I wanted to thank Brittany Tabor for leaving a little review. Thanks, you made my day! I'm so glad to know someone is reading this.
Hey Koba ! So glad to have you back. Stargate is such an amazing show, and what else is there to do when we're all stuck :p I hope the three of you are well. And that this next chapter will ease up the tension. This being said, you already guessed the outcome so :D
Gawain was a little puzzled, but not too spooked to escape his house. The more Ragnell's waistline grew, the foulest her mood. A bit of fresh air would do him some good. But he had to admit that taking out half the garrison, heading west, wasn't what he had in mind when the King had him summoned this morning. Galahad's serious face didn't give anything away. So when Arthur announced around the round table that they might be meeting an army Avalon, Gawain was the first to glance at the scouts. They returned him a bland look – nothing to report; it turned out that the Seer had predicted a great battle ahead.
Gawain shrugged. Bah, Seers. Unless she could tell him if his baby to come was a boy or a girl, he didn't put quite stock in their saying. But Arthur seemed to trust her, and he had gathered the army in haste to plunder the barren fields that stood to the west. Galahad flanked him, and behind them rode Bors. Had it not been for the other riders that followed – forty of them – it might have felt like good old times. Except for Lancelot and Tristan. For Bedivere and…
Gawain shook his blond locks – tamed – to avoid taking memory lane. Those flashes better be buried, just like his old comrades. Things had changed, now. They protected the Kingdom, and taught the future knights of the round table. They had families and a good status: Trusted advisors and defenders of Camelot. It changed from the Sarmatian dogs they used to be. Too bad the others had been robbed that chance.
Three riderless horses appeared at a bend of the road, foam at their mouth, flanks rising and falling rapidly. Panic was obvious in their posture, one of them was losing blood at the flank. Gawain frowned – he would have recognised that old horse anywhere – and he turned to Galahad.
— "Is that Aydin?"
The dark-haired knight nodded, his face pale.
— "Yes. And Lancelot's new stallion."
Arthur turned around, and caught Galahad's eye. Obliviously, they knew something the others didn't. The King Raised Excalibur high in the sky; the universal sign of unity, then cried out.
— "RUUUUUS!"
Fifty voices responded, proud and confident. And then, Arthur took off at full gallop. Gawain spurred his horse forward, the thrill of battle now flooding his veins. Beside him, old and new recruits alike bent on their mounts. Beside him, Gawain was surprised to find Aydin who, despite her age, seemed intent on returning from whence she came.
He couldn't make sense of it; did the horse want to die in battle, just like her old master had? It would be a fitting end for Tristan's horse after all.
The charge went on, hooves thundering on the dirt road until they passed the high point of the next hill. There laid their enemies. Gawain's eyes assessed them easily; Saxons. Two hundred men, at least, were scattered on the landscape. Blond braids and whiskers, helmets and shields, spears and swords that had seen too many winters. Those damned harshtongues were threatening his home again, and in his rage, Gawain swore to exterminate them once and for all!
As he charged, spear forward, his eyes caught a peculiar sight. On the sloppy side, just a few hundred yards away, a strange pocket of fighting was already occurring. A few figures, only, entirely surrounded. His heart gave a strange stutter; who were they, those enemies of his enemies?
When Aydin left his side, Gawain altered the course to follow her, taking his company – fifteen men – in his wake to offer assistance. As his horse covered the distance, he recognised Lancelot and Guinevere, fighting side by side. The dark knight's garb and mop of black curls were unmistakable, and the enraged yells of the Queen reached his hears. Damn, she was fierce when she wanted to be!
— "To the Queen!" Gawain yelled.
— "To the Queen!" Galahad echoed behind him, branching from the main body to follow.
The blond knight grit his teeth; would they make it in time? His gaze was called several feet away, where another set of knights seemed in very bad posture. A tall man and a redhead woman moved in a blur, slashing, parrying, dancing in synch. Gawain's mind froze a moment, they reminded him of…
His horse snorted, calling him back to reality a hundred years before they clashed into the Saxons. Then, everything turned into a blur. Gawain impaled men with his spear and grabbed his axe. He left a bloody trail in his wake and took a few clumsy hits that the armour accommodated pretty nicely. Bruised, the blond knight took a pause to watch his men; they were making mincemeat of their enemies. Good. Galahad was shooting on the outskirts of the battlefield, choosing his targets with care.
