The Wooing Of Tristan, As Told By Lancelot:
I remember the first time I saw Galahad. He was, I think, only twelve, and an Alauni. As soon as I saw him, I thought to myself, "He'll never last." Everything about him, his delicate posture, the girlish features, suggested weakness. I knew he'd be one of the first to go. Soon enough, though, I learnt to recognize the strength and courage in those eyes.
He was always "the pup". Half the knights protected him; the other half either teased him or bullied him. Strangely enough, it wasn't his friend Gawain, but the dark Aorsi Tristan that protected him. Mordred, the worst of us, was teasing him one day. Galahad, the hot tempered little spitfire, lashed out. Unfortunately for him, Mordred was older and better at fighting. Tristan simply sighed, got up, pulled Mordred off of him, and simply said, "You want to pick a fight with someone boy, you look for me. Touch the pup again and I'll break your fingers." He then tenderly picked up a sniffling Galahad, carried him to his rooms, and tended to his bruises and wounded pride.
A pity Mordred thought he was bluffing about breaking his fingers. A few days later, he was with the Healers, getting his fingers bandaged.
Oddly though, Galahad was wary of Tristan. Scared of him, almost. We all saw how Tristan would sometimes, very rarely, in fact, let his guard down and ruffle his hair fondly, or how his eyes would flash angrily when someone teased him. The poor man was smitten, head over heels in love, and when Galahad yelled one day, "Leave me alone, I don't need you" he was deeply hurt, and closed up. Galahad felt bad, we knew, for despite his rash tongue, he was a good boy. How many times had I found him consoling some poor maiden, or scooping up Bors children when they wailed plaintively, turning their tears to giggles? How many times had he given up his meager wages to buy one of his women new shoes, or a pretty comb that had caught their fancy? Yes, he was a good boy, so good, in fact, that we started calling him "Galahad the Pure", a play on the meaning of his name, which meant "Pure of heart." He could never bear to see someone in trouble, and had to do something to help. But the damage was done; Tristan had allowed himself to hope that he could have some modicum of comfort, love, in this god forsaken land, and he had felt the pain of rejection, so he refused to let any of us be his friend. Only I, as his shield brother, was allowed to see the real Tristan, the man behind the blood lust and quiet demeanor. Even then, it wasn't enough to sate his thirst for love, for he loved me as he'd love a brother, but I could never give him the affection I'd give a lover, and he never asked it of me. Willingly, I would have loved him, but he only had eyes for our little puppy.
However, as the years flew by, and the pup grew, he noticed the looks Arthur and I gave each other, saw how Gareth and Gawain would innocently touch each other, and being the clever boy that he was, began to understand why Tristan had protected him so. He came to me one day, and said, "Lancelot, I think Tristan liked me, and I pushed him away." I regarded him with amusement, before saying, "Boy, he didn't like you, he was smitten with you. And if you'd notice how his eyes flash when you walk off with a wench on your arm every night, you'd know that he still is."
That was all he needed to know. He had always been a clever lad, and that had been why I took him under my wing. Gawain was his friend, but it was me he sought for comfort, for advice. It pleased me to no ends every time he displayed his sharpness. He was quick and eager to learn, and was always asking about everything. His enthusiasm to learn was strangely amusing. In a way, I suppose, I liked to pretend that he was the son I could never have, for what right had I to have a family when I had torn asunder so many families with my blade? But I'd best get back to the story, for it is hard for me to draw breath now, and it hurts to think.
So, Galahad discovered that Tristan had fallen for him the moment he saw him. Normally, Galahad was an impatient child, but in this matter, The Wooing of Tristan, as I named it, he showed a surprising amount of patience. He started by gaining his friendship. It was little things. Tristan was sitting alone in the tavern one day, twirling his knife, and Galahad sat next to him and plunked a mug of ale in front of him. "My treat," he explained. Tristan nodded his thanks, and took a swig. "You need something, pup?" he asked, and the way he said it made my heart ache, as if he was used to having people ask him for favors, not want to spend some time with him. He was, after all, only human like the rest of all, and if I watched closely, I could see a flash of longing in his eyes when he watched the other knights joke and laugh, while he quietly ate his apple and was ignored. Galahad must have felt the same, for he smiled bleakly, and said, "I just wanted to talk Tristan. We're friends after all".
