Hey, in this difficult period of pandemia, I wish people could keep hope. This chapter is all for it! Listen to the song, let the singer's voice penetrate your soul.

For those who'd never seen the movie "Joyeux Noël" about the truce between French/British and Germans on Christmas 1914, I highly recommend it. It is beautiful, and full of hope. As it is, this Ave Maria is very different from the Schubert version, and quite brilliant. Let us consider that Frances is singing it, albeit at a lower tone because she's not a professional soprano. Still, I'd be a beautiful song, one fitting when you have a soprano voice

Have you ever felt like you found enlightment? I have, it was … difficult to describe.

Her voice was calling, high notes dancing in the eerie forest, crystalline tunes that made the very ground vibrate in glee. Galahad knelt, as if in a trance, guided by the strangeness of this Ave Maria he'd only heard Arthur mumble before. Never in his life had he imagined that a prayer could be sung that way. He knew shaman sung to their Sarmatian Gods, albeit he didn't remember much of it. As a child, the dances had usually caught his attention much more than the muttered words, especially the dance of the spirits. All over the world, Roman or pagan, traditional songs existed, all very different, all attuned to their culture.

But this one, this sorrowful plea that went straight to the heavens, the strength of her voice, all alone, like a complaining fiddle … this he had never heard. He might have expected it from Celtic priestess; their vocal prowess were renowned, yet hidden from the world of common men.

It wasn't the voice by itself, although its crystalline undertones were beautiful, but the purpose it held. As if none could escape its presence, as if it permeated the air itself. And it touched his heart so strongly that it felt disrespectful to stand. Her first words trembled in the eeriness of the forest, the note very high, barely in range compared to what he was used to. He understood now what she meant when she said it was a difficult piece, why she had asked for a hot tea beforehand. This simply transcended human condition.

And when she closed her eyes, her confidence grew, and her voice strengthened until it filled the forest, upturning roots and trees in her wake. No one could stay indifferent as it echoed, solitary, barely grounded for it seemed to rain for the heavens itself.

Beside him, Arthur had joined his hands in prayer.

Maria, gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu

Frances marked a pause to catch her breath and look upon them, shyness overtaking her flushed features and Galahad smiled encouragingly. He wanted more, needed more. He wanted to see where this song led Christians, if the path appearing before his very eyes was as bright as he imagined it. Faith. Was it the reward of undertaking this journey?

And she picked up again, closing her eyes anew to plunge into the bubble she had created over the clearing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galahad noticed Tristan, stalking in between trees like a shadow. His steps faltered; the scout enthralled by the ethereal quality of her voice. The young knight smiled; the unmovable knight had a heart after all. And Galahad was happy to share this moment with all of his fellow brothers, despite the misgivings and disagreements of the past.

Never before had he heard such a melody. There was magic inside, an energy that provided warmth to his body, and brightness in his heart. Even the forest, sleeping under its blanket of ice and snow, seemed to fidget under its ministrations. And the notes swirled inside of him, causing his chest to swell with hope and his mind to brighten. A wave of warmth washed over him in the icy evening, as if light from the heavens themselves had engulfed him in a loving hug. So overwhelming, so powerful that he had to stifle a sob.

"In mulieribus

Et benedictus

Fructus ventris tui

Jesus"

Throat clenched, eyes misting, Galahad could only surrender to the pull. Tristan called her a little fairy; he didn't know why and had no hopes of making the scout talk. Mayhap he was right, for the song made him body hum in surrender. It was so magic, so powerful; a mix of joy and sorrow. All of it written by the Christians and sung by a spirit from the ancient world. The bridge to link old and new beliefs, with acceptance, devoid of hatred and judgement. There, and then, Galahad was starting to understand Arthur's destiny, seeing, for the first time, the brightness of his religion.

The young knight closed his eyes, following her call, oblivious to anything but her voice.

"Sancta Maria,

Sancta Maria

ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

nunc et in hora mortis nostrae"

He could hear the strain, the difficulty of certain moments as she struggled to keep the note, the sound vibrating as more sorrow tinted her heart. How could a simple song convey so much sadness? What she exuded; raw power from within, a gift to the people present, he would never forget. How could he, when the strength of her plea pierced him through and through? The memory of lost brothers, the smile of Percival, Kay's antics and many others. All of them lost, and revived in his mind through that voice, that link to the spirit word than carried from heaven to hell.

Galahad never though a Christian prayer could move him so much; his heart welcomed the respite of the last words. Joy. Solace. Redemption.

"Amen. Amen

Amen"

There she sang low, soothingly, like a mother tugging a blanket over a sick child. And for a moment, he thought she'd finish on this tone, her voice tumbling like the water of a river, carrying them all to the ocean, wrapped in her embrace. But then, she rose to the octave, and he swore he'd never heard anything more beautiful than the crystalline notes as she ended the song.