Satisfied, Gawain directed his horse to get back into the fray. Where was Lancelot? War was messy enough, and his eye caught one of his youngest recruits in trouble. Gawain surged forward, heart beating wildly against his breastplate. He wasn't going to make it! The knight threw his axe, yelling like a banshee. The weapon landed true, saving the youth until he could reach him. Without speed, his horse was now vulnerable so he dismounted.
Gawain fought like a madman, slashing, hacking, crushing without mercy at people who had taken his first free comrade – Tristan – eleven years ago. His rage, contained for so many years, was now pouring forth. Beside him, the youngest of his company watched, mesmerised, the brute strength of the knight he saw as a father figure. Then something came in their line of sight. Something so strange, so surreal that Gawain, the lion knight, found himself jawslack.
Aydin was heading straight into the fray, without proper armour and protection, hooves pounding on ground and Saxons alike. Her white robe and grey mane contrasted with the field of destruction, a beacon of light into the darkness. Upon her back stood a man who resembled her former master so badly – Tristan without tattoos or braids – that it took his breath away. And behind him, a redheaded witch wielded a blade that shone like a thousand suns. She barely had to slash, it created a trail of light that seemed to cut through everything it touched.
Together, knight and witch created a path of lightning that cut through their enemies like butter. Cries rose in the air, guttural sounds and yells, pain and fear, even in their own army. Again, and again the couple came back until what remained of the Saxon army retreated and surrendered, dumbfounded by both magic and Camelot's greater skill.
Covered in blood and gore, sore to the bone, Gawain whistled for his mount in the aftermath of the battle. When no horse came, the blond knight pushed his helmet away, and secured it at his waist, hopping through the battlefield. His right hip would probably sport a bruise the size of Bors' belly, and there were scratches on his arms that might need stitches. Apart from this, he was relatively unharmed. Further away, he spotted Galahad, still circling the scene atop his horse, and a few of his proteges.
His surrogate brother eventually caught his eye, and pointed in the direction of a small gathering on the outskirts of the battlefield. There stood his King, his Queen, Lancelot and the witch with her companion, the ghost of the past. Gawain made haste, approaching with a spark of apprehension. His heart was making strange flip flops, hope swelling in his chest.
— "How did you know we needed you?" came the redhead's voice as she interrogated Arthur.
Gawain froze. He knew this voice, but couldn't recall where he'd heard it. Her familiarity with his King didn't even seem out of place, as if she was a longtime friend.
— "Morgana," Arthur responded.
— "Morgane le Fey?"
Arthur nodded, surprised that she would know of the seer. As he covered what remained of the distance, Gawain decided that, maybe, Morgana - the Seer - had not been so useless after all. Without her warning, they might have lost Lancelot and the Queen.
— "You will meet her in Camelot."
The young woman rolled her eyes at this, her lips quirking up. Her magical sword was nowhere in sight, for her companion partially hid her from sight. Yet, he thought he recognised that little upturned nose.
— "Oh joy," she quipped.
Gawain missed a step; he was almost there. But that humour, especially when directed at the King, called for memories. A certain woman who had made a lasting impression in his life, yet not remained to see the outcome of her work. Could it be …?
— "Daniel is going to be thrilled, what a fucking mess!" she added, turning to her companion.
As she did, her full face came into view and Gawain froze in his tracks. Her wide chocolate eyes met his behind the tall knight's shoulder, and a full smile broke upon her face.
— "Hey Gawain. Are you allright ?"
Floored, the knight watched the lines of her face – she had not aged! – and the red trail of fire of the braid. He should have recognised that strange leather armour, but since when did she carry a magical sword? And where the hell had she been, all those years? Man, she was going to get an earful!
— "Frances?" he asked, his voice wavering.
The young woman nodded slowly, stealing a glance at the tall knight beside her. The man seemed frozen. And Gawain wondered why she fidgeted uneasily after she'd slaughtered dozens of men without battling an eyelash. She held such power with her magical blade, why would she refer to another man, really? Tristan had been the only one, at the time, that managed to unsettle her. So why …?
Her companion turned around, and he understood.
