Until it's over – a Knightfall Fanfic
A layer of freshly fallen snow covers the countryside. It paints a pretty picture, with tree boughs creaking under the weight. Snow flurries cover most of the old roman road and the crumbling limestone walls alongside it. It's the kind of weather the village children would love to play in. The kind of weather most parents would grumble over. The blessed silence is only broken by the sound of a horse's hooves crunching in the snow and the creaking of waxed leather. It's cold and the sun doesn't do much to warm the lonely knight. No helmet, no sword, no shield. No strength left to guide the horse. The reins had long since fallen from his numb fingers and he let the beast choose its own path. Beyond caring, but not beyond pain.
He's unsure how he came to be on this road. How he even survived this long. Hunched over in the saddle, he shivers pitifully. His face is impossibly pale, and his dark hair clings to his neck and forehead. His ragged breathing is loud in his own ears and he cannot stop himself from shaking. A misstep from the horse causes him to gasp. He struggles to grab onto the saddle with his right hand, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side. 'It hurts... oh God it hurts!' He grits his teeth and groans in anguish. Praying for anything, anyone to ease his suffering.
The battle had been fierce. The thrill of it sent fire through his veins. Life for the former Templar hadn't easy, but mercenary work was easily found. With the quick successions of King Philip's sons, France was in an uproar. A throne without an heir, England putting forward a claim to it instead and the nobles tripping over each other to stay in the hot seat. The mercenary army was well trained, his current employer had him properly equipped and they held the high ground. They should have had the upper hand...
There were bodies everywhere, pushing and pulling, screaming and dying. With gritted teeth he hacked his way through the enemy lines. His blade sung as it clashed with metal armour and bit into any uncovered skin without fail. It was hard work and sweat poured off him. He narrowly avoided a poleaxe aimed for his head and he cut the man's face in half in retaliation. Wrenching his sword free, he barely had the time to block another blow to the head. He screamed in frustration. The growing pain in his injured leg was starting to distract him from the battle. The ten years since that fated Friday the 13th hadn't been kind to him. The Persian poppy juice only did so much to keep the pain at bay. He had to use more and more, and it never seemed to be enough. Every morning his hands trembled, and the withdrawal symptoms made him even more irritable than usual. He wheeled his horse around and charged at the offender, knocking him from his horse. Being a warrior was the only thing he did well. He would show them he was still France's best swordsman!
Despite his growing weariness he fought on. The wind howled down the slope and his horse slid around in half frozen mud. Arrows whistled past him and he ducked his head, protecting his face. He didn't see the axe coming at him and the knock to the helmet had him dazed. The sounds of his own racing heart filled his ears, disorienting him. He shook his head to clear it. Suddenly, a hand grabbed the metal edge of his shield and started to pull him down.
"No!" He shouted and hacked at his attackers blindly in order to get free. Going down now meant certain death! He bashed his shield over the man's head and fought like a madman to get it free. The pain in his knee did little for his balance and he shifted in the saddle. He grunted, exhausted by the fierce fight he had to let it go in order to stay in the saddle. His horse kicked viciously, as it fought desperately to get loose. When he finally broke free, he kicked the horse into a retreat in order to catch a much-needed breath.
Call it instinct, but he felt it the moment the flow of the battle changed. Increased snowfall added to the confusion making it more difficult to assess the situation. Then, there was a sound that made his blood run cold. Panic! With dread, he watched the line break. He saw men leaving their posts, running for their lives and the hoots of the enemy chasing them. They were being hacked to pieces! It was like Versailles all over again. In his mind's eye he saw himself running from his former Templar brothers. Men were being killed left and right, the smell, the sounds, the feeling of his own heart racing in ever growing panic. The memory of it still fresh in his mind even after all those years. No! Not this time. Never again! In a desperate attempt to stay the rout and save at least some of his men he ripped off his helmet, baring his head for all to see.
"To me!" he yelled. He flew across the battlefield bellowing orders at the top of his lungs, but the men were in a growing state of panic. He turned his horse and raised his sword up high, his sergeants following his lead.
"Let's get these bastards!"
He allowed himself no time to ponder the sheer insanity of it all and with a fierce cry he charged back into the fray. No shield, nor helmet to protect him. Just his sword and experience to get him through the battle. He fought like a madman, hearing rallying cries all around him. He saw men picking up their weapons and re-joining the fight. Exhaustion gripped his muscles, but he kept on fighting. For himself, for his men… He had no way to dodge the oncoming lance. It hit his breastplate high up, the impact almost enough to unhorse him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the wicked point of the lance skidded along the metal and drove itself upwards under the steel gorget and deep into his chest. Trapped between overlapping plates of steel the wooden shaft shattered, spraying his face with splinters. Through mail and cloth, flesh and bone the steel tip tore a hole into his body. A wound so deep he could not even find the breath to scream. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced before and with a gasp he dropped his sword. The horse thundered on down the slope, but he hardly remembers anything beyond that point.
