Title: Catharsis
Author: dealiberty
Pairing: Gawain/Galahad, Gawain/Tristan
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. I guess I have to warn for angst fest ahead (yes...even more than before)...but we're getting there. Thanks to all those who have been reading and commenting; your words have meant the world and more.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat, trying to rein in his emotions, steady his thoughts. He's tired enough, after that month long mission Arthur sent him on, after the beating he had taken from Gawain, he didn't need confusion to cloud his mind even further.

He knows he's lacking his usual poise, his usual awareness and concentration. He needs to get into his battle frame of mind. Find that calm and clutch on to it. He needs to focus. Or he will die.

He tries to take the time they have, the time they are gathering and preparing, to work through his feelings, sending each that he encounters to the back of his mind, to be examined later - if he survived the battle.

Arousal. No doubt. He's wanted that, wanted Gawain, for a long time. And finally having Gawain - not now - he mustn't think about it now.

Confusion. That's easy. He'd wanted Gawain to think of him. When he'd left Gawain standing there that day - has it only been five weeks? - he'd known that Gawain would think of him. But he hadn't known that Gawain would want him - would kiss him - not after he'd hurt Galahad. But Gawain had done, and he was left confused and slightly thrown.

Guilt. Yes, he wants Gawain. He's always wanted Gawain, because he's always cared. But he can see that it's hurting Gawain; it's tearing him apart. And it's hurting Galahad. And he cares about that too. Galahad loves Gawain - a deaf, blind and stupid man could see that - and Tristan had known that, ever since the first time he'd slid the knife across Galahad's back in the name of testing. He had been slightly drunk, they both had, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. And then, after that, things got very complicated - there wasn't time to think through how it all happened, through the complexities of what ahd happened, but he cares and he wants them to be happy. And so he feels guilty. For hurting them.

Uneasiness. Something isn't quite right about this attack. The Woads, they haven't come from the North. Because he had been there. He had just come back. And there were definitely no Woads. But it's not that, because this kind of attack has happened before, giving Merlin his rumoured sorcery.

Uneasiness. Because he has a feeling that something is going to go wrong. He just doesn't know what.

He checks the last buckle and turns around to pick up his sword - to find Gawain holding it out to him.

"Tristan…" One look into Gawain's eyes and Tristan sees the conflict in them; they have no reached a resolution. Gawain should not be here. Not with him.

"Go back to him, Gawain. He needs you." He reaches out, takes his sword and straps it on tight.

Gawain takes one step closer. "You promised me a later."

"Yes," he replies, glancing up, eyes soft. "Later. Not now. Later."

"Tristan, don't die." Gawain's voice is tight with worry and stress, and there's a light plea that is obvious to him.

"I'll try," he murmurs, smiling a little, looking down, hiding his eyes.

Gawain reaches up and touches his hair, letting his fingers trail down to caress Tristan's cheek lightly. "We'll sort this out." There's an even more desperate plea, begging Tristan for understanding. Gawain needs Galahad, but he wants him there too. And Tristan understands.

"Yes, later."

Gawain's thumb strokes Tristan's cheek once more before his shadow disappears, heading back towards Galahad.

Tristan closes his eyes, and lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. They're riding into battle with everything still so unresolved. His confusion fights to surface but he wrestles it back down.

Not now.

If there's nothing else that he knows, Tristan clings onto one thought: Gawain needs Galahad, and Tristan…Tristan thinks he might need them both.

His closes his eyes, letting Gawain's words sink in, taking comfort in Gawain's gestures, trying to convince himself, his breaking heart, that Gawain still loves him. Gawain still wants him around.

"Don't die, Galahad. Please. Don't die."

He is afraid. He's so confused, so hurt, so unfocused. All he can think of is Gawain and Tristan. Not the battle. He's upset, worked up - he's anything but ready for a battle.

He is afraid. Of being alone. Of fighting. Of death.

He tries to grasp at the frayed edges of his self-control, tying them together in a knot that he knows will come undone sooner rather than later.

He will have time to muse on it all - on Gawain and Tristan, on living and on dying - later. After the battle. The most important thing is to live. To survive through it.

