To all reviewers: Thank you for your
encouraging and extremely kind words. You're pushing me to keep
going! A big thanks (as usual) to Ivory for sending some of you over huggles
Special thanks are at the end of the chapter.
Ash, Ruin and Demise (cont.)
Galahad was shocked back to consciousness by a full bucket of water landing in his face. His blurting and coughing caused someone to laugh nearby.
When he finally was able to focus on his surroundings again he was surprised to be in a rather spacious hall with a ready built fire and several people standing around him. The Saxon who had woken him was grinning widely, bucket still in hand.
"Well, well, look who's decided to wake up…" a low voice in direction of the fire said. A man was sitting at the table beside it and Galahad recognised the broad shoulders of the Saxon leader as well as his own arrow tip still stuck below his collar bone. Judging from the slight slur in the voice Aelric had prepared himself with enough liquor for the painful removal procedure.
Wiping the water from his eyes Galahad felt the deep cut on his forehead and cursed his bad luck under his breath. Not only had he fallen off his own horse, oh no. He had also been taken captive by his enemies like some bloody amateur.
"Come on... let's get this over with." Aelric bellowed and a small figure stepped up beside Aelric, her silhouette visible against the light of the fire behind her. She put down a bowl on the table and without a word reached for the arrow. She looked into Aelric's face and he noticed a quick glint pass over hers. A low grunt of pain later she held one end of the arrow shaft and dropped it in the bowl.
"Ah… you're enjoying this, aren't you?" he said mockingly to her while he grabbed her wrist with one hand and with the other pulled her to him. As if she hadn't even noticed the hand gripping her backside, she fixed Aelric defiantly and without offering any answer, she grabbed the front of the arrow and turned. Aelric hissed sharply, the smirk never really leaving his expression as he hit her square in the face without a warning.
"Don't even think about getting up…" Horsa was standing above Galahad who could barely disguise his anger at Aelric.
"Why? Because you only hit women? Bloody Saxon cowards…" he said getting up and mustering Horsa upwards as he came to stand directly in front of him, glaring back at him.
Galahad, his usual self, was quick to anger and being taken captive the way he had and now witnessing these brutes assailing a woman sure was too much to take.
"You'll learn what's good for you around here fast enough. Scum." Horsa stated just before his fist landed in Galahad's abdomen with an exploding effect. He doubled over, but refused to back down and straightened himself once he had regained his breath a second later and grunted: "And you'll teach me I suppose…?" He had had enough. He knew that he had no control over what was going to happen to him. But he had some control over the Saxon's attention now, it was all he wanted. Aelric only observed the fight across the room, while the woman had slowly stood up, her eyes speaking murder which bemused Aelric even more as he looked at her again. In silence she pulled the rest of the arrow from his shoulder.
Just then Horsa made one step backwards and looked at the five Saxons surrounding Galahad and simply said: "Why should I?" And with that the Saxons closed in on him. The knight resisted going down as best as he could, trying to get some self-esteem back into him by offering his enemies proud defiance. But as the first blow hit his wounded arm, he couldn't suppress a painful scream. Only seconds later, all went black again.
The light was already dim over the soaked hills, the rain had only been a passing nuisance and with its last force the sun had managed to break through the heavy clouds in the west just as it was going down.
Dagonet could see the garrison and the wall looming in the distance, enlightened only by a faint light of the fading sun. Guinevere, half asleep, shifted in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. He thought of the last three days and the amount of dread and difficulty that had been sent in his and his companion's direction. He wondered if Lancelot was still alive and instinctively prepared himself for another loss.
No. Not just another loss. But the loss of one of their best. A brother. Who had been fighting alone. He had no idea how it had happened or why, but it was a terrible error the members of the Round table would have to face. They had been outwitted by the Saxons twice in three days and the toll of the dead at Corbridge and the wounded walking behind him, weighed heavily. Lancelot, Galahad, Guinevere… He looked down softly touching her head with his free hand. She was exhausted and he saw that she was not unconscious, but sleeping. He had not dared to straighten her broken leg, fearing that it might cause her to loose too much blood until they could reach the wall.
