Galad did not linger on the dream. Tarmon Gai'don had come.
Like the cemaros on the Sea of Storms, the Last Battle beat at the world. For weeks men fought, and died. Shadowspawn were slain by scores, but still too many men were lost. Galad fought under Aybara and Elayne at Caemlyn, at Braem Wood, at Cairhien; he fought to defend the two nations that had sired him, to defend the man he'd sworn to, to defend his sister. Above all those oaths was his own: to defend what was right. The Shadow would not take this world. It could not.
And yet, the Last Battle was less a battle than a resistance. Men fought not to win, but to live. For many, Galad knew, the two were the same: the Shadow was death. But Galad had believed, had been taught, that the Light was stronger than the Shadow. That it was the Shadow that buckled beneath the Light.
That was not what he witnessed.
Every day, more men died. Every day, the Shadow advanced and the Light was forced back. From Andor to Cairhien. From Kandor to Arafel. From ruined Malkier through Tarwin's Gap, setting Shienar aflame. On every front, the Light gave ground. Davram Bashere, Jagad Agelmar, Gareth Bryne—men Galad had been raised to respect, corrupted by the Shadow.
The Dragon fought at Shayol Ghul. The armies of the Light made their last stand at Merrilor—the last, Galad knew, for there was nowhere left to run. Should the Dragon fall, or the armies, the world would end. The Light itself would fail.
And that, even more than death, terrified Galad. He had always believed in righteousness. He had followed the Light strictly, using its strength as his own. He had found the Children not because of their reputation—never that—but because of a book that read remarkably similarly to Galad's own beliefs. He had learned, certainly, that those beliefs were flawed; Aybara had shown him that, and Morgase had, when she'd left Aybara's judgement to him. They had forced him to broaden his view of the world, to understand the intricacies of the human spirit. Aybara had killed, and yet, he was a good man. Galad saw that, now: good men erred, and even the best could do wrong. But that had not prepared him. Not for the strength of the Shadow, not for its resilience, not for the Light's weakness in the face of its monstrous foe.
Not for Gawyn.
Oh, Gawyn. Galad had wept as his brother died in his arms. Gawyn had always been very lost. He had emulated Taringail, and Galad, and Gareth Bryne and Hammar and others. Galad knew his brother idolized him—he should not, but he did—but Gawyn had always fought to be like others, had never found his self. Gawyn had torn himself between his duties to Andor and the Tower, to Elayne and Egwene, to his head and his heart.
How much of that was Galad's own fault, he wondered? How many of Gawyn's actions could be lain at his feet? Had he served the Tower because he'd wanted to be like his brother, to preserve the law? How many times had Gawyn broken his own heart because what he found there did not match what Galad might view as right?
Gawyn had understood goodness, and strength. He had admired Galad, had struggled to be like him, but had never understood that he must be his own man. Galad had recognized long ago that not everyone saw the world as he did, but Gawyn had never stopped trying to attain that ideal. And now Gawyn lay dead in Galad's arms, his life wasted after—finally—he had found his place. The burden of Andor lifted from his shoulders, the shadow of his brother gone, the woman he loved at his side.
So Galad wept for his brother, the brother he had loved always, the brother who had loved him in turn. He wept for the poor, lost man who had found himself too late. He wept for the man who had admired him, the man who would never know how much Galad admired him in turn. He wept for Gawyn's earnestness, his innocence, his heart. He wept for the man who had died thinking he was never good enough.
If Gawyn had been sworn to defend Elayne through his duties to Andor, so was Galad sworn to defend them both, by his own conscience. And to al'Thor, he supposed, though that one was out of reach. Son of Tigraine? Galad would have to face that later. Now, he had work to do.
Galad had failed Gawyn. Demandred flung death across the battlefield, across Elayne's army, searching for her. He howled for the Dragon Reborn—for Galad's brother. Galad would not fail them, too. He would do what he could. What he must.
Galad rode to Demandred. To his death.
Galad did not know if the fever dreams meant he was alive or dead. Truly, he did not care. He let them take him. He dreamt, of course, of Gawyn.
He and Gawyn circled each other in the practice yard. When Galad looked, it was sometimes the yard at Caemlyn, sometimes Tar Valon. That did not seem strange to him. Nor did the absence of fawning women, though that had been a rarity in either city. Strange or not, Galad watched his brother, the Void enclosing him.
