but instead of moving away from Gawain he snuggled deeper into the folds of the tunic. Gawain was reminded suddenly of his baby brother back home, and did not push the boy away. It would be nice to be a big brother for someone here.

"What's your name?" asked the boy, raising his tousled head of brown curls to look up at Gawain. Gawain smiled.

"I'm Gawain, and I'm twelve," he said, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. It had been his name-day three days ago; and Tristran, one of the older boys, had tied a special braid in his hair to mark him as a man. Tristran was fifteen, and before he had left his tribe, his father had given him the marks of a Scout on his cheekbones, either side of his face. Tristran barely spoke to anyone, and when he had offered to braid Gawain's hair for him, Gawain thought he might burst with pride. Tristran had let him touch the feathers of his hawk, Yseult. Gawain was certain that they would be best friends soon. Then he could go and help Tristran scout, and they could hunt for rabbits and…

"Aren't you going to ask my name?" asked the younger boy worriedly, startling Gawain out of his reverie.

"Oh, sorry. What's your name, little brother?"

"Galahad. I'm nine, but I'm not your little brother," he said solemnly. Gawain gave him a friendly punch.

"Would you like to be?" he asked, trying not to look too hopeful. Percival and Bedivere, two of the other boys his age, had told him that it was important not to show too much emotion. Otherwise, the Romans'll beat you up, said Lionel, the most ancient one among them. He was nineteen, and Gawain had been speechless with awe that Lionel had paid attention to him. Lionel had his own axe, and Gawain was determined that he would learn to fight with an axe, just so Lionel could teach him. So, Tristran would be his best friend, Lionel would be his teacher, and Galahad…

"Yes, please," said Galahad finally, furrowing his brow and looking uncertainly at Gawain. "Does that mean you won't tease me about my kilt?"

"Your what?" asked Gawain, confused.

"My kilt," said Galahad, pointing to his legs. So that was what the skirt was called. Gawain kept a solemn look upon his face, determined not to insult his new younger brother. He would be the best older brother there was, and even that nasty Lancelot would be jealous.

"I promise I won't," he said, feeling very proud at the happy look on Galahad's face. The younger boy scrambled off his lap and went over to his bed-roll, dragging it over so it lay next to Gawain's own.

"Can I sleep here?" asked Galahad belatedly, but hopefully. Gawain nodded, and the boy looked relieved. "Just in case I have more bad dreams," he explained as Gawain crawled back into his bedding. Just as Gawain was about to drift off to sleep, he remembered something.

"Do you want to learn how to throw knives tomorrow? Mordred is going to teach me and Tristran. He won't mind if you come, he's nice."

"Mm," mumbled Galahad sleepily. "Orright."

Gawain smiled. He had a feeling he would like being an older brother.

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