12/27/04
BROTHERS
Author's note: this story was inspired by the director's commentary on the DVD, where Antoine Fuqua, said that he thought Gawain might have had a younger brother who had died and that he thought of Galahad as a sort of replacement brother. I thought, there's a story there and this is my version of it. Also, if you're wondering why Arthur doesn't appear in this story, my theory is that during this time, he's in Rome being trained to be a good, little, Roman commander. I don't know if that's correct, but hey, it's my story and I'm sticking with it. ; )
Winter came early and hard. One of the worst winters in these parts in years, or so Sagremor had told Gawain. The boy believed the knight. It almost seemed colder than the winters he and his family had spent on the open steppes, with nothing but the tall, brown grass to block the wind and snow from clawing their way between every flap and seam in their tents...
Gawain forced his mind away from memories of his parents and his former life and back to the present. He and his younger brother had been taken from that life by the Roman soldiers nearly two years
ago. It had taken them almost an entire year to travel to their new home in Britain. They had been on the island for one year already, only fourteen more to go.
Gawain was twelve now. His brother, Gareth, was ten. But Gareth had not fared well on the journey west. He had developed a nasty cough that seemed to linger. He had seemed to be finally getting over this strange illness, when winter had so abruptly arrived. Now Gareth lay in his bed, weak and fevered. The weather had been so bad; they had been unable to send for the healer from the village. Gawain had been excused from his training so that he could care for his brother. He had overheard a couple of the older knights commenting that the younger boy would probably not survive the winter. Gawain refused to believe them. His brother would be fine. He had to be. Gawain had no one else.
The older knights trained the younger boys in the use of arms and helped them hone their natural riding skills. But they generally didn't have the time to make friends with the boys or listen to their complaints of homesickness. The knights had enough to worry about simply keeping themselves alive.
There were other boys at the garrison, of course, but most were also older than Gawain. There was a boy named Tristan, who was close to Gawain's age, but he was very quiet and intense and he made Gawain rather uncomfortable. There was also Lancelot, but he spent most of his time trying to charm the local girls. Gawain hadn't yet developed the self-confidence to attempt anything like that. So, he had always spent all of his time with Gareth.
The boy stood and went to the firepit in the center of the room, to toss a few small logs into the dying flames. As he returned to the bed, he glanced out the narrow, open casement window set high in the wall, at the snow swirling in the darkness beyond. Moving to his brother's side, he tucked the sleeping furs tighter around his thin body. Sitting down again on the chair beside the bed, Gawain lay his head down on the foot of the bed and closed his eyes.
He had intended to simply rest for a few minutes, but the sun was high in the sky and the snow had stopped when he was awakened by a gentle touch on his shoulder. Gawain sat up slowly, his back stiff from the cold and his unusual sleeping position. He looked up into the sad, dark eyes of Sagremor, who was kneeling beside his chair and watching him intently.
"Oh, I must have fallen asleep," Gawain said, rubbing his eyes and absently running a hand through his dark blond hair. "I didn't mean to. I was supposed to meet you for archery practice this morning, wasn't I?"
"Yes, but don't worry about it, Lad," the tall Sarmatian knight said, laying a large hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry?" Gawain repeated, momentarily confused. Then his heart seemed to freeze inside his chest. He turned to look at his brother's face. It was pale, far too pale, and his lips were slightly blue-ish. There was no breath or life left in him, only the unnatural stillness of death.
"He must have died during the night," Sagremor said gently. "I am truly sorry."
"Thank you, sir," the boy said numbly.
"We will lay him to rest in our little cemetery, with all the other fallen knights."
"Thank you, sir. He would have liked that."
"I'll go and tell the others. I'll leave you to your grief." The knight gave the boy's shoulder a brief, comforting squeeze before he stood and moved to the door. He paused for a moment on the threshold. "You know, Gawain, it's alright if you want to cry. No one will think the less of you for it."
But Gawain did not cry. He simply brushed a hand lightly over his brother's honey-colored curls and said his silent good-bye. Nor did he cry the next day when they buried Gareth in the knights' cemetery on the hill near the fortress. He did not cry when the older knights tried to offer him words of comfort or when the other boys went out of their way to make him feel more welcome in their groups. He would simply nod in acknowledgement of their gestures and would go about his business alone.