Gawyn's eyes were determined, and defiant. Always he sought to prove himself, but he was still too hesitant, Galad thought. Galad surged forward, not intending to strike Gawyn, but to draw him out.
Gawyn's practice blade deflected Galad's expertly, and the dance began. Again and again, their blades met, turning each other aside even as they struck. Gawyn was quick and sure, fighting with a confidence he rarely displayed. That was good. Galad moved about him, keeping on the offensive as they dueled. He had to dance back as Gawyn tried to drive his sword home—that was new, from him—but the forward thrust gave Galad the opportunity to move within his brother's range, striking his wrists, legs, and head in succession. Gawyn's sword fell to the floor, and he followed.
Galad immediately released the Void, kneeling beside his brother. Gawyn seemed unnaturally still. For a moment—a horrendous, wrong moment—the world changed. Gawyn was black and bloodied, and Galad's right arm vanished at the elbow. Before he took it all in, the practice yard returned to normal and the wrongness was completely forgotten.
Concern painted Galad's face as he reached out to his brother, who groaned. "That's never fun," Gawyn said. Opening his eyes, he glanced at Galad's hand, then grinned, pulling Galad to the ground atop him.
Both men laughed as Galad sat up, dusting the dirt off his bare shoulders. "It's dishonorable to trick a man who tries to help you, Gawyn," Galad lectured, but he didn't feel the sternness. Indeed, the solemn look Gawyn gave him quickly turned to another grin. He bowed his head, dramatizing his formality for Galad's sake.
"Well done, Galad. I'll beat you one day," he said. Galad expected him to rise for another bout—Gawyn always wanted another—but he stayed seated. "The world has changed so much," he whispered, suddenly wistful.
Galad frowned, memory intruding. The Dragon was reborn. Morgase was dead—no, he'd found her. The White Tower was broken—no, it was healed. Galad was Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, and Gawyn was, inexplicably, not First Prince of the Sword. But how could that be? They were both here, in Caemlyn—no, Tar Valon—and the world was calm. Memory conflicted and changed and failed to resolve itself.
Gawyn spoke again, and Galad's mind calmed, forming what he needed to know. This was a dream, and memory or experience did not have to match fact. He knew Gawyn to be dead, and yet he knew he was before him. He knew the Last Battle raged, but he knew, too, that this calm was real. "But you haven't changed, Galad."
Galad looked to his brother, finding his place in the dream, accepting the words it gave him. "No, Gawyn," he said quietly, "I wouldn't say that."
The other man glanced at him quizzically, then shrugged. "Perhaps you have, at that," he said, looking up at the sky above them. "The Light knows I have. But not enough," he added, "never good enough."
Galad took Gawyn's hand, drawing his attention. "You were always good enough for me, Gawyn," he said sadly. "You never had anything to prove." Ah, poor Gawyn, part of him thought, the part that knew Gawyn to be dead on the Field of Merrilor.
Gawyn smiled, and there was a sadness there, a wisdom. He looked older—like a man who had seen his own death. "Not to you, Galad," he said, "but to myself. I defended Elaida, then freed Siuan. I kept Egwene from the Tower, then fought her army. I swore to serve her, but defied her. I abandoned Elayne, then ran to her, then left her again. I could never truly make a decision. Not like you."
"You did things I couldn't, Gawyn. You felt. You followed your heart. You just didn't know where it led. In another life, you wouldn't have had to."
His brother regarded him for a moment, then spoke. "I did find my place, in the end, I think," Gawyn sighed. "I let him go, Galad. Too often I thought of myself in other men's shoes. I pictured myself like you, or Gareth Bryne, or Hammar. But I never hated them for it—I could never hate you, Galad; you were annoyingly perfect, but you loved me too much—I just hated myself. I resented that I could not be you, and I tried, so hard, but the more I tried the more I lost myself." Gawyn closed his eyes, a single tear forced down his cheek. Galad felt tears in his own eyes, and he did not brush them away.
