They fear Galahad. They fear him for his supercilious laughter, for the intelligence behind his eyes, for the feeling that he knows more than them, knows more about them than they themselves do, and that he doesn't care about it. They fear that he is always judging them, that always he sights out and weighs their flaws and finds them lacking, throws them away in his mind. They fear the way he smiles at a joke, grinning carnivorously; the joke to him speaks of devouring them with his superiority. They fear him.
They fear Gawain. They fear his appearance, his garb and hair more far from Roman than the others. They fear what might be hidden in the fabric, in the outlandish styles. They fear what might be hidden in his manner, in his calm, in his cold acceptance and cold cynicism and monotone affection. They fear that he might not be placid as he seems, for who can tell from one who speaks such, every word laden with irony and potential double meaning? Instead of placing trust in his good nature—for who could trust in the nature of a Sardinian?— they fear him.
They fear Gawain, the only one so trusted by Galahad, the only one at whom Galahad looks without the hungry laughter in his eyes. They fear Galahad, the only one for whom Gawain's affection is warm instead of simply fact. The only thing more frightening than one enemy they do not understand is two such enemies who understand each other.
They fear Dagonet for his strength; but more, they fear him for his silence.
They fear Tristan for his silence, too. They fear him for his solitary life; they fear because he is always the first, always alone in the wilderness, and the wilderness seems to have claimed him. They fear him for the hawk, the piece the wilderness exchanged him for his soul. They fear him because they are not able to trust that this strange creature values life, values friendship, values valor like they do. They fear the wildness that brazenly glares back when they glance into his eyes or face, the wild way he sits and walks and—when he rarely—speaks.
The only thing more frightening than two enemies who understand each other is an enemy unfathomed even by his friends.
They fear Bors for his noise. They fear him for his crudeness, his laughter, his boozing and his violence and his libido. They fear him for the sentiment behind his posturing. He knows the strength of his own presence, and they fear him for his knowledge, and his presence. They fear the power that his personality has on those around him, they fear the weight he carries with their leader. They fear the way that they themselves are left breathless when he's in the room.
They fear Lancelot.
They fear him maybe most of all.
They fear him for his anger. It is never far away. They can feel his hatred of them, of life itself. One so young should not be so embittered, and they fear the trials that he faced to make him this way.
But no. He's not the one that they fear most of all.
They fear Arthur.
They fear Arthur, their own leader. They fear the half of him that is not theirs; but even more, they fear the half of him that is. They fear its grandeur, its glories laid bare for them to see. They fear his passion, his devotion. They fear his willingness to sacrifice. They fear his belief in some greater cause that they can hardly see. They fear his heroism.
They fear what they respect too much to understand.
They fear what they respect too much to understand.