He was determined not to get hurt again. If he didn't allow himself to get close to any of the other boys, he would never be hurt if, or when, something happened to one of them. He had seen plenty of death already in the one year that he had been in Britain. He had seen knights ride out to patrol along the wall in the morning, only to be brought home dead that same evening. If he kept to himself and didn't become too friendly with anyone else, he just might be able to survive his term of servitude with his soul and his sanity intact.
Several months passed and Gawain continued to keep to himself. He continued to develop his combat skills, but made no effort to engender any type of relationship with any of the other boys. One morning, while the boys and the knights sat at the long, wooden tables in the garrison dining hall, eating their morning rations, several of the other boys came to sit at the table beside Gawain. Bors, a broad-shouldered, stocky, young knight, of about 20 winters, elbowed Gawain good-naturedly as he sat down.
"So, did you all hear the news?" he asked, looking around expectantly at all the assembled boys.
"What news is that?" Lancelot asked, his tone sounding slightly bored.
"The Romans are bringing in another batch of boys from Sarmatica."
This statement got everyone's attention. Silence fell over the table as all the boys stopped eating and looked up at the older man.
"Is this so?" Lancelot asked softly.
"Yep," Bors confirmed. "They should be arriving some time today. The scouts have already spotted them heading this way."
No one said anything. They were all remembering the times when it was them the Roman legionnaires had come to claim. They each remembered their own feelings of helplessness, anger and sorrow at being torn from their families and the only lives they had ever known. The journey from the lands of the Sarmatians to Britain was long and hard. The Roman soldiers who escorted the boys were rarely kind. It was no wonder that so few of the boys even survived the journey, let alone the terms of their servitude.
It was a few hours later, during their afternoon's sword practice that the new boys arrived. All activity in the training yard stopped as the small group rode through the gates of the fortress. There were three escorting soldiers and only seven boys... Seven, Gawain thought, how many had there been to start with?
Gods, but they all looked so small and young. Looking at their pale, frightened faces, he remembered his own feelings upon arriving at the fortress at ten years old. He remembered the fear and apprehension as he'd looked upon the hardened warriors who had stared back at him with cold, calculating eyes. He remembered that the only thing that had kept him from crying at that moment, was knowing that he had to be strong for his brother. His mind still dwelling on Gareth, Gawain's eyes fell on one particularly small boy and his heart skipped a beat. Although the hair was a darker color, the mop of tousled curls was just like Gareth's...
Gawain gave his head a slight shake, reminding himself that this was not Gareth, simply another small, frightened, young Sarmatian boy, who just happened to slightly resemble his brother. He resolutely told himself that this boy was not his responsibility or his problem.
The three soldiers quickly dismounted from their horses, tossing the reins to the nearest groom. Without a word to their former charges, they stalked off, most likely in search of the dining hall. The seven boys remained mounted, looking around uncomfortably. None of the knights or the other boys said anything or offered any assistance. This was a test of sorts. How these boys acted next would be crucial to how they would be received by their new fellows.
Finally, after several uncomfortable minutes, one of the boys, who appeared to be older than the others, nudged his horse forward slightly and addressed Sagremor, who was leading the exercises this afternoon. "Please sir," the boy said, in halting Latin. "Where can we water and shelter our horses?"
Sagremor's stern, dark-bearded face split into a wide grin; they had passed the test. They had shown themselves to be well-trained sons of the steppes. They had demonstrated an understanding of the first and foremost rule of any nomadic people who were dependent on their animals; always see to your horses' needs before you see to your own. After their long journey, these boys had to be thirsty and hungry but, unlike the Roman dogs, they had thought of the well-being of the animals that had carried them during that journey, first.
"Right this way, Lads," Sagremor said, gesturing for the boys to follow him.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Gawain fell in with the other boys as they too followed the knight to the stables. In the stables they found Bors and Dagonet cleaning out the stalls. The two young knights stopped what they were doing to watch the new arrivals. Sagremor pointed out the newly cleaned stalls where the boys could put their horses. Gawain and the others stepped back to watch the new boys. He had to stop himself from going to help the small, curly-haired boy dismount, but the child managed it well enough on his own, sliding nimbly down the side of the saddle.