"And then I thought he killed mother—he didn't, everyone told me he didn't, but I thought he did—and I did it again, Galad. Only this time, I hated him, instead. I hated him for killing her, but I hated him for being who I should have been. He did more to defend Elayne than I ever did, you know. I had hated myself when I wanted to hate you—but I hated him when I wanted to hate me."
"Gawyn—"
"No," Gawyn interrupted. He smiled, and the sadness left, but the tears were still there. "It's okay, Galad. I finally realized. I recognized what I'd done—with you, with Bryne, with al'Thor—and I let it all go. I couldn't be you, or him. I had to be me. And I was, in the end. I should have protected Elayne better. But I was there for Egwene, and I knew I belonged there. When I let him go, I found myself, Galad. I just made one silly mistake afterwards, that's all."
Slowly, Galad nodded. He knew Gawyn was right—he'd thought the same things himself. In a way, he was happy that his brother had known peace. But he knew, too, that Gawyn—the real Gawyn, the one he'd held, the one he'd felt die—had still been haunted. "I've never been good enough," he'd said. And then, much like the dream, he'd told Galad about al'Thor, about how he'd stopped hating him. A final plea, Galad thought. He wanted me to recognize he did the right thing. Here, he had that chance.
"I'm proud of you, Gawyn," he said, smiling. A few tears had spilled, drying on his cheeks, but no more came. A weight seemed to shed from his brother's shoulders as he looked to Galad, beaming. "I loved you, truly. You were always a fine brother."
Gawyn squeezed his hand; Galad had forgotten he still held it. The men embraced, their pain released.
Gawyn broke away, smiling at Galad. Then—startlingly—he kissed him.
Galad's mind raced. He knew this was wrong, in that part of him that was real, that part of him that always guided his path. And yet… part of him spoke of the dream, of how this was not true. That part lulled him, telling him that this was his way to say goodbye to his brother. He had held him in his arms while waking, the dream reminded him, and now he could take him in his arms again.
Still, it nagged at Galad. This was his brother! But was he, in this place? Gawyn was dead—could it be wrong to lay with a man in a dream? Could it be wrong, if this was how his mind chose to honor that man?
The dream won, and Galad's thoughts fled. In the way of dreams, he did not do anything, but still he acted.
He kissed Gawyn back. It was a full, tender kiss. It felt… heavy. There was weight behind this kiss, on both sides. It wasn't just passion, it was… love?
They pulled away, and Gawyn smiled. He did not seem so shy as he once had. This was not the boy Galad had saved from the pond, it was the man who had become a Warder, who had challenged Demandred. Gawyn's confidence sparked something in Galad, and he kissed the man again, forcing him to the ground as he felt his bare chest.
Their lips locked together, slowly working against each other, feeling each other. Galad felt Gawyn beneath him, felt the other man's body, his hard muscles and red-gold curls. He broke their kiss, resting his forehead on the other's. Despite his passion, he felt no rush.
He kissed Gawyn's chin, his jawline, his neck. Slowly, he worked his way down the man's body, giving attention to each spot. He kissed his collarbone, his chest. He worked his way down the hard expanse of Gawyn's core, kissing each muscle he found there. He passed the man's navel, then looked up at Gawyn, questioning.
Gawyn looked uncertain, and Galad was reminded of the boy he'd always known. Almost, he stopped, but something guided him to Gawyn's belt, and he removed it. He began to remove the man's breeches, as well.
"Really, Galad," Gawyn told him, hesitant. "You don't have to."
"I want to," Galad replied, removing the pants and exposing Gawyn's manhood. The other man flushed, somehow embarrassed. Galad returned to his face, taking him in a deep kiss. "You've nothing to be ashamed of, Gawyn."
He seemed to calm, somehow, and nodded to Galad as he returned to Gawyn's waist. He took Gawyn by the hand, stroking him methodically, and his brother's head rolled back. He heard very slight, low groans, and smiled. Gawyn would be used to this, after a fashion, but what about—
Gawyn gasped as Galad took him in his mouth, sinking his head all the way to the hilt. Galad would have smiled had he not been occupied, and his satisfaction only increased when Gawyn couldn't help but grip Galad by the hair. Galad began to bob slowly up and down, swirling his tongue as he did so to increase the other man's pleasure. Gawyn shuddered, his grip tightening, and he forced Galad's head down again. Galad nearly choked, but recovered before he embarrassed himself or his brother. That's right, Gawyn, he thought, there's that confidence.
