-25-
Galahad stood outside the modest flat. He leaned lightly against a wall; his shoulder on the stone facade, his face a mask of calmness. His hands however, gave away his emotions.
Alternating between flexing his fingers and rubbing his palms together, the knight's nerves were betrayed by his actions. He was anxious; not knowing how the Queen would react to seeing him there.
"Be careful," Kilgarrah had said. "She will not take kindly to being reminded of the memories attached with your presence."
His thoughts traveled back to that day in the coffee shop. How Kilgarrah had gently broken to him that he was a knight from ages past, brought to this time to protect a woman whose fate was lost.
"You're mistaken," Galahad told the older man. "What you're saying is impossible."
"And the dreams you've been having," Kilgarrah's odd yellow-green eyes bored into him. "Aren't they impossible, too?"
Galahad had said nothing.
"Tell me, young knight. The sword, doesn't the feel of it remain a ghost in your hand long after you've woken? The screams of the woman who burned, tell me, do you remember her words and she was engulfed in flames?"
"Forgive me, my King..." Galahad's voice faded as his eyes widened. "But...these are dreams! These aren't real!"
"Six months of the same 'dream' night after night," Kilgarrah said slowly. "Do you still doubt my words, Galahad?"
He was speechles.
"You have a responsibility to the Queen, young knight. You were the most loyal to her, the champion when she was abandoned. The Queen is in peril again and you must guide her to her salvation."
"How?" Galahad said in a small voice.
"You will know tomorrow," the older man said with a smile. "For now, finish your work and then go home. Your duty will be known to you when you wake."
Galahad had gone home still puzzled about what Kilgarrah had said. He went to bed thinking about just what he meant by "duty" and just who the Queen was. But his dreams that evening were more than troubling—they were violent.
The beautiful woman who caught his attention in the coffee shop figured largely in his visions. He saw her walking beside a man who seemed to radiate power. She glowed with a faint silver light whenever she was near him—a beautiful compliment to the golden glow that surrounded the man.
Flashes of crimson—the color of cape, the standard held by an approaching group of men on horseback, the blood of an enemy as he tumbled, broken, to the ground—permeated his dream. Galahad saw a circular table that seated twenty men, all clad in chain mail, he saw a tall man whose eyes would flash gold during battle, and he saw a woman in royal purple falling to the floor, clutching a blanket bundle to her chest.
The visions shifted and he saw the same woman—her hands tied behind her—being brought up to a platform upon which a stake had been erected. He saw the slump of her shoulders, the defeat in her frame. He saw the tears streaking her flawless tawny cheeks, and Galahad's heart broke.
Even in his dream he wanted to rush to the woman's side, to free her from the rough rope that had turned her wrists raw and bloody. He wanted to take her away from the crowd of people who were chanting, calling for her execution.
Galahad saw the Queen—he was sure of this now—offer no resistance as she was bound to the stake. He heard her sob, but even that sounded dignified to his ears. And as the flames licked at her dress and blistered her skin, she raised her gaze to the balcony upon which two men stood: one pale and dark haired, the other tall, muscular, and golden. The golden haired man—the King—flinched when the woman said one last thing before the smoke rendered her unable to speak: "Forgive me, my Lord."
Galahad had jerked upright as he was wrenched from the memory. And here he was, days later, waiting for the Queen to make her appearance. He had seen her go inside her brother's apartment shortly after the witch. From that moment, he had been on guard, ready to break the door down and remove her from harm.
He was the knight most loyal to the Queen and neither time nor age would take that title away from him.
He waited until she was a good few feet away from him and began to follow her as she made her way to the coffee shop that she frequented. Galahad was careful not to be spotted and bided his time until the Queen was settled at her favorite table with her usual beverage.
He stepped into the shop, squared his shoulders and walked to the left of the Queen—his usual position. He stood there, just slightly behind her, until she took notice of him.
"Galahad."
She didn't turn her head but gave a slight nod, giving him permission to move forward and take the seat in front of her.
"My Lady," he said as he gave a small bow. This day and age may not have seen them in a throne room and her chair may not have been on a dais, but the woman before him was still regal and her presence still commanded his attention.
This woman was his Lady and Galahad knew that he would die to keep her safe.
"Should I be afraid, young Knight?" Guinevere's smile was kind and her tone was light. "You always make an appearance just as something tragic is about to happen to me."
"I'm sorry, my Lady," Galahad ducked his head and smiled as well. "If my presence implies that you are not safe."
Guinevere sipped her drink and regarded the young man before her.
"Your father..."
Galahad shook his head.
"Not in this lifetime, Your Highness. He and my mother died when I was a young boy."
He felt her soft fingers touch his hand.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Galahad gave a quick bow in gratitude. She had always been this way around him: gracious, maternal, forgiving. She was much more true to her nature than she when she was with the other Knights.
"I suppose..."
The rest of Galahad's sentence as he was yanked out of his seat.
"What the hell is this all about?"
The voice hissed out the question and it was clear who the other person was. Galahad put up his hands in a gesture of surrender and turned around slowly.
"Your Majesty," Galahad said, offering the man before him a bow. It looked odd given his hands were still up.
"Galahad," Arthur's expression was stunned and the knight had to force back a smile.
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made both men turn to look at the woman who was now making her way out of the coffee shop.
Arthur made a move to follow her but Galahad knew that this was his only chance to talk to the King.
"Your Majesty," he called Arthur's attention. "Please do not follow the queen. Not yet."
A pair of blue eyes came to rest on the knight.
"You will know where to find her. But now is not the time for that."
Galahad put his hands down and gestured to the now-vacated table.
"Please, sire. We need to talk."
It was a long moment before Arthur gave a curt nod and sat down.
"Why are you here, Galahad?" He said as the young man took a chair.
Galahad took a deep breath before speaking.
"You must be with the Queen again, sire. Her soul depends upon it."