Like all the children of nomadic peoples, the boys, young as they were, were already proficient at tending to the horses. They quickly and deftly stripped off the bridles and saddles and began rubbing the animals down, while grooms fetched water and feed. Still watching the curly-haired boy, Gawain wondered how the child was going to remove the saddle from his horse. It looked almost as big as he was. Obviously coming to the same conclusion, Bors stepped forward to give the boy a hand. The child immediately pushed the man's hands away from the saddle.
"I can do it myself! I don't need your help," he snapped angrily, his blue-gray eyes flashing icy fire.
Bors threw his hands up and stepped back. "Fine, whatever you say, Little Man," he said with a chuckle and moved to stand beside Dagonet and the other boys.
They watched, amused, as the child wrestled with the heavy saddle. At any other time, the boy might have been successful, but with the concentrated stares of the others upon him, making him self-conscious and clumsy, he lost his balance as the saddle slid from the horse's back and both he and it, went sprawling onto the rush-strewn ground. Bors and the other boys burst into laughter. Glancing over at them, Gawain saw that even the normally stoic Dagonet was struggling to keep from smiling.
Taking pity on the child, Gawain bent down and lifted the saddle off of him and laid it over the partition of the stall. The child quickly scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off and trying desperately to salvage his wounded pride. He glared daggers at the other boys, who continued to snicker quietly.
Seeing that their fun was over, Bors and the others gradually drifted off to find other entertainment. Gawain remained behind and helped the child rub the horse down. When they had finished, he offered to take the boy to the large room, where most of the boys slept communally, so that he could stow his few belongings.
Along the way, Gawain asked, "So, what is your name?"
"Galahad," the boy answered quietly.
"Well, I'm Gawain. How old are you, Galahad?"
"Eight."
Eight... Gods, had he ever been that small? Gawain asked himself. He honestly couldn't remember. As they walked through the corridors, they passed by the dining hall and saw one of the Roman legionnaires who had escorted the boys, lounging in the doorway, a jar of beer in one hand and a chunk of hard, yellow cheese in the other. As the two boys passed him, he and Galahad exchanged looks of pure loathing.
"I'd be careful of that little viper, if I were you," the Roman said, addressing Gawain. "He bites."
"You bit the centurion?" Gawain asked, after they were out of earshot of the soldier.
"Yes," Galahad answered defiantly, his eyes daring the older boy to disapprove.
"Why?"
"The bastard tried to put his hand down my britches, so I bit his arm."
"Didn't he beat you for it?"
"Of course," the boy said casually. "But he didn't try it again. I think his arm still bears my teeth marks." And with that statement, the child flashed a feral smile, bearing those sharp, white, little teeth.
In spite of himself, Gawain found that he was smiling. "Well done," he said softly.
Seeing that he wasn't going to be scolded, the boy's smile widened even further. Arriving at the large sleeping chamber, Gawain gestured to one corner, where several empty cots were clustered together.
"Those beds are all empty. You can sleep in any one of them," he said.
"Where do you sleep?" the boy asked.
Gawain pointed out his own narrow cot. Seeing that the bed beside it appeared to be unclaimed, Galahad pointed to it and asked, "Can I sleep there?"
It was Gareth's old bed. It had remained empty since his death. "Uh... well..." But before Gawain could fully voice his objection, Galahad had moved forward and deposited his small bundle of belongings onto the cot and began making himself at home. The older boy didn't have the heart to tell the child to move, although he firmly told himself that it had nothing to do with any feelings of friendship toward the younger boy. He would keep Galahad at arms' length, just like he did all the other boys.
Later that night, while the boys were supposed to be sleeping, Gawain lay awake, listening to the sounds of the other boys' breathing and light snores. In among these sounds, he heard the slight snuffles and muffled sobs of someone crying very quietly. The sound was coming from Gawain's left... Galahad.
The older boy told himself to ignore the sound. The child would cry himself to sleep soon enough, but the sniffles continued for several more minutes. With a sigh, Gawain rolled onto his side and called to the boy in a soft whisper.
"Galahad?"
There was a long pause as the boy evidently tried to compose himself. "Yes?" he whispered at last, his voice steady.
