Disclaimer: The story concept is mine, the characters are not.

A/N: This is placing Galahad's arrival in Britain after Gawain and the rest of the Knights. It is not a slash-based story. It is, however, a multi-chapter saga, so please be patient.

Evening was approaching; time for supper, followed by laughter and drink among brothers. Galahad was searching for Gawain. Since Gawain had been late to supper the night prior and unusually disgruntled that there had been no bread remaining, Galahad had been placed in charge of making certain Gawain was on time tonight. It was rare that Galahad could not locate Gawain within moments of beginning his search. Lately though, Galahad noticed Gawain seemed to have a newfound ability to disappear seemingly into thin air.

"Rather like Tristran," Galahad muttered to himself. Tristran's ability to become one with his surroundings, so quickly and completely as to make one question if the scout had ever really been there, had always unnerved Galahad. And many of the other Knights, he suspected though never voiced. But Gawain? He was one of the bulkiest Knights, hardly able to do anything quietly and among the least likely to be able to simply disappear. No, Galahad was certain he was around somewhere. The trick as of late had been finding out where.

He'd been wandering the fort for some time now, trying all the usual places: the kitchen, though full of lovely smells and tastes, had, oddly enough, not yielded a glimpse of Gawain; the tavern was full and boisterous, but seemed empty without the hearty laugh of his brother; Gawain's room was devoid of his presence as were the stables, pasture, archery range and practice arena. Galahad had even gone to the bath, on a whim. The attendants had looked up hopefully at his entrance, yearning for something to do, but he had simply shaken his dusty curls and left.

All his searching led Galahad back to the tavern, where he took his usual seat and scanned the entry. When Vanora approached with a mug, Galahad took it gratefully and asked if she had, by chance, seen his missing brother. Vanora shook her head and commented that, strangely, she had not seen him since the night before. He scanned the entire tavern, searching every shadow for any sign of Gawain.

"Cemetery." The answer seemed to come from thin air and caused Galahad to jump and swallow a larger gulp of mead than he'd intended. Choking and gasping, he twisted in his seat to see Tristran, seated comfortably against the wall, dissecting an apple.

"Gods, Tristran! Could you not sneak up on people like that?" Galahad sputtered and swore he saw the faintest smile flicker across the scout's face.

Tristran shrugged. "Here before you."

Galahad carefully considered Tristran's information on Gawain's whereabouts and the scout himself, trying to decipher what he knew about Gawain's mood.

Tristran never looked up from his apple, seemingly entranced by peeling and slicing the fruit. "What to do is your decision."

"Thanks," Galahad mumbled, setting down the mug.

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Galahad knew that grave. Gawain lingered at the edge of it after every burial. Out of curiosity, Galahad inquired with Dagonet one day as to who was buried there and why Gawain lingered.

"Agravaine," Dag answered in his matter-of-fact way, "and if Gawain has said nothing to you, neither will I. You ask him." Dag, as he had a knack for, both succinctly answered and closed the door on any further queries.

So Galahad had done as suggested and asked Gawain about the grave, only to be told to mind his own business. When Galahad pressed the question, he had been unprepared for Gawain's reply: "I have told you to mind your own business. Now drop it. Or I will drop you." The cold fury in Gawain's voice had persuaded Galahad to cease his inquiry. That night had been passed with heavy drinking and a narrowly avoided fight with a visiting Roman company.

Now, standing at the entry of the cemetery, watching Gawain on one knee clutch at the impaled sword with whitened knuckles, Galahad was uncertain of his decision. He was fairly certain Gawain had not heard his approach since the big man moved naught in acknowledgement.

The predicament, in Galahad's mind, was if he should stay or go. If this man meant so much to Gawain to drive him to bended knee, perhaps it would be best to leave him in privacy. But, conversely, if it was enough to do that, perhaps he should stay and try to offer some measure of comfort. Galahad sighed heavily. Curiosity was one of his acknowledged weaknesses and, he admitted, it tended to land him in quite a few sticky situations. Shrugging, Galahad slid a bit closer, confident that Gawain was so enmeshed in his own world that he wouldn't notice Galahad's encroachment.

"Agravaine," croaked Gawain, "my gods, you should be here with us. We depart in a couple days' time to meet a bishop friend of Arthur's. He's bringing our papers of passage. Freedom, Agravaine. Freedom that you should be here to receive. Would be…" Gawain's voice trailed off, as he both remembered and tried to forget.

When Gawain returned from his memories, his voice was a mere whisper and Galahad found himself sidling closer to hear.

"I hope you have forgiven… The plains of Sarmatia welcomed you. Anu blessed you with unbridled freedom because that is what you deserved out of this life. Not what you were given." Gawain paused to inhale and release the watershed he'd been holding back.

Galahad felt his own tears falling as he listened to Gawain's lament, wondering how his brother had managed to keep this inside for so long, hidden from everyone. The pain, the anguish was so plain on Gawain's features that Galahad wanted to rush forward and play the role of big brother. Take Gawain in his arms, stroke long plaits and bid him to just let go, much as Gawain had done so many times for Galahad: his arrival at Cilurnum – lonely, frightened and terribly home-sick; after his first battle; when Mouse had died…countless other times.

So lost was Galahad in his own memories that he nearly missed when Gawain resumed speaking.

"I did as you would have. I found a youngster and passed the traditions on to him. Galahad. You would like him. He's many things, but lacking of spirit is never one of them. He is young and innocent and passionate, about being a knight and about life. Such a strong will to live on his terms. He believes in Sarmatia, in a better life, in all the things I wish I could bring myself to. I only hope that I have been as good a brother to him as you were to me. Somehow, I doubt it. I could never be you… I only hope that I have been there when he has needed me…that I will not fail him…" As Gawain's voice trailed off, Galahad could no longer hold his tongue.

"I will not listen to you say that you have not been a good brother, to me or to anyone else," Galahad chastised him. He half expected Gawain to get up and follow through with the long ago threat to drop him, but to his surprise, Gawain did nothing. When there was no sign of movement, Galahad took it as his cue to continue. "You have been there for all your brothers, not just me. Though you have favoured me with a closer bond of brotherhood than the rest, they would all agree that you have been nothing less than, well, brotherly. You have always been the one turned to when a cheerful word or smile or laugh was needed."

Gawain sat back on his heels, wiping tired eyes with calloused hands, regarding Galahad thoughtfully. "Are you finished?"

Galahad began to again re-think his decision when Gawain stood and moved toward him. He instinctively backed away, only to find himself tripped up on the grave behind him. As Galahad fell backwards, he felt Gawain grab hold of his arm, breaking his fall and letting him down on his arse.

"So you are now going to give me advice, eh? Well, perhaps before you go doling out what you think are truths you should find out the truth yourself."

Gawain stressed the last words and unwittingly provided all the invitation Galahad needed.

"Why don't you set me straight then, brother?"