i. shock or disbelief.
The air leaves his lungs when he catches sight of Tristan, the unmoving body laid flat on the floor, the blood that colours his mouth, his armour. Galahad steps forward, his walk a disrupted stagger, as if his body and mind are conflicted with what he wants to do; to move closer or to stay away.
He eventually makes it to Tristan's side, stilling completely as he stares, eyes wide and unblinking. Tristan stares back at him, but his eyes no longer have the mischievous glint they once did, instead, they are now cold, hard, dead.
Galahad breathes deeply; glad the commotion of battle mutes the shakiness of it. He can feel his body numbing, his surroundings fading to a distant hum, an indistinguishable blur, as he stares at Tristan.
Half thoughts form in his mind, too erratic to decipher, a string of he can't—there's no way—it's not—no, no, nononono—
If anyone sees the tears in his eyes, they're happy to blame the sting of the smoke.
ii. denial.
Gawain passes him a drink as he takes the spot next to him, his movements almost cautious. He doesn't speak at first, just simply looks at Galahad, head tilted to the side.
Galahad takes hold of the mug, nodding his thanks. He brings the drink to his lips, forcing himself not to down it in one swing. His eyes close briefly as the liquid burns his throat, tongue darting out to swipe at his bottom lip. He knows, already, what Gawain will eventually ask, and remains silent, waiting. He has no wish to begin the futile conversation.
Minutes pass, and Galahad silently notes that the other man's patience is growing. The questions no longer come in a consistent flurry like they once did, rather, they comes in between long silences and stretches of normal conversation.
"How are you holding up?"
Galahad takes another swing of his drink, consuming more this time than the last. He doesn't look back at Gawain, choosing instead to keep his eyes ahead, unseeing.
"I'm fine."
Gawain responds with a sigh, just like Galahad knew he would.
"You—"
Galahad shakes his head, cutting him off. He's not in the mood for their repetitive conversation, not tonight.
"I said I'm fine."
Standing, he swallows the last of his drink. As he turns his back to Gawain, a burning of his eyes joins that of his throat.
iii. anger.
The stone of the wall is rough against his hand, a loud clunking sound resonating throughout the room as they collide. The skin of his knuckles breaks, and small, crimson drops of blood blossom. The colour only further reminds him of Tristan, of the bloody clothing that had covered the dead body.
He hits the wall again.
It's a satisfying feeling; cathartic. He wants to do it again, but his exhausted body trembles, and the previously burning energy leaves him in a rush. He shakes his head, his messy curls falling in front of his forehead as he leans against the wall, breathing raggedly.
A mantra of thoughts race through his mind, ones he has already thought a hundred times before. It didn't have to happen—they should have been free—it could have been prevented—if only Arthur hadn't—
He shakes his head once more, as if to rid himself of the thought. Logically, he knows it is not Arthur's fault, knows the blame falls entirely to Cerdic.
He wishes he'd been the one to kill the bastard.
Slowly, he slides down the wall, a shuddering breath leaving his mouth. He stares around the room, at all of Tristan's belongings he had been picked to sort, and closes his eyes, placing his forehead in the palm of hand.
The urge to scream is almost overwhelming.
iv. bargaining.
He lies awake most nights now, twisting and turning uncomfortably as his mind wonders, his bed feeling abnormally large.
He finds himself speaking to a God he's not entirely sure he believes in. Not aloud, he never verbally voices his requests, but his mind questions. Some musings are simple pleas; others are long, thought out this for that scenarios.
He knows it is futile, but that does not stop him from hoping.
v. guilt.
He remembers a conversation they once had, many years ago, huddled together in a tent, surrounded by the woods and the creatures they'd find there. They had been on a mission, one he can't remember, the years and years of battle merging together to create one, long montage of blood and smoke, or screams and pleas.
What he does remember is the feel of Tristan against him, the heavy weight of the other man's arm draped over his shoulders, possessive despite being alone. He remembers the touch of lips against his cheek, the way they dragged across his skin as Tristan spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
I won't let anyone hurt you.
Galahad squeezes his eyes shut, the memory hitting him with a force he hadn't expected. Guilt creeps through his body, the emotion willing his throat to close, making it harder to breathe.
It had been a simple sentence, but a heavy promise. One that Tristan had kept, right up until his death. Burying his face into the fabric of his pillow, Galahad asks himself why he hadn't returned the favour.
vi. depression.
It's the worst at night, when he huddles under the covers of a bed that still smells of the other man, in a room still obtaining traces of his existence. He'd kept certain items, unwilling to let Tristan go completely.
Despite it all, he doesn't cry like he thought he would, like he thinks he probably should. Rather, his grief comes in mindless stares, in long stretches of time spent doing absolutely nothing, simply because he cannot find the motivation to move.
It keeps him up at night, and sleep hardly comes. The image of Tristan's body, motionless, haunts him until sheer exhaustion forces him into unconsciousness. He's always grateful for the dreamless rest it brings.
He knows the others are worried for him. He can't bring himself to care.
vii. acceptance and hope.
Galahad sits in front of the markings of Tristan's grave, the soggy earth beneath him soaking his clothing. It goes unnoticed, his focus on what is in front of him, on the assault of memories it triggers.
His mind floods with scenes of their life together; conversations after battle, long nights spent riding side by side, cold evenings spent pressed together. He remembers it all; the nights of drinking and joking, as well as the nights spend fighting and bleeding.
Absentmindedly, his hand traces patterns in the ground, his body moving with the slightest sway as he remembers. If he tries, he can still feel the tight hold of Tristan's hands, the way nails dug into skin, leaving bruises and small cuts.
The swoop of a bird sounds, and he glances up, smiling as he sees the falcon dive towards him, landing effortlessly on its owner's grave. The bird ruffles its feathers before settling, it's small, dark eyes looking towards Galahad.
Galahad reaches a hand out, the pads of his fingers stroking the feathers softly.
"Hey, Chopper," he murmurs, voice loud in the otherwise silent field.
The bird hops towards him, and Galahad huffs a laugh when a squawk sounds.
He's not sure how he feels, anymore. He's not over it, far from it, but he is getting used to it. He can picture Tristan in his head, each time things turn bad, can practically hear the voice calling him an idiot for being so upset.
The man always was a bastard.
Chopper caws once more, and Galahad drops his hand, watching as the falcon takes off into the sky.
He thinks maybe it's a sign, that perhaps Tristan is telling him to leave, that there really is no point in sitting on muddy ground and staring at his grave, unspeaking. Perhaps he's right, Galahad thinks.
Chopper does a loop above him, the act somehow impatient, and, finally, Galahad stands. He glances to Tristan's grave one last time before leaving, the barest hint of a smile on his face as he walks away.
He may not be pleased about it, but he is glad Tristan got the honourable death he deserved.