In this very moment, Gawain's world spiralled out of control. For the man who faced him wasn't just a ghost of the past; he bore Tristan's features. The same sharp cheekbones, the same penetrating gaze, the same confident gait. But his eyes were softer, clearer, his face unmarked by the immense grief that the scout always carried around. And if he seemed shaken by the battle –something that never fazed Tristan – , he seemed to carry an inner light.
Gawain gasped.
— "What the devil is this?" he asked.
The ghost gave him an intense look, one that went right through him. If there had been some doubt as to his identity, there was none left, now.
— "I once was your brother, Gawain. Do you recognise me?"
— "Tristan?"
Tension seemed to dissolve when the knight nodded his assent. Gawain grinned, opening his sore arms to embrace his former comrade.
— "You were sorely missed, welcome back."
He squeezed the life out of him, barely believing that the witch – Tristan's little fairy – had managed such an impossible feat. To bring one of them back from the dead. A hiss caused him to let go, and reach for Frances instead for a bear hug.
— "Arthur was right, you can perform miracles."
The young woman squeezed his armour tight.
— "Ah, it wasn't me. Tristan was reborn on his own free will. He just found me."
— "And you brought him back to us."
The young woman frowned them, pulling away and Gawain didn't get time to ask what was going on that Galahad dismounted beside Tristan. He pulled his former comrade aside, and they started conversing in low voices.
Realisation suddenly dawned upon him; Galahad knew! This is why Aydin had thrown herself in battle once more. Faithful to her master, or its spirit. It was crazy. Completely crazy! But Gawain couldn't help being joyful grin. Frances was truly there, with Tristan in tow!
Damn, the fierce and untameable scout had been reborn to serve a magical woman. This day was stretching the limits of his sanity, but who was he to complain? Burying Tristan had broken his heart, and he'd never forgotten how Frances had wept over his tomb that day. The day he gave her his bow; the same bow now secured around Tristan's back. To see them reunited mended a hurt he had buried for years.
Gawain gave the young woman an eyeful; her own gaze was fixed upon Tristan and Galahad.
— "You haven't changed, Frances."
Funny, how her attention struggled to leave the scout. It was plain as day; the redhead was head over heels with his former comrade. What could he tell her, really, after eleven years? That he thought her a memory, and never expected to meet her again? There wasn't a wrinkle on her face, how old was that blasted woman, really?
— "Neither did you. Not much," she responded, her eyes travelling between Tristan and himself.
— "What, I'm not more handsome than I used to be?"
Frances scrunched her nose mockingly.
— "Oh, yes, very bestial," she purred. "Who tamed your hair?"
— "My wife, Ragnell"
Her features brightened at the news, and she gave him a genuine smile. Ah, he had her full attention now.
— "Congratulations, Gawain. Are you happy?"
Ragnell was now expecting their third child, and even if she could be a difficult woman, he wouldn't trade his wife for the world.
— "I am."
— "I'm glad. You deserve it."
The praise caused his cheeks to flush, and the blond knight deflected easily.
— "Dagonet is also married. With a little mouse that worked in the healing ward. They are rather fierce together. You'll see him at the hospice, she doesn't let him fight much those days."
An incredulous smile lifted the corner of her lips; he could see her imagine how a little woman could possibly keep the giant in check.
— "He must really love her then."
Yes. With all his might. There was so much to say about them, about Bors and his brood, about his own life and his own children. He just didn't know where to start, and the view of those broken corpses, the moans of the dying and cries of the wounded hardly made a good place to converse of mundane subjects.
A smooth voice surprised him; he had not seen Tristan approach.
— "Don't go asking my lady to mend your shirt now, eh?"
Gawain caught Tristan's gaze – were his eyes grey? – and laughed, remembering how sternly Frances had put him in his place when he'd tried to intimidate her with his bare chest. She'd been betrothed to another at the time; he wondered what had happened to the man.
— "So you gave in?" Gawain asked, addressing them both.
Frances gave him a thoughtful look.
— "It is a complicated story, but yes. Kristan is mine, now."
The blond knight nodded, unfazed by the name change, then decided that the rest would have to wait for the tavern. For the moment, the army was gathering itself and he couldn't wait to be home. Ragnell would give him hell if he didn't return before nightfall, and he needed to get his arm stitched.