And so it began. The next day, he begged Tristan to teach him a move he couldn't understand. Tristan, for his part, was, in my opinion, ecstatic, yet wary of the attention. Yet still he patiently led the pup through the steps, moving slowly, then explaining each step, how to place his feet properly, how to grip the sword, how to move his body. It was actually humorous to watch the silent, normally restless scout-and I had first hand experience of that restlessness, having to share a bed with him since I was his shield brother, and waking up on the floor so many times that I finally begged Arthur for a bigger bed, for I couldn't bear the thought of abandoning my lonely brother in favor of another room to myself- bear the pup's enthusiasm, but he did. That night, when I wearily returned to our quarters, having completed sentry duty at the Wall, I was met by a giddy, bouncy man, who kept on bragging about how skilled Galahad was, and how quickly he understood what he was being taught, and despite my aching muscles, I listened, marveling at how happy my brother looked.
The next day, he asked Tristan to go scouting with him. "I'm a horrible scout, Tristan, and I fear that soon enough, even Arthur will lose patience with me and toss me to the Woads," he said smiling sheepishly. "I thought it would be best if I learnt it from you." He nodded, and ruffling his hair, went on his way. A couple of days later, Galahad gifted him with a small Sarmatian locket he made himself, at the smithy, melting the silver of his favorite dagger. Tristan had never looked as pleased as I saw him then, or as overwhelmed as he was then, even going so far to gruffly embrace Galahad as a sort of silent thank you. The other knights were always afraid of him, he fought too well, too much, never understanding that he fought to live, and to do that, he'd kill as many as possible. He desperately wanted to fit in, to have friends, though he had me and Dagonet, but I think mayhap he felt as if we were friends with him out of pity. Truly, I loved him like a brother, as did Dag. We were the only ones who were given the honor of seeing the real Tristan, and the only ones he went to when he needed to be tamed. Dag and I agreed that it was far too dangerous to let him ride off on his own, and so, he himself came to us, mostly me, allowing me to watch the mad glint die from his eyes as I took him, replaced by a sleepy acceptance, and later, I pretended not to notice the warm tears falling on my chest, but only held him tighter, stroking his hair, telling him how good and beautiful he was, and how much I loved him.
Even now, I can see it, see him arching back, his thighs wrapped around me, I can see his eyes, wide and amazed as he sinks down on my, see his throat work. I remember the way he gasped when I took him rough, and I can hear him moan happily when I was gentle, when he simply wanted me, not Galahad, not Dagonet, but his shield brother, y arms he wants to be held in, I can feel him lick my body, when he delighted in giving me pleasure, pushing me down on the bed with soft entreaties, asking me to let him love me, and how can I resist those puppy dog eyes? I can feel myself in him, feel his muscles clench, feel him milk me, feel his tight heat.I can taste the apple sweet of his mouth the salty sweat and unique taste that's just Tristan, hear him whisper my name, begging me to never leave him alone, just stay with him, be there for him, hold him close forever. I am sorry, my brother, for I cannot keep the vow I made.
Galahad was succeeding in his courting, I could see that. But being the impetuous brat he was, he messed it all up very quickly, though Tristan was partly to blame for that. Both frequented the tavern together more and more often, and Tristan never flinched anymore when Galahad gave him a friendly slap on the back, or threw a comradely arm around his shoulders. It was good to see how Tristan would absently take the mug of tea from Galahad's hand and drink, Galahad waiting patiently to have it returned, and it became the norm for Galahad to take the bacon Tristan set aside if it was too well cooked, and to our amusement, the two had apparently taken to spending the night talking in each other's rooms, for Galahad appeared in Tristan's tunic one day, late for practice, and Tristan had to wear Galahad's boots, since his had been drenched with water owing to some game both had been playing. A few days later, however, Tristan had a black eye, and Galahad had disappeared. It was finally Dag who got the truth out of him. He had simply turned to Galahad when he was talking to him, and said, "I know what you're doing. It won't work" Galahad had been bold. "What am I doing?" he had asked. "Trying to bed me. I won't be another notch on your bedpost" Galahad lost his temper, hit him, and walked off. He returned the next day, and was severely scolded by Arthur. Tristan suddenly spoke up. "Arthur, I'm sorry, I lied. I said some hurtful things to Galahad, which was why he left. I called him useless and expendable and upset him. It's me you should be scolding, not him."
