A/N: Just remember it is an AU story, and we have now entered into the present :) (well...present for the story anyway :P)

Reviews Please! Help me make it better! :)

I.

470 A.D.

The air whistled around the twisting blade before there came the satisfying 'thunk' of it hitting the chair point-first. Cheers went up around the room as Galahad turned to his brothers in arms smiling smugly. He picked up his mug before taking a long swig of ale, looking pointedly at the next competitor, his closest friend Gawain. It was the best shot he had ever made and he knew it would be hard to beat.

'I do believe it is your turn...Gawain.' He grinned 'See if you can best that!'

'Don't be childish Galahad! I could beat that throw with my eyes closed! My grandmother could do better!' His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the tiny distance he had to hit and Galahad laughed into his ale, retreating into the midst of men and bar wenches watching the competition.

Gawain grumbled under his breath as he stood to take his throw, muttering something about 'children's games' and 'people who think they know everything'.

As he stood preparing himself, Galahad, unable to resist the temptation, called out to his friend, 'Hurry up old man!' a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, 'You're so slow we've aged a hundred years already!'

He got the response he was looking for. Gawain glared back at him and prepared himself once more before throwing his knife in one swift motion. The crowd watched as it turned over and over before hitting the chair with the same satisfying 'thunk' that Galahad's had...except noticeably lower. A collective groan went up from the crowd as a disgruntled Gawain returned to his seat.

Galahad laughed suddenly feeling jovial. He had won for sure now and made his final play before he could claim victory (his first victory in 18 years) calling out to the crowd 'Who would like to challenge me? Anyone? No-one?' He began moving towards the chair and knives 'I guess that means I win then...'. He was cut off mid sentence however by the whirr of another knife passing inches from his nose, before hitting the chair, just above his knife.

The crowd cheered as Galahad turned to look at the thrower. Why was he not surprised. Tristan. The man had not even bothered to leave his chair, but had simply thrown from where he sat, laid back and relaxed, barely aiming. Galahad glared at him whilst Gawain cackled at his friends misfortune.

'I guess that means unfortunately you did not win Galahad...AGAIN!' his cackles turning into all out hoots of laughter, his own loss forgotten.

'It is my firm opinion that Tristan should be banned from these competitions!'Galahad said sulkily, walking back over to his seat; trying and failing to maintain a shred of dignity. Gawain grabbed one of the leaving bar maids by the skirt pulling her onto his lap as the crowd slowly drifted back to their seats, the entertainment over.

'Get over it Galahad. Sit down and have a drink' he slapped his friend on the shoulder 'Face facts my friend. You never have and never will, win a knife throwing contest.' He and his new-found friend then proceeded to engage each other in a different kind of competition. One involving a lot of tongue.

Galahad sighed. He knew his friend was right. In the 18 years they had known each other, he had never won a single knife throwing contest. His luck wasn't about to change now. Disgusted with himself, Galahad shook himself out of his self pity. It was only a stupid competition anyway! At least he was alive, which was more than could be said for many of his friends. He could name them all. Percivale, Gareth, Bedivere, Alymere, the list went on. Three years ago almost to the day they had lost another of their friends - Dagonet - to the service they 'owed' to the Roman empire, for a battle their forefathers had lost centuries ago. Galahad took a swill from his mug bitterly, the ale tasting sour in his mouth as he remembered.

A peal of raucous laughter brought him out of his depressed reverie as he watched his friends. Lancelot was no-doubt off somewhere wooing some poor woman who would no doubt before the night was out, fall victim to his charms. The crowd of men were laughing and yelling at a figure who seemed to have fallen from his chair in a drunken stupor.

Sir Bors staggered up from the floor drunkenly 'I'm alllright...saaaa'lll good'.

'Hey Bors, isn't that the new tunic Vanora made you?!' Galahad yelled. He was pleased to see Bors' dismay, as he stared down at his now-ruined tunic. A patch of filth, mud, ale and who knows what else covering the front.

'Nora's gunna kill me!' He said aghast. Laughter rippled through the men, and Galahad joined in chuckling. Knowing 'Nora', she probably was.

'Nora's gunna kill what exactly?' Bors whipped around at the sound of his wife's voice.

'Nora, i ahhhh...' He was cut off by a loud shriek and a flurry of skirts as a woman, practically bursting from her pregnancy stormed over and slapped him.

'I leave the tavern for FIVE MINUTES Bors de Ganis! And WHAT do you do? You ruin your new tunic which I had just happened to have spent THREE MONTHS MAKING!' she roared. The knights around Bors sniggered into their ale, not wishing to incur the wrath of the fiery red-headed woman. Glaring at the knights she turned on her heel and stormed away, calling over her shoulder darkly 'You had better be right behind me when I get home LOVE or there will be HELL to pay!'

Bors grinned at the other men, 'What can ya do boys, she's a woman, worries all the time.'

'I heard that! Guess who's not worried about locking her husband out in the cold tonight!' Bors looked a little worried himself at that, Galahad thought. Smiling, he watched as the man, tail between his legs raced after his woman.

Galahad did not have the slightest doubt that they would still be arguing when they reached their home in the fort at the wall. They were always arguing. How on earth they managed to stand each other long enough to produce 13 children was beyond him.

When I get a woman, he thought to himself, I am sure we would, could, never fight as much as those two do.

'Galahad!' Again he roused himself from his inward reflections to Gawain calling his name 'Wake up man! What is wrong with you tonight? You're not still sulking about losing are you?'

'I do not SULK Gawain!' he said sulkily

The blonde man snorted at the comment and rose from his chair - sometime before, he and the bar maid had obviously disengaged (she in fact appeared to be getting rather friendly with another soldier on a table further on); dragging Galahad with him.

'I think its time for rest my friend!' Gawain yawned 'Busy day tomorrow remember?'. The two left Tristan sitting there eating an apple, his legs propped up on the table, leaning back against the wall as they made their way back to their rooms. The man never seemed to sleep anyway.

How could he forget. Finally, 3 years after the Battle of Badon Hill, they were moving to a real place to live. Not some shabby little fort attached to the Wall, but a real castle. It had taken over 2 years to build, and was the pride and joy of the Brittons. Called Caer-Legions, it was dubbed by many as Camelot, a place of romance and optimism, and hope for the future. Made entirely from the labour of free peoples it was to be the place of Arthur's court, and the place where the reign of King Arthur would truly begin...

A/N: GAH! Oh the exposition! Its terrible I know but it was necessary to set the 'setting' ;)