His opens his eyes, taking calming breaths, locking away everything that will hinder his survival.

And almost comes undone.

Gawain's talking to Tristan. Gawain's whispering soft words that Galahad cannot make out. Gawain is touching Tristan with soft touches, light caresses and mellow eyes.

Tristan. Not him.

Galahad looks away, haphazardly trying to pull together the ragged edges of his world.

The echoes of footsteps stop next to him - echoes of his world snapping a little awkwardly back into place. If only for a while.

"Galahad." It's whispered and he turns towards it, acknowledging Gawain's presence. Gawain's standing there, strained, perplexed and so unsure.

"Yes." It's the answer to so many things unvoiced but heard anyway: a promise of trying to survive, of wanting to sort it all out afterwards, a confirmation of trust - and of love.

"Good." Gawain brings his hand up to cup Galahad's cheek, in a similar manner that he was doing with Tristan moments earlier, caressing it. "Because I don't want to lose you." And softly, Gawain kisses his lips, then his forehead. "I don't want to lose you," he repeats, eyes locked with Galahad's own.

"I never want to lose you."

They stay like that - eyes locked, Gawain's hand on his cheek, unmoving, trying say all the things yet unsaid with their gaze alone - until Arthur's call forces them apart - to take up arms.

The first time Galahad notices that something is wrong is when he sees Tristan's arrow missing a mark, hitting an arm rather than the throat, Tristan's preferred target. He knows that something is wrong because Tristan never misses. Tristan kills, Tristan doesn't injure.

And then he notices the slightly different stance - not centred, feet too wide apart - the slightly different grip - tighter than normal, at a different angle - and the different pace - slower, less steady.

And Galahad knows that something is very wrong.

Five weeks.

The words flash through his mind. Five weeks. Tristan has not rested in five weeks. Tristan has not stopped, not slept properly, not eaten properly. And, if his own emotions are anything to go by, Tristan is confused. And Tristan's style - his strength - is his focus, his awareness, his control. And Tristan is not in control.

Almost unconsciously, he moves, fighting his way, towards Tristan, moves closer to the scout. Just in case. Just in case things go wrong.

He slashes at a Woad, running at him waving an axe, to his right, ducks a blow from the left before slicing the man's throat. Then he turns to pinpoint Tristan.

Still standing.

A blow from the back forces him to duck again, turning just in time to parry a blow aimed at his head. One turn and he severs the Woad's head and already meeting another one head on, stabbing straight through his heart.

His brain has switched to his battle sense, mind disconnecting. He won't survive the battle otherwise; he thinks too much, regrets killing too much, hates this too much. But he does what he needs to survive.

He's working from instinct and that alone as he swims through what seems to be an endless ocean of blood, from his own blade, from others'.

Another turn, cut and parry, and his eyes are searching for Tristan again.

Still standing.

Another foolish warrior, dead before his time, Galahad's knife to the side of his neck; he manages to pull it out just in time to push it into another gut; another dead, another gone. One more of death's attempts at his life defied.

Parry, slash, blood - his own this time, his right leg. Just a scratch. Spin, hack, thrust. Turn, eyes finding Tristan.

Still standing.

Turn, slash, parry, pierce.

Freeze.

An archer. His arrow trained on Tristan.

In slow motion, Galahad sees the archer let the arrow fly. And then Tristan turns, unaware of the danger, and Galahad is sure that the arrow has been perfectly aimed - straight at Tristan's heart.

He has no doubts: if the arrow hits, Tristan will die.

Without him knowing, his feet move.

"Do you love him? How much? How much do you love him?...I care because I love him too. Prove to me, Galahad. Prove to me that you love him."

One more step sideways - towards Tristan.

"You absolute fool! What are you doing still here? Why has no one gone after him? Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself? Self-pity will not save Gawain's life. Have you so little faith in him? Do you think he will die so easily?"

One more step sideways - in front of Tristan.

"Watch him for a while. I'll come back later to change the bandages…Gawain's not going to be happy when he wakes up and you look like you're half dead; Gawain, certainly, won't be pleased."

One more step sideways - into the path of the arrow meant for Tristan's life.