— "Let's meet in the hall tonight. I'll drag Dag and Bors after dinner."
A simple glance passed between the scout and his lady, and a frown marred Frances' face.
— "Right. Good," she said.
Feeling the mood change, Gawain joined Galahad, intent on extracting more information from him. His little brother had secrets to share.
A smoking bathtub awaited them in their room, and Frances sighed with relief. Kristan, numb, laid his weapons upon the stand. Sore fingers attacked the strings of his armour, struggling. He was spent, his emotional turmoil swelling, harder to contain. Disgust and anger flooded him, and those images… Kristan closed his eyes, overwhelmed. Tristan's traumas resurfaced, embedded deep within. But today he had created a new set of very vivid memories he would have to live with. They were too overwhelming, too brutal to acknowledge.
The feel of little fingers replacing his own caused him to peek at his woman. Frances worked the leather straps deftly, a crease forming between her eyebrows. He wanted to tell her not to worry for his sake, but he couldn't. There was so much to worry about; he had slaughtered men … he was a killer. The last knot gave way, the last buckle clanged like a door upon his bruised mind.
They were alive… Alive ! After accepting death. It was nothing short of a miracle, and Kristan was adamant to celebrate it.
The moment his armour was shed, Kristan attacked Frances' lips fiercely. He needed to feel alive, needed love to counteract the brutality. The feel of her body whimpering in his arms, of her plush curves against his hard chest, of the softness of her lips caressing his skin pushed the traumatic memories away. He knew it wouldn't last, but for the moment, his need to claim her was stronger than anything he'd felt before.
And so, to avoid facing his fears, he plundered Frances' body with all the dominance of the former scout. And she let him rip her clothes out with barely a wince – her left arm was badly bruised – and turned her around against the wall. She let him dive into her core without as much as a warning, moaning his name as he thrust into her like a beast.
Frances let him grip her hips with his long fingers, bruise her soft flesh when he dove, again and again, into her welcoming heat. The wolf within rose, dominant, starved, angry, seeking to submit his mate. His grunts didn't cover her cries; she didn't even try to muffle them as she unleashed her feminity, arching her back to call him in, long braid dancing. Kristan circled her, his peak so near, tantalising. Then his teeth sank in the flesh of her neck with a growl; he was out of control. Frances cried out, writhing in ecstasy and pain alike.
Kristan let go with a series of hard thrusts, filling her inside, grunting as he came. An animalistic growl rumbled in his chest as he clung to her form, lost to the world, heaving.
Then the tears came, as uncontrollable as his lust, and Kristan sagged against Frances' naked form. Sadness engulfed him, making him weak. And bruised… he was bruised all over, a sliced as well. The armour had protected him well; he would have been dead without the leather protection. His legs were wobbling, his body failing. He was a killer.
Frances twisted in his arms. Kristan fell to his knees; she embraced him against her bosom. Nothing was said as he sobbed, overwhelmed by grief. It was useless to even try to contain it, the emotions poured forth like a river breaking its dam. Frances held fast, her arms tightly woven around his shoulders, her fingers caressing his hair until he regained a measure of control.
He couldn't meet her eyes, too ashamed of himself to face her. But Frances didn't seem to care; she stepped into the bathtub with a sigh, and tugged at his hand.
— "Come," she said.
And he followed, totally unable to form a consistent thought. The warm water engulfed him soothingly, coaxing him to relieve his burdens. Frances settled at the back, opening her legs to embrace him once more. Kristan sat before her and allowed her arms to enclose him.
Frances was a cushion of love and safety, his skin tingled wherever she touched him. The water's soothing warmth relieved the aches of their battered bodies. Frances' breath fanned out on the side of his face, her lips regularly bestowing light kisses as her hands gently massaged his scalp. With a groan, Kristan surrendered control, his head falling backwards to rest on her shoulder, relishing in her soft ministrations. He needed her presence like the air he breathed; she centred him as his mind processed the trauma he'd just been through.
Nothing could ever quell the sick feeling of his stomach as he remembered those he had killed. The sight of the gruesome wounds he'd inflicted, the surprised and pained look on their faces, the light fading from their eyes. That wet, horrible sound his blade made when it buried in soft flesh, the cracking of bones… Kristan had dealt death today, and had trouble accepting it. Fortunately, he'd been channelling his anger and Tristan had burst forth, saving both of their lives on the battlefield.