"It's a cold night. Why don't you come over here and we can both stay warmer."
He had half expected the proud, stubborn child to refuse the offer, but to his mild surprise, Galahad immediately slipped out of his cot and climbed into Gawain's. The beds were narrow, but both boys were thin and they just fit, side by side.
"Gawain?"
"Yes?" the older boy responded sleepily.
"I miss my family. I want to go home," Galahad said, in a small voice.
"I know. We will... someday, we will. Now, go to sleep. You start your training tomorrow."
The next morning dawned crisp and bright, a glorious beginning to a brilliant autumn day. Gawain sat on his horse in the open field beside the garrison fort, looking at the tree-lined hills surrounding them. The trees were breath-taking, decked out in their autumn colors and he had to admit that there was great beauty in this land, strange and foreign beauty, to be sure, but beauty all the same.
Today, all the boys would be working on their riding skills. While, as the children of nomads, they were all comfortable in the saddle, they needed to also be comfortable fighting from the saddle. They had to learn to control their horses using only their knees and their feet, leaving their hands free to use their weapons, particularly the short, deadly composite bows of their people, which they would eventually learn to use proficiently while maintaining a full gallop.
At the end of the practice, they were required to demonstrate what they had learned by moving their horses through a series of prescribed exercises, keeping their hands raised above their heads the entire time. Gawain had just completed his turn and had joined the older boys to watch as the new boys struggled with the unfamiliar new skills.
Galahad was the last of the boys to perform. His movements were slower than the older boys, but they were just as confident and sure, and he performed the exercise with much the same level of skill. Sagremor, who was supervising the practice, with the help of Bors and Dagonet, moved his own horse closer to clap the boy on the back.
"Well done, Boy!" the knight praised enthusiastically. "Very well done. Gentlemen, it seems that we have a natural horseman in our midst."
The boy blushed slightly and ducked his head at the unaccustomed praise. He moved his horse closer to Gawain, still flushed and excited with his success.
"Did you see me, Gawain?" he asked breathlessly. "I was almost as good as you."
"Yes, you did very well," the older boy said calmly.
"Now, mind you don't get a big head. It makes for an awfully tempting target in battle," Tristan advised darkly.
Stung by the older boy's words, Galahad said, "You're just jealous because I did better than you!"
The other boys all laughed. Tristan's skills were already the envy of the others. To their surprise, the older boy simply said, "Yes, you did well, but you're slow. You need to move faster if you want to survive in battle."
"I am fast," the younger boy insisted stubbornly. "I'm just not used to the exercises. I'll bet I could beat you in a flat race."
"Are you challenging me to a race?" Tristan asked quietly.
"Yes," Galahad responded defiantly, although Gawain thought he could see more than a little apprehension in the boy's dark blue eyes.
"Oh, this ought to be good," Bors said quietly to Dagonet, who said nothing.
Sagremor also remained silent. With a sigh, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and settled in to await the outcome. He didn't approve of this venture, but he wouldn't put a stop to it. These boys were training to become warriors. He would certainly not coddle them, just because they were still young. He thought it unfortunate that they felt the need to expend valuable energy in competing with each other, but as any man experienced with horses will tell you, anytime you have several stallions corralled together, fights are inevitable. He could only silently hope that neither of the boys, or their horses, got hurt during this pointless competition.
Once the rules had been established, the boys would ride out to the foot of a nearby hill, some 200 yards out, and come back, Sagremor reluctantly agreed to act as judge and Bors as starter. Bors dismounted from his horse and moved to take up a position apart from the others and directly in line with the indicated hill. Galahad and Tristan lined their horses up, facing and, to either side of the burly, young knight.
Looking up at Tristan, Bors said, "Be careful. The boy's smaller and lighter than you. He'll have a slight advantage."
"True, but that's assuming he doesn't fall off his horse," the younger male said, casting a steady glare at the child across from him. Galahad returned the glare calmly, refusing to be intimidated.
"You both ready?" Bors asked.
