Series: A Quiet Understanding, part 1
Pairing: Gawain/Galahad
Rating: PG
Author's Note: This series is AU; various liberties have been taken with movie-canon, particularly with chronology, and characters will be introduced who are based on characters in the legends of King Arthur.
Beta: Thanks to Becki and Wendi
Dedication: For Lindsey, who has read, encouraged and been an unfailing source of help and advice!
Summary: Gawain takes advantage of a rare moment of peace to reflect on how things have turned out.
Gawain lay on his back and gazed up through the trees to the patches of blue sky far above him, thinking. Thinking and remembering, remembering the three who were no longer with them. Brave Dagonet, steadfast and true, tough as horseshoe-nails but with a soft spot for children, a reminder perhaps of those he had never had the chance to father. Tristan, quiet, enigmatic, sharp-witted; his dry sense of humour was something Gawain missed intensely. And Lancelot, of course Lancelot, moody, sulky, dashing, brilliant Lancelot, who chose death for his lord and lady over a life by their side yet never as close as he wanted. Gawain knew how Lancelot had felt about his commander and the Woads' warrior-princess; it had been easy to read on his expressive face, for one who knew him as well as Gawain had. The strange, intense brother-lover bond between Arthur and Lancelot had been something Gawain and the others turned a blind eye to over the years, the flaming arguments and stony silences, then the disappearances and laughing returns, the truth of what they had been doing plain to see, for those who wanted to look or to know. It hadn't mattered to Gawain, and he didn't think the others had cared either; although Bors had been heard to say that he couldn't understand why they didn't find some nice biddable woman each, who wouldn't give them so much grief. Everyone knew Lancelot's banter about fathering everyone's children was only a smokescreen.
And then there was Guinevere. Brave and wild, as good a warrior as any man, and yet beautiful, feminine even in her leather and warpaint. Gawain hadn't known quite what to make of her; he still didn't, if he was honest. She made him nervous. But it had been painfully clear how Arthur and Lancelot had felt. Both of them wanting her, still wanting each other, and neither of them knowing how to make it work. Guinevere had known, Gawain thought. If it had been advantageous to her, she'd have had the pair of them, separately or together, rivals or consorts, and perhaps they might have been happy. Gawain doubted it, though. Lancelot could never have been happy like that, not truly. Gawain wasn't even sure if he could ever have been happy, whatever the circumstances; there was too much conflict in that tempestuous soul for him ever to be content with a settled, peaceful life. Lancelot throve on conflict, on war and battle; life in times of peace would have bored him to tears.
Perhaps that was why he had chosen to die. For a choice it had been, Gawain was sure of that. No Saxon could have got the better of Lancelot unless he was very lucky, or Lancelot was allowing him to do so. No, Lancelot had sacrificed himself, one last glorious stand rather than live on the sidelines of Arthur and Guinevere's new peaceful world. Bloody idiot. This was not the end of the war. The Saxons would return; there would be no enduring peace. There were many battles ahead for them, Lancelot need not have feared; and Gawain was sure that Guinevere's plans would have included her husband's gallant lieutenant at some point, probably sooner rather than later.
But for now the invaders had retreated to lick their wounds, and Gawain was taking full advantage of this blessed respite. Sighing contentedly, he closed his eyes, listening to the song of the birds and the distant roar of the sea.
Half-dozing in the warm summer air, he did not open his eyes at the sound of soft footsteps approaching, nor did he do so when the owner of the footsteps flopped down beside him, head nestled into his shoulder and one arm flung happily across his chest. Smiling, Gawain ruffled the unruly dark curls, eyes still closed, for who else would it be but Galahad?
Theirs was a quiet understanding, born in their first days as soldiers of Rome. They had gravitated towards one another, two boys of an age and the youngest of their band, lost and bewildered so far from home. They had grown up side by side, every experience shared, first swords, first kills...first kiss. Not for them the volatile, ill-hidden passion of Arthur and Lancelot, no public displays and only the barest of smokescreens. They simply spent every waking moment together, as often as not feeling no need to speak, content in each other's company; never feeling the need to put it all into words, for there were no words that could truly encompass what they shared. More than friendship, more than brotherhood, more than love; more even, perhaps, than life, and what was the point of speaking it when they already knew? They knew, nobody else needed to know, and that was that.
Of course, the others had guessed, just as they had guessed about their commander and his lieutenant, but they, likewise, said nothing. It was, of course, difficult to bring up something that was never mentioned, and even Bors seemed happy keeping his nose out of it. Gawain smiled at that. Bors might not understand why they were not interested in anything other than flirting and joking with the women in the fort, but he would probably only have thought them truly strange if they had been uninterested in ale.
Galahad seemed to sense the smile, snuggling closer and snarling his fingers in a strand of Gawain's long, unkempt hair. Gawain shifted, settling an arm around him and burying his face in the dark curls. They could never have given this up, Gawain knew, even if they had gone home to Sarmatia as they had always wanted. No Sarmatian wives for them, no broods of Lancelot's children. They were happier here, for although they could not say exactly when it had happened, this green land had become their home.