Soon Gawyn released Galad's head and he set to work, methodically sucking Gawyn's length. Well, he was not really "sucking": he kept his mouth loose, pleasuring with his lips and tongue and sometimes the back of his throat. He was not practiced—not outside of dreams—but it felt appropriate.
Galad paid special attention to the head of Gawyn's shaft, wetting it and his lips with his tongue as he worked. Each time he came down he slowly teased the head, lightly tightening his lips to stimulate the whole thing at once. He flicked his tongue experimentally at the hole at the tip, tasting Gawyn's pre-release, before bobbing all the way to the base of Gawyn's cock.
Gawyn was moaning unabatedly now, his hips bucking against Galad as he writhed against the floor. Galad saw his brother struggling to keep his hand away, and, rolling his eyes, he took the hand and placed it on his own head. Gawyn looked up, confused, before he blushed and began controlling Galad's rhythm. Gawyn's pace was different from Galad's own—he spent more time at the base, the tip of his shaft against Galad's throat, than he did at the head—but otherwise it was quite an experience. His shy, insecure younger brother—the one who'd looked up to him, always fearing to step wrong—was forcing Galad against his manhood with abandon.
Eventually Gawyn slowed, letting go of Galad, and the older man released his cock with a pop. Galad caught his breath for a moment, preparing to return to his ministrations.
"Galad," Gawyn said. Galad glanced up at him. The other gestured towards Galad's pants, where a tent was clearly visible. "Let me."
Galad sighed, reluctant to abandon his work, but Gawyn seemed to have a remarkable idea. He adjusted himself to lay beside Galad, both their heads at the other's groin. Galad grinned, helping remove his own pants, and took Gawyn's length in his mouth again.
Soon, he felt Gawyn take his shaft in his mouth and moaned against the other man. Gawyn was tentative at first, lingering on the head, but that hesitation stimulated the most sensitive part of Galad's length. Gawyn slowly worked forward, taking as much of Galad as he could, but seemed to realize he could not take it all. Instead, he began to bob back and forth from just past the middle of Galad's length, taking cues from Galad's own work.
They worked for a while, both men groaning around the other's manhood. The warm expanse of Gawyn's mouth enveloped Galad like velvet, eliciting regular moans of pleasure. They had different paces, at first: Galad, working around the whole length, was slower; Gawyn, who couldn't fit all of Galad, bobbed faster. The rhythm seemed to confuse them both, though, so they eventually found a happy medium, each rising and falling in tandem.
Gawyn withdrew eventually, working to remove Galad's pants the rest of the way. Galad helped him, discarding the breeches somewhere to the side. They were both completely naked, now, and completely unabashed as Gawyn returned to Galad's length, settling above him this time instead of beside.
Galad moved to take Gawyn's shaft in his mouth again, but his brother's spread legs above his face gave him another idea. Gawyn's balls hung above him, and beyond those Galad saw the perfectly sculpted mounds of his rear. The cleft in that muscle was enticing, an emptiness, an invitation. Carefully, so as not to jolt his brother, Galad shifted Gawyn's hips forward. He saw the hole there, puckered, the skin around it smooth and clear. Letting out a breathy moan as Gawyn bobbed yet again, Galad lifted his head to lick tentatively at the entrance.
Gawyn released Galad's length, evidently confused, and then gasped as Galad probed his tongue deeper. Galad smiled against the other man's ass. He didn't know about this—not really—but part of him knew what his brother must feel, the part that remembered Galad's other dreams, the tongues of other men. It was not so much a direct pleasure, not like stimulating a man's length or that spot within him that Galad had discovered, but it was sensual, and suggestive. A tongue anywhere could do that, but a tongue here moistened and loosened a man, suggesting more to come. It was passionate, and seductive, and it even tickled a bit.
Galad forced his tongue in and out of the entrance, feeling Gawyn flex around it. The other man returned to Galad's length, and Galad moaned into him. He worked his mouth like an intricate kiss, his tongue encircling the hole and intruding, his lips stimulating the outside. As he worked on, his brother still taking his shaft, he began to feel Gawyn relax, loosening, inviting him deeper.