"Amen"

Tears trailed down his cheeks without shame; there was nothing he could do to prevent his emotions from pouring out. He wasn't the only one. And when he lifted his gaze to the scout lurking amongst the trees, he caught the swift gesture, a discreet wiping off his cheekbone. Sheltered by his mane and hidden in his beard, a few stray tears passed unnoticed. The scout glared at his fingers, offended. Galahad smiled, marvelling that, after fifteen years of shared service and anger, it took a woman's voice to unveil Tristan's heart. Perhaps he should have tried to catch his gaze when Vanora sung of home … he might have caught the flicker of nostalgia then.

A stunned silence met Tristan's entrance, Frances standing in the middle of a clearing, her head bowed. Arthur's eyes were shining with something akin to hope, as if he'd seen the virgin Mary himself. Frozen to the spot, Frances lifted her head, confused by the heavy silence. Her eyes met the scout, and for once, he was the one who turned away. Galahad frowned when the young woman left silently, her expression unsettled by Tristan's reaction. In her wake knelt a swarm of people akin to refugees having found water after forty days in the desert.

This evening, Galahad didn't go after Frances as was his usual wont; he needed time to reflect on the new feeling blooming in his chest. There was light, bitterness receding in its wake. The burden upon his shoulders, gained from servitude, was lessening. Freedom was at hand; what would he do with it?

Somehow, the beauty of this song had cleared a concept for him; faith. And so Galahad wandered in the woods, relishing in the near silence as huddled conversations became scare and crackling fires dwindled. The soft breeze brought a few snowflakes, some dusting his eyelids playfully. Shaking them off his cloak, Galahad could only contemplate their perfection as his mind lingered in paths he had never dared wandering before. Nature has its own way of surviving, creating the most perfect plants and landscapes with such a hostile environment. Everything had its place, every plant, every root, every tree. Was it what Tristan was seeing when his eyes lingered in the woods when he disappeared for days in the wildness to scout? The slow ballet of the wilderness?

Sighing, Galahad tried to interrogate his own heart. Tomorrow, if luck was on their side, they would reach the wall and get their discharge papers. In two days, at most. Would he go back to Sarmatia to start a new life? He was, after all, only twenty-four. Which meant just old enough to find a lovely wife and marry. But that was Gawain's dream, right? Suddenly, Galahad realised that lingering in Gawain's shadow, under this makeshift big brother's protection, was entirely too convenient. Beside being the pup of the company, what was his place in the world? His aspirations, until now, were to survive another day. What would tomorrow bring? What would Galahad do, would he be remembered or forgotten entirely? Buried under the grass in the confines of Sarmatia, a father and grandfather, loved by his family?

Who was he?

More than a pup, more than a knight. Galahad has his own moral code; the reason for his numerous fights with Tristan who embraced death as a gift while he refused to deal unnecessary pain. Galahad took pride in protecting, no matter the circumstances. This feeling of completude, so out of place, came from within. And once he realised that he possessed the skill and mind to live rather than survive, Galahad realised his own worth. Faith. Faith in himself, and faith that the Gods, whomever they were, would set him on the right path to become a greater man.

His inner musings were interrupted by the appearance of a silent shadow. The knight froze, eyeing the silhouette, clad in a cloak, whose steps didn't disturb the ground. As if she owned the forest… Recognition sprang into his mind and Galahad tensed. It was the Woad woman. The Roman dress had him confused for a while, but her stealthy demeanour and gait wouldn't fool anyone; she walked like a man. And she was currently heading out of camp, deeper into the forest.

Galahad gripped his bow, rooted to the spot. Tristan was still scouting somewhere and he wondered if he should get Arthur or sound the alarm. His brothers were sleeping already; a well-deserved rest after the hardships of the day. It would be stupid to awaken them on a whim. The answer came by itself before he could come to any decision, for behind the Woad woman trailed Arthur himself. Half-dazed, as if under a spell, the tall man followed the path the lithe woman treaded but a moment before. Dark eyebrows scrunched in confusion, Galahad decided to follow, albeit at a distance.

As he delved deeper into the forest, the knight couldn't ignore the heavy silence that settled around him. A strange power was at work here, eeriness permeating the place at a silvery light enveloped him, carried by wisps of fog. It wasn't hostile, almost welcoming, like a caress upon his skin. Galahad almost snorted; he wouldn't be ensnared by such lures. Obviously, the little woad had much to hide. And if Tristan wasn't here to perform his usual duties, then he would watch over Arthur himself. After all, he was the second-best shot of the brotherhood.