It had taken him and Tristan some time to organise as much help as they could from the surrounding farms and Corbridge itself, move the wounded and leave the dead in the care of the villagers. They knew very well what would have awaited them, had the Saxons succeeded in seizing the village and the rule over the Tyne River. Taking care of the warriors that had died defending their freedom was a grim and gruesome task they accepted willingly however.
As the sinking sun cast its ever stronger light across the land, refusing to go unnoticed, the world was painted in contrasting shadows of dark green, vague grey, burning yellow and golden red. The glow crushed like a wave of colour on the ramparts of the Great Wall, spilling its almost bemusing waning force over everything it fell upon, and at the same time never reaching the ground, and thus leaving it in utter darkness. Like a beacon the garrison tower shone to welcome the trek of suffering and misery led by a solitary Dagonet – a sleeping Guinevere in his arms.
-
What are our trials and worries to the trees? What are our lives compared to the span through space and time of a tree? When only after so many years of tearing and pushing from wind and snow, trunk and branch finally give in and bend to force? What is our struggle compared to this? Like strong timber withstands, you gave me the force to withstand all blows, Dear Lord. The power to face all future trials. Where is this force now? Why have you left me? You. My Lord?
Arthur still felt like someone had hit him over the head over and over again and he suddenly feared that he was starting to loose all sense. He was leaning with his back against the old ash tree just outside the garrison gate, one of his hands resting on the strong, still humid bark. It was the knights' assembly tree before riding out and it must have served this purpose for some hundred years, maybe even since the wall's first days judging the tree's age.
Bors and Gawain had arrived. Another blow to his already reeling soul. Galahad had been taken by the enemy. Everything seemed to be slipping from Arthur's hands and he couldn't stop it. He looked down at his hands mustering them. Lancelot was dying. And where had he been? Galahad had been taken captive. And where had he been? Guinevere was severely hurt. Where had he been?
He was in no mood to face either Gawain or Bors or the increasing doubt settling in their eyes. A doubt that only reflected his own. A doubt that grew with every passing minute.
He turned his look on the setting sun, its light never reaching him. And all of a sudden he was remembering his dream from last night. Had it really been only one day? One single day.
And as the light vanished from the world, a similar shadow to the one settling over the earth conquered Arthur's heart.
mane... mane… thecel…
(weighed…
weighed… and found too light)
And it means: God has weighed and
fulfilled your kingdom, just as you have been weighed and found
wanting.
He understood.
Pelagius' words, the
signs of foreboding… all was getting too clear now. His next breath
caused his eyes to well up and bitter tears came to rest on his
cheeks.
I have been weighed and found wanting. Too many deaths. Too many fallen friends. Not enough power. Not enough trust.
Have you not read the scripture? Don't you fool know that the Lord giveth and taketh away as it pleases him? How could you ever believe that you had the power to change the course of things? Illusions all around you. Love, friendship, the passionate bond that once linked you with your brethren, duty and honour. Where has it all gone now? Scattered in the strong wind of God's single breath.
"What are your plans, Arthur?" Gawain, wrapped in a simple brown plaid against the rising cold, was standing in front of him, holding a cup in his hand. He handed it to his commander seeing the emptiness back in his eyes.
"Not now, Gawain." Arthur waved both the offered cup and the question aside impatiently.
Gawain narrowed his gaze, fixing Arthur.
"Yes." He stated with a firm voice, cup still in his hand, but empty. "Now."
Arthur was panting with anger and frustration, but remained silent as he wiped the wine from his face.
"We need to get Galahad back." Gawain used the opening he gave him by staying silent.
"And how would we do that? Hm?" Arthur snapped, venting his annoyance. "Same way Lancelot'll just walk out of that door any minute? Or rather how Guinevere will come riding along? Tell me how, Gawain!" He made one step towards his knight, fixing him.
"Do you really suppose that Galahad is still alive? Let's say he his, what then? Do you even have the guts to imagine what they'll do to him? DO YOU? And how long will he last? HOW LONG…?" Arthur couldn't finish his sentence, for the next thing he felt was his head hitting the trunk of the tree behind him, sending a flashing light through his vision.