When both boys had nodded, he raised his hands over his head then brought them down again, with an abrupt jerk. The two boys urged their mounts forward and they were off, tearing across the field toward the hill. During the first half of the race, on the way to the hill, Galahad was in the lead. As Bors had predicted, the boy's slight weight was insignificant to the horse, which flew across the grass as if it had wings. But once they reached the hill, Tristan's greater experience paid off. He was able to hold his horse to a much tighter and more efficient turn and he more than made up his previously lost ground. The final sprint back to Bors' outstretched arms was almost neck and neck, with Tristan just barely managing to pass the knight first.
"Tristan is the winner," Sagremor decreed, making the judgment official.
The older boys gathered around Tristan to slap him on the back and offer their words of congratulations. Visibly disappointed, Galahad rode back to the fortress alone. Gawain watched him go, his feelings conflicted. He fell to the rear of the group as all the boys started back toward the fortress. Off to his left, Bors strode over to Dagonet, who was holding the reins of his horse.
As the knight pulled himself up into the saddle, he said, "You know, Dag, that little brat, Galahad, may be a shit, but he's a ballsy shit. I'll give him that much."
In his typically laconic manner, Dagonet simply nodded sagely. Hearing the older knight's grudging words of praise for Galahad, Gawain felt a surge of pride for the boy, but he quickly stifled it. After all, it wasn't any of his concern if Galahad succeeded or failed.
Over the next several days, Gawain found that he seemed to have acquired a small, curly-haired shadow, as Galahad continued to follow the older boy everywhere he went. Gawain had to admit that the child wasn't annoying. He didn't demand attention or even acknowledgment. He was simply always there. Gawain still found it rather disconcerting, as it was becoming harder and harder to maintain that emotional distance he so desperately wished to preserve.
One morning, as the boys were gathering in the exercise yard, preparing for archery practice, a knight came thundering into the fortress, his horses' neck and flanks flecked with sweat. Both man and beast were breathing heavily. The man quickly dismounted and turned the horse over to a waiting groom.
"Where's Ectorius?" the knight demanded of the groom, referring to the current commander of the knights.
"He's in the dining hall," the groom responded.
The boys watched as the knight headed off toward the hall at a fast walk. When he had disappeared from view they began whispering excitedly together. There was definitely something important happening, something bigger than a simple Woad incursion past the wall. They had to wait for nearly half of an hour, before Ectorius and several of the knights came to join them in the yard.
"I have just received word that evidence of a small Saxon raiding party has been found on the beach," Ectorius said, addressing the boys. "We're not exactly sure where they've gone. We need to find them. Even a small band of Saxons could do a great deal of damage, if left unchecked. We also believe they may be an advance scouting party, coming to investigate our defenses in preparation for a larger incursion. I do not want them reporting back to their commanders. I want them dead, all of them. But we need to find them first.
"I will be sending out three small search parties to look for them. Once they have been found, I want a messenger to return to the fort to report on their location. One of you boys will be traveling with each of the parties to act as messenger."
Each of the assembled boys held their breath, both hoping and dreading the thought of hearing their name called. Those chosen would be given the opportunity to prove himself ready and worthy of becoming a knight, but they would also be facing certain danger.
"Tristan, Lancelot... Gawain, saddle your horses and make ready to leave within the hour. You will need to travel light." With those words, Ectorius turned on his heel and left the yard.
The three indicated boys glanced at each other for a moment then started off towards the stables. Gawain had only taken a few steps when he felt a small hand on his arm. He turned to find Galahad looking up at him. The younger boy reached under his tunic and pulled out a small, white charm tied to a length of leather cord. He pulled the cord over his head and handed it to Gawain. The charm was a crescent moon shape, intricately carved from a chunk of bone. The older boy recognized it as the symbol of Meness, the transsexual Sarmatian moon deity, who was alternately referred to as male or female, depending upon which aspect the deity was representing.
"My mother gave me this just before I left. He protected me during my journey. Now he will protect you on your mission," Galahad said, referring to the deity in his masculine role as protector of travelers and soldiers.
Gawain looked at the amulet uncomfortably. He was touched by the younger boy's gesture and therein laid the problem. If he was going to stay true to his plan to remain aloof from the others, he couldn't accept this gift.
"Um, this is very nice, Galahad," he said, "but I can't accept it. Your mother gave it to you, not to me. You should keep it."
