"Good evening."

Lancelot looked up from the saddle he was mending. Across from where he was sitting cross legged on a boulder stood a boy.

The boy—who he knew had to be Sarmatian as well—had light blonde hair, curly and untamed, and billowing into his clear blue eyes.

"Good evening." Said Lancelot.

The boy walked over to him and glanced down at the saddle. He held an apple in one hand, a pouch in the other. "Is it broken?"

Lancelot looked back down at the saddle. "Yes. No. Not really. More of something to do, really." He shrugged and continued.

The boy looked at him curiously. "I saw your village a couple days ago. Your necklace...Did your sister give it to you?"

Lancelot 's hands found the pendant, and he frowned. "Yes. It was my grandfather's. He died in battle and they gave my grandmother his pendant..."

"Oh." Said the boy solemnly.

A few moments passed in silence, before the boy brightened again.

"My name's Galahad." He stated.

"I'm Lancelot." Replied Lancelot, nodding.

"Today's my birthday, I'm eleven." Galahad smiled.

"That's nice."

"Yes." And Galahad stared at the saddle. "How old are you?"

Lancelot looked up again, his black curls lifted by the strong wind. "I'm thirteen."

"When is your birthday?" Galahad queried.

Lancelot sighed and turned the saddle over to better inspect the other side. "I don't know. Sometime in winter."

Galahad's eyes widened. "You don't know your own birthday?"

Lancelot frowned. "It wasn't a big deal back home."

"But don't you want to know?"

Lancelot suddenly felt very annoyed with the boy. "No. Not really." He snapped, and Galahad's face fell a little.

"Sorry. It's just...there's no one else to talk to." He said.

Lancelot sighed again, feeling a bit ashamed. "It's alright."

Again moments passed into silence; awkward and quiet.

"Do you want to be a knight?" Asked Galahad.

Lancelot put down the rag and looked again up at the boy.

"I don't know." He said finally.

"Well, I don't." Said Galahad, turning to face the east. Lancelot followed his gaze. The sun was beginning to set, the blue sky tinged with pink and blood red.

"See where the hills stop? They all just...stop. And then there's a river and trees, and fields that never end." Murmured Galahad. "That's my home out there." Lancelot smiled a little.

"That's my home, too. Where the endless oceans of grass go so far you can't see the end, and the rivers are like great walls, only flat, and they wind like the path of a snake. So unpredictable. So free." The two young knights stood quiet.

Then Galahad spoke up again. "What do you think Rome is like?"

Lancelot shook his head. "I would not know."

He turned and sat down again on the boulder, resting the polished saddle on his lap, focusing on it once more. Galahad just stood there, staring off into the deepening sunset, not speaking.

"But we'll see it again."

Lancelot looked up. "What?"

"Home." Said Galahad, not looking at him. "We'll come back."

"In fifteen years." Said Lancelot bitterly, looking back down at the saddle. Fifteen years and then some.

"Yes. But maybe not that long." Said Galahad softly.

Lancelot suddenly rose, setting the saddle on the dirt again, and walking to stand next to Galahad.

"I don't image that I shall manage not to dream about it, every night." Said Galahad sadly. "How could I forget?"

Lancelot just stood next to him quietly.

"Galahad," he started, ending the silence. "Have you ever heard the legend that great knights come back home as great horses?"

Galahad cocked his head. "Great horses?"

Lancelot smiled a little. "Yes. After they die. Does your horse have a name?"

Galahad nodded eagerly. "Baruss."

Lancelot grinned. "Baruss could have been a great knight. Just think about it: A strong warrior, riding out into battle bravely. A hero, really. All the women swoon for him, and he is a loyal friend to his fellow men."

Galahad laughed a little. "Yes. And he was great with a sword."

Lancelot chuckled. "Of course he was."

"You know something?" Commented Galahad.

"What?" Asked Lancelot.

"I think we're both going to be like Baruss. Some day."

Lancelot smiled again. "Maybe."

Galahad shrugged. "We have fifteen years to become like him."

Lancelot sighed. "You're right about that."

"Lancelot?" Asked Galahad a little while after, when it was dark.

"Yes?"

"Good night."

Then Lancelot laughed, and was joined by Galahad.

And not far from them, a certain black horse tossed his black head, whickering into the chilly black hair.

And then it began to rain.

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