Nesting an arrow between his fingers, he slowly approached the ridge where the woman and Arthur were now facing each other. Their voices barely reached him from his vantage point, still he could hear the muffled conversation. The shuffle of leaves uphill called his attention, and he barely refrained a gasp when a tall, white figure stepped out of the fog. Merlin! The Woad leader whom he had only caught glimpses of in the past fifteen years. The mist seemed to create a path for him to descent the ridge, his steps slow until he reached the Woad's side. Arthur's sword slid out of his sheath with a metallic sound that froze Galahad's insides; its familiarity conveying depths of promises. It meant business and war. Wrath and blood. Many, many times, this sound had rung into their ears just before fellow brothers fell dead amongst their ranks. A herald of doom.

For a dreadful moment, Galahad thought that he would be too late to save his commander as Merlin's hand lifted. Pulling his bow taut, he almost released the arrow that would take the Woad's life. Shaking, the young knight felt a drop of sweat running along his temple as he maintained his stance. What stilled his hand in this very moment? Galahad never really knew; only that he acted in a show of faith. Tristan would have laughed, probably, at the softness of his heart that led him to take such a risk. What if Arthur had been killed by his inaction? What kind of warrior took chances with their commander's life? Their freedom? Yet…

His hesitation would have consequences for Britain as a whole. Not that he knew it. At the very moment, Galahad huffed, the tension of his shoulders becoming difficult to withstand. Only years of practice could create muscles strong enough to keep the pose without releasing the arrow or shifting in stance. No matter what the others said, calling him a pup, Galahad was stronger than a whelp and mightily skilled with a bow.

Cries arose, Arthur seeming in distress, but the Woads making no move to attack him. Many shouts and insults were uttered, some that he could understand even from the distance. Eyebrows lifting in surprise, Galahad understood, partly, that this whole scene was very personal. He felt bad, the unwilling witness of a family affair where Arthur's expressed his grief. A little boy rather than his commander. Still … they had been to hell together. Even if they looked up to him and respected him, the knights, better than anyone, knew that he remained human.

The voices hushed now, and Galahad took a chance. His grip faltered on his bow, the string uncoiled as he lowered his weapon. The conversation didn't last for hours; long enough, though, for cold to settle and latch unto his shoulders. Exhaustion and stress exhorted him to sleep, but Galahad wouldn't leave his post until Arthur was safely settled into camp. And so he stayed until the cloaked figure left, and his commander turned away to follow her downhill. And before his steps brought him to his beloved bedroll, Galahad was surprised to find himself entrapped by Merlin's gaze.

The Woads' leader was watching him from afar, a strange feat since he was concealed by the shadows of a great tree. Yet, the white-haired man addressed him a nod before disappearing in the newly formed fog that covered his retreat. With a shudder, the young knight exhaled.

Returning to Gawain's side didn't take as long as expected; the meandering path Guinevere had taken so slowly was covered in less time than it took to sneeze. Somewhere over them, clouds veiled the moon but not enough to make it dark. Galahad walked bristly in direction of the campfire he knew to be theirs, bow in hand. He may have been the youngest, but Galahad was far from being stupid; he always kept awareness of his surroundings. One of the reasons he was still alive after all.

Gawain and Lancelot were already sleeping despite Bors' snoring. The noise should have kept them awake but several days riding in the cold were exhausting enough to knock them out efficiently. And the rumble of Bors' snores kept them alert, like a bland noise in the background that always reminded his conscience that they were out in the open.

Galahad picked up his bedroll, patting his horse as he retrieved his pack. The faint rustle of leaves reached his ears and the knight whirled around to see Gawain changing position in his sleep. Galahad's lips quirked as he settled his bedroll, then his gaze caught a shadow in the distance. The Sarmatian bow betrayed its owner, but it didn't take this detail for Galahad to know that their scout had returned. Deep greyish eyes turned to his, as if Tristan knew he'd been observing him.

Galahad nodded his greetings; they were returned just barely as Tristan took in his surroundings, his mouth set in a grim line. Whatever his findings, they were nor dire nor encouraging. What tomorrow would bring, nobody knew. Better to rest now and deal with it later. Spreading his bedroll, Galahad settled in, shivering at the coldness of the blanket. Then, right before his eyes closed, they followed the shadow prowling on the grounds. In the veiled moonlight, Tristan looked like he belonged to the land rather than a human being. He, too, could have been a spirit of the forest; he didn't disturb the ground nor the silence as he looked for a place to settle.

Then something peculiar happened. The lines of his face, painted in shadows and silver, seemed so soften. His tongue darted upon his teeth, an indication that the scout was, indeed, hesitating. After a moment when time stood still, Tristan settled on the ground, his back propped against a welcoming tree, and cast his cloak around him. Galahad wasn't surprised that his brother would sleep in a sitting position; it made fighting back easier if need be, and the scout was never taken off guard. Still, there was a tenderness in his gestures as he arranged the cloak around him, a softness to his features that he'd never seen before.

Weird.

Tristan's smooth voice rose in the silence, barely a whisper, but it carried across the clearing.

— "Sleep"

And Galahad obeyed.