It would take but a few stitches and a few days to be as good as new. Well, aside from that sprain on his wrist, and that gash on her hip. But it was war, and many, many men had died today. Their skill and coordination had saved them once more. And Frances' magical blade finished the job.
Yet, the miracle of their survival left a gaping hole in his conscience. How one could face a mirror and not see a monster? How could a soul recover from being an angel of death? For he'd performed a true massacre. Swift, and unemotional. Efficient and brutal. Survival instinct or worry for the woman beside him? A killer's moves… What bothered him was his skill, his ease at ending lives, the anger that had allowed him to destroy without looking back. Tristan's core was dark and twisted, yet it still lingered somewhere deep within.
When at last, Kristan spoke, his voice was rough.
— "When did you kill for the first time?"
— "Ancient Roma. I was eighteen."
Silence. Eighteen. Here, today, at thirty-five, he was struggling with the notion. His grip tightened on Frances' thighs, conveying the horror he felt.
— "I wasn't alone. Maximus helped me through it. Killed or be killed. I promised myself, on that day, that I wouldn't ever kill if not in battle. That I wouldn't play God, even if I had the power to do so. They dyed my hair red that day, I kept it as a symbol. The blood I have shed."
— "I wish I could have been there, with you."
Frances smiled, caressing his face reverently before kissing his stubbly cheek.
— "I am happy you were not. You would have been dead in a heartbeat, I only survived because I was a woman."
— "Still…"
She shushed him gently, her hand diving to the taunt muscles of his belly. A gentle caress to ground him into reality.
— "I have to admit, you would have looked great on my arm in high school."
Kristan actually chuckled before his sombre mood returned.
— "I'm so sorry I took so long for me to find you. I can't help but think I should have been there sooner."
— "You are with me now."
He grabbed her hand and kissed her wet palm. France sighed; she was so sore.
— "Things are how they should be. And I guess I wouldn't have learnt so much if I had been relying on you."
Kristan nodded, lost in the recesses of his mind. Guilt, anger, sadness, regrets, but also joy and wonder that this magnificent woman would be now enveloping him with the warmth of her unconditional love.
— "Can you really love a killer?"
— "I think I would love you even if you were Hannibal Lecter. I fell in love with Tristan, you know."
That thought made him pause; she dove in the breach as if her life depended on it.
— "I've killed more men than you have, Kristan. Do you love me less for it?"
Her delicate fingers caressed his cheek gently, waiting for him to process her words. Pointing at the symmetry of their situation allowed him to see things differently. And that new light showed him how ridiculous his fears were. Kristan deflated in the bathtub; he allowed his battered body to sag entirely against her warm curves.
— "Right, as Daniel would say, bad example."
Frances' hand stilled on his temple, surprised that he would use her friend's expression.
— "You know him well given the little time you've shared."
— "I am very observant," he retorted.
Her felt her nod, and for a while, nothing mattered but her hands roaming his body gently. It was a miracle, really, that none of them had been hurt. For a moment, before Arthur's charge had arrived, death had seemed inevitable. Yet he went on, slashing, parrying, pouring all of his might in the fight to keep them from having Frances. And his little fairy had danced by his side, graceful and deadly, unattainable.
Then Aydin had come, trampling corpses and Saxons alike, and the fight had turned entirely mystical. A reenactment of Badon Hill except that Frances' had led the show rather than himself. The outcome was so different; he felt like they had, at least, healed the scar of Badon Hill. Triumphed of it, this time. Survived, together.
So there they were, sporting a few good bruises, a sprained wrist and perhaps one fractured rib. Nothing life threatening, soaking in warm water, celebrating their new life together.
Frances shifted below him, and he sat up.
— "Are you up for meeting with Bors and Dagonet?" she asked.
Febrile anticipation flooded his veins; how he had missed the gentle giant and his boisterous brother. All of them. He had missed them his whole life.
— "Yes."
So, that was quite a substantial chapter to make up for the wait. I hope you enjoyed ! Gawain has always been the most acceptant of the group; he doesn't ask questions and goes with the flow. get ready to see how the others are going to react.