Arthur knew, of course, that Tristan was lying, but there was no way to prove it. Therefore, Tristan ended up being made to muck out the stables for two months. Tristan, despite his strength, was sensitive, and working two hours everyday gave him a severe cold. He was frequently sneezing, despite my best attempts to keep him well, and Dagonet even went so far as to venture into a Woad village where we had once saved a girl from being raped by a Roman soldier, and begged for one of their healing concoctions, but our poor scout's nose still ran, and I had to bundle him up in all the blankets and quilts we owned to keep his shivering at bay when he returned from his task at night, since he had other duties during the day. Arthur was troubled, and after a month, Dag and I begged him to release Tristan, and though he agreed, the stubborn Aorsi refused. Galahad was miserable, for Tristan refused to talk to him. Once, when the cub had been trying to get him to talk, he lost his temper, and finally burst out saying, "You didn't have to do it!", and only I saw the flash of hurt in Tristan's eyes. He left the tavern, and I followed him.
"Even now, he does not understand. He thinks he does, but he doesn't." Tristan stated flatly, and for all my wittiness, I had nothing to say. I put a hand on his shoulder, and he slowly turned to face me, then put his head on my shoulder. I felt the light frame shaking, and I put my arms around him, gently stroking his hair and doing my best to sooth his tortured soul. "I love him so," he whispered, and then there was a shout. "You bastard!" I looked up startled, and Galahad glared at us. "I trusted you! Looked up to you!" he said to me. "Galahad, listen to me," Tristan began, and Galahad slapped him. "At first, I just wanted you. And now, I love you. And you made it like you had loved me, and you're with the one man who's always been there for me!" he shouts, and I wondered why he did not see the tear stains on our normally stoic scout's cheeks. Tristan began to say something else, but Galahad wheeled around and left.
The next day, Arthur called me into his rooms. When I arrived, he was sitting with that look on his face. I knew what that look meant. I could literally hear people chanting "Doom, doom, doom" when he had that look. "Tristan wants to be transferred to another garrison," Arthur said flatly. I looked at Tristan, who had his head bowed. "Don't do this, please," I said, in Sarmatian. He shook his head. "I cannot. He will never be mine now." He replied in the same tongue. I bent on my knees to face him. "I love you, Hawkbrother," I said earnestly. "You remember me, till the very end. If we live, I will see you in eight years. No matter where you are, I'll seek you out. I swear to you." He clasped my hands, and kissed them. "You will always be in my heart," he murmured softly, and Arthur cleared his throat. "I'll get the papers ready."
I charged out, and headed to Galahad's rooms. I hammered on the door, and he opened it, and glared when he saw me. He started to close the door, and I wedged my foot in the door. "He's leaving, you have to stop him, he can't!" He looked confused, and opened the door, saying "You're babbling, Lancelot. Who is leaving?". "Tristan," I replied. "He's getting transferred to another garrison. I asked him to stay. He said he couldn't, that you'll never be his. Last night, he said, 'he doesn't understand, even now.' It's you he loves, Galahad, I swear it, I'm with Arthur. I have only done for him what you did for Gawain when his Gareth died." The cub's face shuttered. "He said that?" he whispered. I nodded. "Well, this is certainly upsetting," he said calmly. "If you'll excuse me, Lance, I have to go stop my future lover from doing something incredibly stupid." He dashed out, and I grinned. Things would definitely work out now.