He turned away quickly, not wanting to see the look of disappointment in the other boy's eyes. He headed for the stables at a fast walk. Going to the stall where his own horse was tethered, Gawain began stroking the animal's neck and speaking to it soothingly.
"That was unjust, Gawain." A deep voice said, from behind the youth.
Startled, Gawain whirled around to find Sagremor standing in the entrance to the stall. The big knight looked stern and forbidding, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes were filled with disappointment.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the boy said, although he knew perfectly well what the man was referring to.
"That was a very thoughtful gesture Galahad was making to you. Why did you refuse it?"
"I didn't want to deprive him of his mother's gift," Gawain said lamely, turning his back on the man as he reached for the saddle draped over the stall's partition.
"That's bullshit and we both know it. That child was making a gesture of friendship to you and you crushed his feelings."
"I don't really care about Galahad's feelings," Gawain said defensively, with his back still turned. "I don't want his friendship. I don't want anyone's friendship."
Turning to heft the saddle onto the horse's back, the boy saw Galahad standing just behind the tall knight. From the boy's look of stunned betrayal, he had heard everything Gawain had just said. Before Gawain could think of something to say, the boy turned and left the stable. Gawain groaned softly, feeling like an ass.
"I didn't mean for him to hear that," he said soflty.
"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter," Sagremor said coldly. "After all, if you don't want his friendship, it shouldn't matter if he hates you instead."
"You're right. It doesn't matter," Gawain said, turning his attention back to saddling his horse and resolutely ignoring the man.
Sagremor was silent for a long moment. "Report to me when you're ready to go. You'll be joining my party."
Sagremor, Gawain and three other knights rode in silence for most of the day. They saw no sign of the Saxon party. Late in the day, they finally stopped for a rest and to give their eyes a break from riding directly into the glare of the setting sun. Sagremor dropped down onto the grass beside Gawain, who was eating his ration of hard bread and dried beef, somewhat apart from the other men.
"I didn't mean to hurt Galahad's feelings," the boy said at last, revealing what had been gnawing at his conscience the entire day.
"I know you didn't," the man said. "But I'm not the one you should be saying this to. When we get back to the fortress, you should apologize to Galahad."
The boy was silent.
"You are going to apologize to the boy, right?"
"No," Gawain said at last. "I don't want him to like me. I want him to leave me alone."
The knight heaved a heavy sigh. "This is about Gareth, isn't it?"
"No! It has nothing to do with him."
"Gawain, you cannot live your entire life without friendship."
"Why can't I?" the boy asked defiantly.
"Because it's not who you are. You are not a natural loner, like Tristan, and even he is friends with a few of the boys in the garrison. Whether you admit it or not, you like Galahad and you care about him."
"No, I don't."
"Then why do you feel guilty about hurting his feelings?"
"Because I hadn't intended to, that's all."
"Gawain, we humans are social creatures. We need each other, not just for the protection of numbers or the trading of goods, but for the exchange of ideas and companionship, as well. Our lives are too short to live them completely cut off from each other.
"This land is not our own. We have no ties to it, we get nothing from it, and yet, we are still expected to die to defend it. I prefer to believe that I don't do this simply because Rome tells me to. I also like to think that I'm better than the badger, who defends his territory simply because that is where he happens to be. I prefer to think that I defend this land because it is where my comrades are. I do not fight for Rome. I fight for them. How about you, Gawain? Would you rather fight for the glory of Rome or for your friend, Galahad?"
The boy was silent, carefully considering this question.
"I can tell you this," Sagremor continued. "Galahad needs you. He's terribly young and frightened, and damned determined not to show it in front of the other boys. A child that stubborn and willful needs someone to look after him or he'll never survive. He's not going to let any of the others get close, but he likes you. He trusts you, the gods alone know why, but you can't leave him to fend for himself. He needs you, Gawain. And I think you need him.
"Now, I know he'll never replace Gareth, but perhaps you could think of him as a brother, in addition to Gareth."
"I'll think about it," Gawain said softly.
Later that day, they found the Saxon party. The knights came upon their camp around dusk. Unfortunately in the failing light, they didn't realize the camp was there until it was too late. The fifteen or so Saxons descended on them swiftly. Sagremor grabbed the bridle of Gawain's horse and pulled it back into the shelter of the trees they had just left, leaving the other two knights to hold off the Saxons.