Galad withdrew and heard a light whimper from the other. He smiled, then slipped his longest finger in his mouth, moistening it. Gawyn continued his efforts, eager to please and to prove, and Galad circled his entrance with the finger before slowly entering the loosened hole.
Gawyn rose slightly, evidently curious, and looked back. Galad had almost his whole finger in. Gawyn rocked back, forcing the finger the rest of the way. He still looked uncertain, but Galad grinned at him in assurance as he moved his finger slowly about the cavity, back and forth. If he could remember right, there should be something right about—
Gawyn gasped, then released a short, high moan, his hand reaching for his own length. Found it, Galad thought, and he rubbed lightly at the strange, round-ish mass. Gawyn moaned again, an involuntary smile curling his lips. The spot Galad had found, as he remembered, was not deep within Gawyn's ass, but forward, just beneath the base of his manhood. Galad massaged it gently, fearing to overstimulate but wanting to do more that tease.
Gawyn sat nearly straight atop Galad now, his legs still straddling his shoulders, and Galad felt the sticky web of pre-release as his cock sat on his chest. Galad's own manhood rested against his abdomen, coming just past his navel, its head slick with arousal. But Galad was in no position to stimulate either member, instead focusing his attention on Gawyn's hole.
Removing his finger, Galad moistened a second before slowly slipping them both in. Gawyn—who'd briefly reacted to the loss—sighed in content, his body now used to the pleasure. Galad reached deep, wiggling his fingers to spread the entrance, and touched that spot again, just lightly brushing against it. Gawyn let out a moan, biting his lip in an almost-smile. Galad regarded him from his low vantage: his perfect ass, two firm, round muscles beneath his hips; his strong back, well muscled, glistening with sweat; his hair, glittering golden ringlets in the sunlight; his face, eyes closed, fighting a smile and yet relaxed in ecstasy. He rocked against Galad's fingers, beautiful.
Galad pressed against that spot within Gawyn, breaking the man's concentration and forcing a moan. Gawyn almost collapsed atop Galad, his hand supporting himself on the ground as he leaned forward. Galad withdrew his fingers, shifting Gawyn's legs so the man sat beside him rather than atop.
Gawyn looked at him, confused, then seemed to understand as Galad slowly stroked his own length. He thought he'd find that reluctance, that insecurity in his brother's eyes, but when Gawyn looked from Galad's manhood to his face, there was only the twinkle of excitement. Galad reached forward to kiss him, a more insistent kiss than before but still slow, a battle of tongues rather than lips. Forcing Gawyn to the ground, he probed his mouth as he'd probed his hole, teasing and exploring. Gawyn's own tongue fought back, joining the dance.
Galad lifted from their kiss, gently caressing Gawyn's face before reaching between his legs. He took both their shafts in hand, massaging them equally, feeling his brother's length against him. Gawyn's eyes closed and he released a breath of ecstasy. Galad slowed and then stopped, taking his own manhood and lowering it. Gawyn looked up at him—their faces were still rather close—and nodded, his arms wrapped around Galad's shoulders. Gawyn's legs rose, bent and spread wide, and he clung to Galad as he placed the head of his shaft at Gawyn's hole.
Galad's length was still slick with his brother's spit and the beginnings of his own release, and Gawyn's hole was loosened and moistened by Galad's earlier efforts. He paused with his tip at Gawyn's hole, feeling the entrance almost draw him in. He leaned down to kiss Gawyn, a deep, true kiss. Then he slowly pushed forward, never breaking contact.
Gawyn groaned against his lips—in pain, Galad knew. From his own limited memory, the pain came first. Slowly he drove himself forward, soon passing a point where the resistance stopped. Gawyn seemed to relax, not pained, but not comfortable either. He shifted beneath Galad, trying to loosen himself and invite the rest of Galad's length.
Eventually Galad fit his whole member, and paused for a moment, finally breaking their kiss. His hips were flush with Gawyn's ass, and they clung to each other, connected in so many ways. Gawyn's eyes shown with desire, with determination, with happiness. Galad began to slowly rock backwards, his own shaft feeling sensitive within the other man's tightness. He did not withdraw all the way, fearing to meet that resistance at the entrance and pain his brother. Instead, he began to move forward again at that middling place where the resistance ended.