His breathing starts to take on that rattling noise he hates so much. One he heard far too many times before. Weakly, he tries to clear his throat, but it doesn't seem to help. He swallows the blood filling his mouth though it makes his stomach churn. Blood covers most of his left side, staining plate and chainmail a dark red. Every breath is agony and it takes all his energy to remain in the saddle. The horse crosses a frozen stream and stumbles before regaining its footing on the snowy bank. A pained moan escapes him as the lance head moves with every shaky breath. The steel tip grinding against the bone is torturous and he silently cries. What use is he to anyone now? He went from being a half man to barely a man at all. He coughs again spits out another mouthful of blood. It dribbles down his beard and onto his chest but he's too weary to wipe it off. In the distance, he spots two travellers heading his way. With a shaking hand he reaches for the reins, praying for the travellers to let him pass without trouble. To leave him in peace... It's more than he deserves, he knows. "Please…" he whispers. He sways slightly in the saddle, his head growing heavier by the minute. He idly wonders what people would put on his gravestone should they ever find his body. Would they carefully chisel his given name into the stone? To be forever remembered as the man he was no longer. Or would they let his body rot by the roadside, befitting of the traitor he had become?
"Gawain!"
The shock of hearing that voice again is too much for him to bear and the knight chokes back a sob. 'It's going to be the latter then.' He finally loses his carefully kept balance. With a harsh thump he lands on the hard ground. It knocks the breath from him, one he seems to be unable to regain. His dark hair fanned out over the snow in stark contrast to the pristine white. It's almost beautiful. A vision only destroyed by the vibrant red staining the otherwise virgin snow.
Two pairs of boots come closer, making their way through the freshly fallen snow. He tries to move, panting, shaking, but his legs no longer obey his wishes. His fingers are too weak to find purchase in the biting cold. More blood dribbles from his mouth and wound and with a sigh he gives up. Too tired to move. Too tired to die.
Gently he is turned over onto his back and looking down at him is Landry. The brother he gave his life for in Acre, the brother he betrayed so thoroughly in Chartres. Gawain tries to suck air into his battered lungs but is left choking on the blood bubbling up in his throat. Unable to spit it out he begs, silently for his end to come soon. Landry lifts him from the cold ground cradling his head in the crook of his arm freeing his airway. Landry's companion once again speaks harshly, but Gawain can no longer make out the words. He's slowly slipping away, the sound of Landry's strong heartbeat lulling him to sleep. It can't be long now... Gawain is cruelly brought back to the present when a hand closes around the lance head. He throws his head back and screams hoarsely. The steel moving in his flesh causes new waves of agony to crash through his body. He desperately tries to grasp the hand causing him so much torment. Then the younger voice is back, speaking urgently and the pressure on his wound is thankfully lessened. Riding out waves of pain left him panting.
He blearily opens his eyes and tries to focus on the bearded face gazing down at him. His eyes are drawn to the silver in Landry's dark hair and beard. It's been ten years since he had seen him last. To see him now, at this moment. His fingers brush against his empty scabbard and he closes his eyes in sadness. The greatest warrior of his time… he grimaces, 'There is nothing left of me now.' His breath hitches and a tear runs down his cheek. It leaves a clear trail, washing away blood and grime.
"Brother…"
He gasps in shock and his eyes fly open to look at the man hovering over him. He feels Landry move and suddenly the hilt of a sword is pressed into his hand. Landry's eyes never leave his as he wraps his hand around Gawain's and gently helps him lay the sword over his heart. His lips move. To thank him, to apologize, to say anything at all, but no sound leaves his lips. No words can undo what his actions had wrought. Would God allow him to die in his brother's arms...? He drifts a bit before Landry's soft voice draws him back to the present. A shallow breath rattles in his chest and looks Landry in the eye.
"Do it."
He forces out the words watching Landry's face carefully. At this point, death will be a blessing and they both know it. A blessing he doesn't deserve. Not from him. Not for what he has done. But still, he begs for it. Landry looks torn.
"Landry..."
Landry swallows thickly and nods. He grips the lance head again and slowly but steadily pulls it from Gawain's chest.
There is no going back. The pain is immediate! Blood rushes into his lungs and up into his throat and he feels like he is drowning! He panics as he tries to take a breath but can't. 'He can't! He isn't ready!' "Please!" The plea falls silently from his lips. He claws at the snow and fights the oncoming death. "Please!" Gasping and choking on his own blood, his movements become weaker and weaker. The air he is getting isn't enough to sustain his body any longer and the fight slowly leaves him. Landry holds him tight through his death throws. Distantly he feels something warm and wet fall onto his face, but he is beyond caring for the cause. His vision darkens and a growing feeling of peace covers him like a warm blanket. The cold and pain leave his battered body and the only thing he still hears is his own slowing heartbeat.
With one last shuddering sigh, it is over.
He was out geocaching with his mates in Normandy when he found a lovely ruined 18th century chapel with curiously, a much older tomb inside. He carefully stepped through a crumbling archway and over various pieces of rubble to reach it. The whole building looked like something from a film. The grand architecture of the chapel broken down by vines and trees. Stained glass replaced by green leaves and the sunlight glinting off tiny mosquitos bouncing up and down in the air. He quickly snapped a few photos with his phone and smiled. His mum would totally dig this. He stepped closer to the grave and it's one of those, you know, moments you get struck by a feeling. A feeling of something greater than you. On the lid there's a knight lying on his back with crossed legs like he is merely resting. Most of the effigy's features have been weathered away, but he could tell that it was originally made with care and respect. Individual rings of chainmail could be spotted in the places where the rain hadn't been able to get to them and the armour itself looked really cool. He reached it out and wiped some leaves from the knight's shoulders and head. Too bad he couldn't make out the inscription on the grave. He wondered who this person was...
"Gavin!"
He jumped at the voice of his friend calling out to him. "God, Landon, you scared the crap out of me!" He was met with laughter and he smiled. "just give me a sec." With one last glance at the grave he quickly grabbed his backpack and ran out after his friend.