From what I found out later, Galahad had charged into Tristan's rooms while he had been packing. He had stood there, staring at him. "So Lancelot told you," he said. Galahad finally found his tongue. "I was always yours," he blurted out. Tristan blinked. "What?" he asked. "I was always yours", Galahad insisted. "I just never knew it. I never knew why you took such good care of me, and I thought it was because you thought I couldn't take care of myself, so I lashed out. I liked having you look out for me and I never meant to make you close yourself off, and then I saw how Arthur looked at Lancelot, or how Gareth would caress Gawain secretively, in a seemingly innocent manner. Now I do. Understand. Why you took care of me, I mean. I love you, Tristan. I'll be yours for all of eternity if you let me. Please don't leave me." A look of anger crossed Tristan's face. "Don't play with me," he snarled. Galahad finally decided to shut him up, and closed the distance between them to kiss him. Tristan trembled, his lips so warm and soft, open in a soft oh of surprise, and Galahad took the opportunity to slip his tongue in. Tristan moaned, and cupped his face gently. Galahad broke the kiss, and Tristan shook in his arms. He reached to touch the boy's face reverently. "Mine," he whispered. "You're really mine." "Yes," Galahad affirmed.
Both tumbled into bed with childish laughter, exploring each other's bodies, and Galahad was granted the pleasure of being the first, and the last man Tristan would ever make love to.
Neither man emerged from Tristan's rooms for three days. Arthur received a note through Tristan's hawk, that very day. The handwriting was slightly shaky, and it said, "Decided not to Oh God, yes, right there leave after all I'll aahh, I'm going to come, Galahad be staying here yes suck me!" Arthur turned slightly green and passed it to me. I patted him on the back. "Like you haven't done the same with me." He smirked and kissed me gently, pushing me down, and whispered, "Are you happy, my knight? You have your brother, and he is happy." Gazing at his green eyes, I whispered, "Arthur, I am always happy in your arms." He gave me a look of pure, unadulterated joy, and held me closer, whispering promises in my hair, and I realized that yes, I was happy. I had somebody to love, and I had a brother who shared the same joy with me. What more could a man want?
As I lie in the dirt, watching Tristan fight, I remember all that. I remember watching their love grow, through the years. I remember how close Tristan and I were. I turn my head, for I ache to see him once again, one last time, for I can feel my life slip away, and I see him on his knees before the Saxon leader. I stumble up with strength granted to me by the gods, and I pick up a crossbow and shoot the leader once, twice, and thrice. Tristan looks up, and sees me smiling. He sees my wound, and the look on his face breaks my heart, full of love and pain, and he says my name, says no, no, no, over and over again. I collapse to the ground, and close my eyes. I whisper my lover's name before the light fades from my eyes.
Tristan?" I turned to see my lover approach me. "What are you doing out in the cold? You know you're sensitive," he says tenderly, wrapping his cloak around me, then holds me, warming me with his body.
"Remembering," I say in answer to his previous question. I lean in, and whisper, "Kiss me, brat," and he complies. I lean against him, and he feels me sobbing. "Eight years, and the pain is still so raw," I whimper. He holds me close, like he's done so many times these past eight years. There is a thundering of hooves, and we both straighten up to see a dark, midnight black horse before us. "That's not one of ours," Galahad says. Suddenly, I clutch his arm, and he does mine. Lancelot is standing beside the horse. He gives his wicked grin, the grin he'd give the tavern wenches and later, Arthur, the grin that meant some naughty scheme was hatching in his head when we were young, and winking at us in that familiar saucy manner, seems to meld into the horse, which turns and thunders away. We turn to look at each other, and grin. "Let's go home," I say, lacing my fingers with his.
Arthur's ending:
I married Guinevere. It was necessary for the Briton/Woad alliance, and she loved me, even though she knew I'd never be hers. We truly were happy together. There were times when I'd forget my knight, and laugh and play with her, times when I could pretend that it was her curved, soft flesh I wanted in my arms, not the hard, scarred body of my First Knight.
I have had children, three of them, grown up and married now. Gwen is dead. I'm back to where I started, with nothing, but it doesn't matter, you see. Lance came for me today, and said we were going home.