Slowly he rocked again, back and forth, and eventually Gawyn's face showed signs of relief and of pleasure. He smiled up at Galad, his arms loosening their grip, but still he held to him. Confident that he wouldn't hurt the other man, Galad began to increase his pace, still fearing to withdraw completely lest he meet that resistance again. The resistance felt good, for Galad, but he knew it was uncomfortable for Gawyn. The depths of the other man were just as enticing.
Galad moved, rolling his hips to rock himself forward rather than mechanically thrusting back and forth. Each motion brought him down to the hilt, eliciting near-constant moans from Gawyn. Galad felt pure, a force of nature, the curve of his ass mimicking ocean waves as his hips rolled back and forth. Gawyn released him with one arm, reaching between them to where his own erection was stiff, stroking it as Galad pushed into him.
Their breath came heavy, Galad's thick with low groans, Gawyn's punctuated by sharp yelps of pleasure. Galad kissed Gawyn again, closing the gap between them and rubbing against Gawyn's shaft. They were sticky with sweat, their bodies sheening in the sunlight. Galad lifted his head, regarding his brother's warm, confident eyes—eyes he'd too rarely worn in life, at least around Galad.
He took Gawyn's shaft in hand, feeling the pressure mounting in his own loins. He was close—he'd have to make sure Gawyn was, too. He shifted his angle, trying to thrust more up than along, searching for that spot beneath Gawyn's manhood. Gawyn gasped, shuddering, and he knew he'd found it. He maintained that angle and that pace, stroking Gawyn's shaft in rhythm. Gawyn's hips bucked, simultaneously trying to impale him further on Galad's shaft and seek the pleasure of Galad's hand.
Galad's strokes came faster as his own motions increased, and Gawyn leaned forward to cling to him, his moans sharp and his breath heavy. Their foreheads met, Gawyn sitting on Galad's thighs as he was thrust into. "Galad," his brother sighed between moans. "I'm close." As if to prove his point, he moaned heavily as Galad pressed again against that spot.
"Me too," Galad breathed, barely a whisper. His breath came hard, all his attention focused on his thrusts, his hand matching his pace. He sped up, his need overwhelming any sense of control, and thrust deeper into Gawyn. His length disappeared to the hilt, its head shoved against that spot within Gawyn, and both men cried out, seeing white. Gawyn clung to his brother as he came, thick ropes spurting from his head to coat both men's chests. Galad's own release came within Gawyn, his member throbbing against the other man's tightened hole. He felt his seed spilling from himself, coming out in powerful bursts and leaking from Gawyn. Both men shuddered, their release weakening them.
Galad fell to the floor, taking Gawyn with him. His length was still inside the other man, whose entrance was coated with release, leaving Galad's cock swimming in the slick. Gawyn's seed covered their chests, sticking between them as Gawyn collapsed against Galad, exhausted. Galad breathed heavily, unable to move within his brother because of his heightened sensitivity.
Gawyn lifted his head, looking down at Galad, and smiled. He wiggled his hips slightly, rocking against Galad and eliciting a moan. He leaned down, kissing Galad in a full, satisfied kiss. Galad embraced him, bringing them ever closer together as their lips locked. Finally he was able to withdraw from Gawyn, but slowly, his shaft still twitching. He immediately felt his seed spill from the other man, leaking slowly from his entrance.
Gawyn rose, breathing heavily. He stood up, looking down at Galad. Each full breath swelled his chest, highlighting the muscles there and emphasizing the seed that covered him. Gawyn looked like a carved statue as he smiled down at Galad, perfect muscles sculpted from his arms and legs, his torso neatly divided into hard pockets of flesh. Covered in white, in his own seed, he looked beautiful.
"Goodbye, Galad," he said, that sad wisdom returning to his eyes. "Thank you." His brother walked away, his manhood swaying between his legs, his body coated in release on both sides. Galad watched as he left the courtyard, taking a piece of Galad with him.
He sighed, tears rolling down his face. He did not remember feeling them. He still lay on the ground, his brother's seed coating him. With that last, majestic image of his brother burned into his mind, Galad drifted to sleep, remembering the man his brother always should have been, but never got the chance to be.