Gawain stood with clenched fists, fuming.
Silence.
Until a low sobbing caused Arthur to slide down the trunk to the ground, as he gave in to his overwhelming affliction.
"How dare you to condemn him…" Gawain hissed. He had just for the first time in his whole life, hit the one person that made up his whole world. He had hit Arthur. Could it even get any worse?
He was angered and shocked at his friend and commander's complete lack of revolt. All he could see was an utterly defeated Arthur and no way of helping him through this.
"There are people who need you. Arthur! We need you now." Was all he could think to say.
Arthur lifted his head, his knees pulled up to his chin, a bitter ton in his voice now: "You have never needed me. None of you have." Slowly getting up, he came level with Gawain's eyes, staring at him. "All I ever did was to take advantage of the deal that had bound you and your future to Rome. All I ever did was to take advantage of your trust in me. All I ever did was to bind you to me in order to follow me in some ridiculous cause I have long lost a name for. What cause? Tell me, Gawain. Saving the Britons from the Saxons?" He let out an acerbic laugh.
"Merlin and Guinevere can command their own troops in battle. You've seen it just as I have… So, tell me, who would still dare to need me now? Now that I have ruined you all?"
Gawain looked up at the petalled canopy of the ash they were standing under, briefly wondering at the number of missions that had started here. Guinevere had once told him that ash trees were considered a symbol of life.
"I dare to need you, Arthur." He simply said and with a bright glint in his eyes pulled his lost brother into a crushing embrace.
-
The hooves rung out clearly on the ground as Dagonet reached the garrison, its great portal wide open for the trek to ride in. He was just passing the old assembly tree, when Guinevere stirred. He looked down at her and in the corner of his eyes saw Arthur and Gawain stand under the tree.
"Dagonet, at last. Everything is prepared." Jols had seen them coming and came to greet him. The knight bent down as well as he could and asked in that direct way of his: "How are Lancelot and Arthur?" Jols didn't answer the question, but gave him a look of unsure doubt as Arthur approached them at very moment, Gawain trailing behind him.
Arthur stepped up to Dagonet's side without a word and looked up, not at his knight, but at the figure resting in his arms.
He only motioned for Dagonet to hand her to him. Dagonet on the other hand tired desperately to find Arthur's eyes. When he finally did, he saw a wide green lake of frozen pain and unspoken ache. Dagonet barely managed a nod as a greeting, chilled by his friend's expression.
Guinevere woke as Dagonet's strong arms released her into Arthur's muscular, but cool embrace and her forehead came to rest on his cheek. She tried to hide the ever constant pain soaring through her. But still, she frowned and let out a muted moan as Arthur started to carry her towards the garrison courtyard, leaving Dagonet to shake his head at his back.
"My lord…?" Guinevere finally managed to breathe. Arthur's composure was unsettling her. She could feel the change in him screaming at her. The scream for someone to help him, was in the way he looked before him, in the lines in his face and the torn expression on it. It was like a voiceless wail for deliverance. Everyone could hear and see it, but nobody could reach him.
Arthur wondered at the almost weightless Guinevere in his arms, calling out for him once more, her voice warm on his right cheek while the other remained cold. Below the sweat and the blood and all other signs and stains of the battle, he could smell a soothing hint of grass mixed with the wet call of fainting trefoil. It was the smell of Britain.
"Arthur." She muttered and as a reply he only held her tighter as he carried her through the already lit up corridors. He took her to one of the empty chambers that had belonged to one of his fallen knights. When he lowered her onto the bed and turned to get Merlin, she took hold of his hand. She closed her eyes painfully as she covered it with her own, reaching out for him with that simple gesture of hers. As she opened her eyes again, Arthur hadn't moved and his doubts spilled from directly into her heart, all barriers broken. She gasped at what she saw and straining against the pain in her chest that made her breathe heavily, she sat up fixing him intently. Then she cupped both his cheeks in her hands and pressed the shadow of a kiss on his brow before he could build up his guard again, pouring all her love and longing in it, hoping to soothe his troubled mind.
