Title: Catharsis
Author: dealiberty
Pairing: Gawain/Galahad, Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: For eudaimon, for being you.
A/N: This fic is complete. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both eudaimon and trinityc for the endless support you've given me.

"Gawain."

It's Arthur and Gawain looks up from sharpening Galahad's sword to see his commander with, predictably, Lancelot by his side, striding towards him with purpose, face grim.

"Arthur. What do you need?" Gawain stands, placing the sword in its sheath. It has to be important; Lancelot isn't making jokes about Gawain playing housewife.

"We have a slight problem." It's got to be something bad since Gawain can actually see Arthur drawing comfort and strength from Lancelot's presence, and there's that slight edge of visible concern in Lancelot's stance.

"What is it Arthur? What do you need?" He repeats, trying not to panic, not to fear.

But he cannot help it.

Arthur seems to have trouble finding his voice and, no matter how much worry Lancelot radiates, it doesn't seem to be enough.

And the hairs on Gawain's neck stand up as Arthur's façade cracks.

"I hate to ask, Gawain. I just...." Arthur chokes back a sob and Lancelot's hand is on his shoulder.

It was at times like this that Gawain remembered: Arthur was a man, first and foremost, and then a commander.

And Gawain knows that Arthur is about to ask him to do something akin to suicidal.

Gawain's hand is on Arthur's other shoulder before he's even registered moving, silently offering to do anything he's asked. One reason is that any of them, given the need, would walk in hell for Arthur. The other is because someone has to.

And if he doesn't, he knows who Arthur will go to next.

When Arthur does not continue, Gawain prompts him, repeating his question, this time in the form of an offer.

"What do you need, Arthur?"

Arthur's shadowed eyes meet his own.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. You know that, if I didn't need to, I wouldn't ask this of you - of any of you.

Arthur never speaks the words, but Gawain sees them in his gaze - the gaze that he sees whenever Arthur asks them to go on a mission - and, just as silently, he nods.

Lancelot's eyes are soft as they look at him, and Gawain knows that he's really not going to like what he hears.

"East," Arthur barely whispers.

East.

Gawain's eyes widen in comprehension, and he's already whirling around, gathering his weapons and reaching for his armour.

East.

It was rumoured that there was a great historical site there, a place still imbued with the magic of the ancient people of Britain, with runes and treasures beyond anything they could ever imagine.

They had been told it had been found.

East.

The direction Arthur had sent a group of scholars, accompanied only by Dinidan and Kay. In light armour.

They had been told it was safe.

They had been betrayed.

In the time that it takes Lancelot to piece Arthur back together, Gawain has already done everything he needs to do. His heart is pounding, blood pulsing through his veins at speeds it hasn't since his first battle. His hands are shaking and nausea is threatening to overwhelm him.

Better him than Galahad.

He doesn't want to do this - who wants to ride out to almost certain death? - but better him out there than Galahad.

He hears two sets of footsteps behind him and he numbs the anxiety as best as he can before turning around to face them.

"Warn them, Gawain. Do what you can. I have already sent Percival with word to Bors, Dagonet and the others." Arthur's head drops to Lancelot's shoulder, momentarily hiding his eyes, but soon forces it back up again, making himself meet Gawain's blank gaze. "I made a mistake, Gawain. I sent Tristan the wrong way."

Gawain closes his eyes at the mention of the name and resolutely pushes any thoughts to the back of his mind.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Arthur. You just risk more when you do. Don't put the guilt on yourself." Gawain mounts his horse, settling himself into the saddle, checking to make sure everything's in order.

He glances back at Lancelot and Arthur, still looking at him with regret, with sympathy, with sorrow. He wants to grin, smile, laugh, anything to ease that look - the look of people at a funeral - but he can't. He knows as well as they do that he could die - that he's quite likely to die.

But he will not lose hope until it's all over.

"I have to ask for a favour," and they're nodding, so he continues, "unless I die, don't tell Galahad."

"Don't tell me what?" Galahad's just walking into the stable as he prepares to leave, eyes widening as he spots Gawain on his mount.

Too late.

"Gawain?"

"And if I die," Gawain murmurs as he urges his horse into a trot, "take good care of him."

And Gawain rides past Galahad, who's standing there, looking so lost. Just like earlier. So much like earlier that Gawain's heart clenches and he slows enough to get a few words in.

Lancelot and Arthur be damned. He may not survive for the teasing.

Those impossibly large green eyes look up at him pleadingly.

Don't leave me. Don't go. Please don't die.

"I love you, Galahad. I'm sorry."

Sorry for leaving without you.

Sorry for leaving you behind.

Sorry for taking away your choice to come with me.

Because I know you would.

And I cannot let you.

And Gawain is riding away, leaving Galahad standing, looking disoriented and abandoned, with the traces of tears in his eyes, at the entrance to the stable.

And Arthur and Lancelot to explain.

Galahad doesn't turn away until Gawain's a tiny dot in the distance, blending in with the trees, the sky, the horizon - until Gawain has disappeared completely.

Each stride of Gawain's impressive stallion tears at Galahad's heart.

No, Galahad corrects himself, each stride takes his heart further and further away from him.

The tightness in his chest increases and fear surges up as he remembers Gawain's last request to the two men behind him.

"And if I die, take good care of him."

Slowly, Galahad turns to face his commander, still leaning on Lancelot for support, eyes still watching the distance.

Lancelot, however, is watching Galahad.

"Tell me," Galahad whispers, voice almost breaking. "Please, tell me."

Arthur's eyes are filled with pain, with regret, as the lock with Galahad's.

"He's gone east," he says simply. Dead. Maybe even a little disbelieving. "East."

"I don't understand." There's a pleading note in Galahad's voice that tells the others that Galahad did, in fact, understand. But he didn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. "What does that mean?"

Arthur closes his eyes to the begging he can hear in Galahad's voice.

"I'm sorry, Galahad. I'm so, so sorry."

It hits him like cold water; a freezing blanket that's thrown over him, soaking him to the bone.

Gawain has gone east.

Gawain has gone east alone.

Galahad doesn't realise that he's dropped to his knees. He doesn't feel Lancelot and Arthur rushing to his side. He doesn't know that there are tears streaming, unchecked, from his eyes.

All he knows is that Gawain is gone.

And no one knows when he'll be back - if he'll be back.

He wants to throw a tantrum, to scream and cry and shout until his voice is hoarse. He wants to be angry, at Fate, at Arthur, at Lancelot - at Gawain. He wants to act like the little petulant child everyone says he is.

He wants to feel anything apart from this numbing, crippling fear.

He wants Gawain.

And all Arthur and Lancelot can do is watch Galahad break.