AN You rang? Sorry for the delay, I honestly have the whole of it written up, it's just a matter of editing and the like. Finals makes me forget things. Anyway, enjoy!
They broke for camp in late evening, an hour after they'd normally stop. They did not even speak of quitting the trail until the bloodshed lay miles behind him. Even Arthur, with his one Christian god, sped from place of the ambush as if the dead pursued. But, as their lives of combat had taught them, they respect for the fallen, be they friend or foe, and celebrating their demise only a mile from their grave seemed offensive.
The worry that another ambush would come barely touched the men's minds. Their attackers had been boys, the motley gang consisting of no more than fifteen youths. At least eight of had fallen, and the men very much doubted a repeat of the boys' suicide attempt.
Arthur had been frowning when the others came out of the woods, evidently embroiled in another fight with his right hand man. Whatever relation bound the two knights together, it had a way of turning from flaming hot to bitter cold with a single, misplaced word. Such a moment did the knights find as they returned to the trail.
"What were we supposed to do Artorius?" Lancelot had demanded, glaring up into the older man's face. Galahad had flinched at the question, knowing that Lancelot very rarely called Arthur by his Roman name. His anger was strong. "Let them attack? They damn near killed Galah-"
"Enough" Arthur had said, his voice free of inflection or emotion, but ringing through the countryside none the less for it, "They were children, Lancelot. Boys…It should never have happened"
"You fight the savages beyond the wall without blinking, all for the bloody Romans, but when it comes to fight solely to defend yourself you balk?" Lancelot had replied, nearly shaking with frustration. Arthur shook his head slightly, not to deny, but to convey how little the younger man understood. Disgusted, Lancelot turned on his heals and stalked away, wanting to be the first to show his back to the other.
The afternoon and evening had not bettered things. As always, Arthur rode in the center of the company, not looking or speaking to any of the men. Lancelot, sulking and angry, fell to the back of the group and served as rear guard with Dagonet.
Afternoon became evening, and evening had nearly passed to night as they drew upon a small meadow and Arthur gave the order to dismount. Gawain had barely woken all afternoon and Galahad's slight concern had deepened into worry.
"Is he supposed to be like this?" Galahad asked, frowning as he carefully took Gawain down from the saddle. The blonde knight woke enough to mutter a curse and weave his way towards the crackling fire before collapsing on the warm, damp earth.
Tristan observed the slumbering man with raised eyebrows, noting that he'd fallen face first into an anthill.
"No" he said simply, turning to face Galahad, "Usually it will only put one to bed for an hour. But seeing as our over zealous brother took the entire flask…" He trailed off as he watched a trail of drool leak onto the ant hill, "This makes perfect sense"
Galahad nodded, taking the man at his word, not seeing or not caring to see the amusement in his eyes. The others had set up a pot of stew that, if it was not a delight upon his tongue, succeeded in taking the edge off his hunger. Gawain tried to draw his sword when they attempted to wake him for supper, and so was left to sleep.
Bors and Lancelot poked and prodded Gawain throughout the small meal, trying to conjure up the vilest animal in the area that could be coerced to crawl beneath his collar. Arthur put an end to it with his first smile of the night, quietly suggesting that the men get their sleep. There was another long day of travel ahead of them
"But we're returning to the Fort" he said with a small, tight smile, "We'll be home in a few more days"
Lancelot snorted, looking up from the stick he was poking into Gawain's tangled hair, "I don't know of the others Arthur, but I'll not be home for many years yet"
Arthur only stared at the sharp young man a moment before closing his eyes and turning away. The lines were deep in his face as he retrieved his blankets. Something akin to pity flared in Galahad's chest. The ambush had bothered the commander more than it had any of the men.
Tired and aching, Galahad rose to retrieve his blankets. The wound on his temple was scabbed over and itched something horrible. It took all his willpower not to pick it. Tristan had looked at the cut earlier and stated that stitches were unnecessary. It would scar though. No matter, it's not as if it would be the first.
He returned to the fire with his and Gawain's saddle bags. It was too warm a night to sleep against one another, but Galahad felt a surging need to be near the unconscious man. He swallowed as he unfurled Gawain's blankets, letting it settle over the man's shoulders.
Twice in one day they'd nearly been lost. The terrible, panicking, hollow feeling in his chest as he saw Gawain pinned…he never wanted to feel it again. He once feared letting any of the men so close as their death would pain him. But he'd long since learned such a life was an empty existence indeed. To survive on this miserable island was to join in the forced camaraderie and pretend it was their own. Else he might as well be some brick in Hadrian's Wall.
Galahad settled next to Gawain and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. Turning his face to the hazy summer sky, he exhaled softly. To befriend the men he lived with was…necessary. It was safe. With death came pain, as always, and sometimes it cut to the yellow of his bones, but it passed. Slowly, but eventually.
But to… love one of his brothers. He swallowed. Not only was it strange, completely foreign to him, but…to love another and have them die before you in combat, did that pain fade? Would he ever after Gawain's death be able to look upon a summer day without thoughts of him? Would all luxuries be bitter with the thoughts of those he'd once shared them with?
But another, simpler, more carnal part of his mind whispered treacherous thoughts in his ear. Do you really think you could loose him now and it be any different? Galahad stared into the fire, completely dead to the raucous laughter spilling from the other warriors. To loose Gawain now would do nothing more than kill him. They anchored each other, and to loose that grounding would mean insanity, if not death.
His hand went to the rough blonde hair of the man beside him and idly picked out the twig crown Bors and Lancelot had inserted. There were too many questions flying about his mind, and the tiring events of the day were beginning to catch up on him. A heavy sigh escaped his lips and he quietly bedded down in the soft grass, thankful for the rare lack of stones and twigs.
He shut his eyes against the questions, leaving them for the clearer light of morning. Night's only embrace was in the form of sleep deserved, and he gladly took the luxury.
But as slumber settled over him, and thought began to travel of its own accord, no longer boarded by the wills of its master, a single acrid word stole into his mind, twitching his heart and stealing his breath.
Coward.
AN That's that then. The next chapter shall be the last. Any comments are welcome as always…