-
Bors only hesitated for a moment in front of Lancelot's door before opening it slowly, wondering briefly at what waited behind it. They had moved Lancelot to his bed and he lay there like a statue, almost emblematic. If a steady movement of his chest wouldn't have proved that he was still breathing, Bors would have thought him dead. Gods…
Merlin was standing on the foot of the bed gazing backwards at Bors. "Dagonet and Tristan have arrived, I see. The Healers?"
"Not yet." Bors replied never taking off his eyes off Lancelot's ashen face.
"If he wakes, please give him the birch rind draught in that cup. It's all I had with me, but it will help to keep the fever from the blood loss away." Merlin turned to leave and brushed a warm hand over Bors' arm leaving both friends alone.
The brawny knight stepped hesitantly up to the bed and sat down beside Lancelot.
How are you, dear brother? He contemplated the gaunt, pale face that contrasted with the thick dark curls so shockingly.
And just as if Lancelot had heard the thought, he shifted his head and his eyes fluttered open. He frowned painfully at the dull pain all over him. He only had a very dim sensation of his body, his head on the other hand was heavy and throbbing terribly. He swallowed. "Water…" was all he managed to croak, his throat being too dry for anything else.
Bors supported his shoulders as he struggled to sit up, glad not to feel any signs of fever on the knight.
"Bors…" Lancelot breathed finally regaining some limited force of his voice. "… what is it?"
"How are you feeling?" Bors chose to simply ignore the question and took the cup Merlin had left. "Here…"
As he was lowered back again, Lancelot was panting from the struggle, but although he was so sweetly tempted to close his eyes, he fixed Bors attentively. "What… are you not telling me?"
Bors returned the look, but couldn't find a way to tell about Galahad's whereabouts.
"Nothing." he said, even managing a quick smile of comfort. "Don't strain yourself. Please."
"It's Guinevere… is she…?" Lancelot asked with an increasing frown. He could tell that Bors was keeping bad news from him.
"No."
"Good." Laneclot's voice was a low murmur now. "I'd hate to loose her. She's so reckless…"
"Rest now. Please, Lancelot." Bors said, placing a hand on Lancelot's arm, who sighed and closed his eyes, the deep frown still etched on his face.
"I know that you're keeping something from me…" Bors turned away at the knight's words. "… and if I wasn't so tired, I swear I'd kick you into telling me."
Bors couldn't help but laugh at the challenge.
"I bet you would…" he replied smirking, "…or try at least."
But Lancelot had already drifted away into a blessing slumber, leaving a lonely Bors to think about their lost companion.
-
Arthur closed the door to Guinevere's room behind him. He passed a tired hand through his hairs, shivering slightly at the cold draught in the corridor.
Merlin had just tended to Guinevere's broken bones. He had rarely seen such a badly broken leg as hers. The bone had broken through the muscles just below her knee.
Arthur was a battle proven man, had sustained enough injuries himself to not be touched or frightened by blood or wound, but he had flinched as he imagined the pain Guinevere was subjected to. He had stayed to comfort her, calm her as best as he could. Or was it rather her kiss that had calmed him …into staying? He couldn't tell. He was no fool and her longing had not gone unnoticed.
He had no time to follow the thought, as a clearly distressed Jols came hurrying down the corridor towards him. "Arthur! The Saxon's have sent a messenger… "
The next time Galahad woke, he was surrounded by thick darkness. He could smell the damp earth around him and the faint tinge of smoked meat which told him that he was in some sort of pantry. He tried to sit up and was immediately rewarded with a spinning head, some unpleasant nausea and a nice shot of pain through his left arm. With bound hands, he tried to reach the wound and hissed as he felt the wet bandage. Great. The deep gash had started to bleed again.
He still was trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness as some door swung open with a loud clatter and someone was pushed into the room, landing heavily on the floor. As the guard or whoever had pushed the newcomer into the darkness shifted in the doorway, Galahad was able to see that it was the girl who had tended to Aelric's shoulder before. Her clothes and apron were torn, her bodice ripped and blood was running from her nose. The sight of her, battered and beaten on the floor, unconscious was scandalising. And there it was again. The anger and the revolt flaring up unchecked through mind and body.
"Son of a bitch!" Galahad yelled and lunged himself at the man standing in the door, ignoring the sudden spinning of his vision or the pain. He went straight for the man's throat and closed his hands around it. He vented all his fury on this one, firm grip. This was one small moment of payback, whatever the consequences.
Alarmed by their fellow's stertorous groans, several Saxons came running and tried to pry Galahad away from his victim, but to no avail. The Saxon's face had turned red by now, his eyes started to leave their sockets. As a another Barbarian placed his dagger at Galahad's throat, the knight only sniggered at the threat.
And suddenly Aelric was there looking somewhat amused by the spectacle of five of his men struggling with a truly furious Galahad. He flipped a stick in his hands, grinning widely, waiting.
As the poor, strangled wretch slid from Galahad's hands to the floor, Aelric let out a loud laugh which prompted everyone to turn around to him.
"Well done!" he teased moving closer towards the group, stick still flipping. "Well done, indeed, sir knight."
Galahad who was clearly drained by his effort, stood breathing heavily facing the Saxon leader, head high. He didn't see the blow coming, his vision suddenly unsteady, as the stick hit him with full force just below his arm wound. He screamed and swayed seriously on his two feet. And for a brief moment he wondered how he could be in so much pain, when his arm had suddenly lost all feeling. He tried to move his fingers, but found he couldn't.
"Seize him." Aelric said with a nod at the still swaying Galahad.
They dragged the kicking and fighting Sarmatian back into the hall with the great fire as best as they could.
"I see that you're a bit long in learning." Aelric stated, taking up his position in front of Galahad – held by several strong arms – again. "It matters not. I'm in the right mood for some teaching. Horsa!"
The bellowed name, called his cousin to appear. "Do us the honour, will ya? Take his sound arm… Hold him down." Aelric ordered.
Galahad started to strain against the hands, arms and bodies who pushed him down on his knees and held him with unforgiving force. He didn't regret his action; there was no panic in his strain. He was still savouring the slow painful killing he'd just dealt and he used this pleasure to muster up all his force for what would come.
Aelric made a side step as soon as Horsa had gotten hold of Galahad's right arm and held it outstretched. And with one simple move he brought down his stick.
Trivia: I did not invent the use of birch bark for fever and inflammations, its an old knowledge which is still used today. Look at your packet of Aspirin: acetylsalicylic acid and it's found in the bark of the birch tree. Don't forget if you're out of Aspirin... find a birch tree. -)
Kate: Thank
you so much for your loving sic! review. I wonder how I deserved so
much praise. "blush" I wanted to take a moment to answer your
question, that's why I've moved the AN to the end.
Sarmatia was the
region between the Vistula River (today: Poland) and the Caspian Sea
(think of today's Ukraine). If you try looking up the terms Alans
or Alani (Herodotus mentions this Sarmatian tribe, as well as
the Rhoxolani) it'll be easier to find their location at the time
of the big migrations. (A nice detail from another source: funnily
enough Tacitus mentions Sarmatia as well in direct relation with the
'Germans' The whole of Germany is thus bounded;
separated from Gaul, from Rhoetia and Pannonia, by the rivers Rhine
and Danube; from Sarmatia and Dacia by mutual fear, or by high
mountains.)
It's true that this region does have a
normal continental climate and is not extremely hot or dry. Although,
when I think back of my last summer in Lithuania… I must say it
does get pretty hot, depending on the region. I did think along the
same lines you did, and you're right stating that Britain's
climate wouldn't be that much different from Sarmatia. What can I
say. Lancelot's rants about the weather… funnily enough a lot of
authors have picked that up, although Gawain does the complaining in
the film… try to see it as his charming nature or the 'old times'
syndrome adapted to become 'ah, at home… everything was better…'.
I'm sorry that I can't offer you a better scholarly explanation,
it's just the way I feel my beloved character -)) Isn't he a
charmer?
Lefty: Thank you for your precise review. Another Galahad fan… sigh I'm sorry for what I'm putting you through… really. I love him too… I kept him alive, didn't I?