"Gawain, get back to the fortress and let them know the Saxons are here," the big knight ordered.
"But what about you? You four can't hold them off alone," the boy protested.
"We will hold them here as long as we can. You know where you are, don't you? You can tell Ector how to find this place?"
"Yes."
"Then go!" The man emphasized this order by giving Gawain's horse a sharp slap on the rump.
The horse needed no further prompting and it leapt off towards the east and the fortress. It took several minutes for the boy to regain control of the panicking animal and bring it to a stop. He turned to look back towards the battle, which was just visible in the sun's dying light. He looked just in time to see three of the Saxons drag Sagremor from his horse. The big knight managed to drag one of his assailants down with him and even from his position, Gawain heard the sound of the man's neck snapping. He saw the knight haul himself back to his feet, dragging the dead Saxon with him. He heaved the body at one of his fellows and drew his heavy sword. The knight blocked the slash the third Saxon had aimed at his chest with his right hand, while at the same time, with his left, he drew a short dagger from his belt and plunged it into the side of the man's neck.
Momentarily without an opponent, Sagremor turned to see Gawain still hesitating, watching the battle in morbid fascination. "Gawain, Go!" the man roared.
In the next instance, his body stiffened and he dropped down to one knee. Now visible standing beyond the kneeling knight, Gawain saw the Saxon archer still holding the bow he had used to shoot Sagremor. Spying the boy, the Saxon quickly reached for another arrow. Gawain saw this movement, but suddenly couldn't seem to make his body react fast enough. Finally managing to get the horse turned around to the right direction, he kicked it into a gallop. Seconds later, he felt a sharp stab of pain in his left shoulder as the Saxon's arrow found its mark. The impact of which almost knocked him from the saddle. Holding on for dear life and gritting his teeth against the pain, Gawain urged the horse to move even faster.
By morning the boy could stand the pain no longer. It seemed that every step the horse took jarred the arrow still embedded in his shoulder. Coming upon a small stream, he allowed the exhausted horse to drink and rest. The Saxon party had evidently not had any horses with them and they had obviously not been able to mount any of the knights' horses, as Gawain had not been pursued. Sliding painfully from the saddle, the boy sank down at the edge of the stream.
It had been too dark to try and look at the wound closely earlier, but now that it was light, he needed to assess the damage. Taking a deep breath, he tore his shirt away from the wound. The arrow had not completely pierced his shoulder. He could only see the very tip of the arrowhead peeking out from the bloody wound just below his collarbone. This was not good. He had seen Saxon arrows before and knew they used barbed points. If he tried to pull the arrow out from behind, the barbed point would do even more damage on the way back out than it had on the way in. The arrowhead would have to be forced through the rest of the way.
Seeing a tree a few feet away, the boy stood a bit unsteadily and walked over to it. Kneeling down in front of the tree, with his back to it, Gawain carefully lined the shaft of the arrow up with the tree and slowly leaned back, using the trunk to force the arrow further into his shoulder. Whimpering quietly and breathing heavily, he wouldn't allow himself to cry out, in case there were other enemies nearby.
When he had seen the entire arrowhead, as well as about three or four inches of bloody shaft emerge, he finally allowed himself to collapse forward onto his right arm, sobbing with the pain. After the darkness had cleared from the edges of his vision, he sat up again. Taking his knife from its sheath at his belt, he carefully cut the arrowhead from the shaft. Reaching over his left shoulder was awkward and painful, but it was the only way to pull the shaft out. It seemed to take forever. He could only work it out an inch or so at a time and his bloody fingers kept slipping, but eventually he managed to work it free.
He desperately wanted to lie down and rest for a while, but knew that if he did, he might not get back up; at least not before the Saxons found him. He dragged himself back up and went to his horse. Rolled up and tied behind the saddle, he had another heavier tunic. Cutting the bloody one off his body, so he wouldn't have to try and raise his arm, he tore it into strips and used them to bandage his shoulder. After pulling the other tunic painfully over his head and getting it settled, he drank deeply from the stream and splashed the cold water onto his face.
Somewhat more alert now, he dragged himself up onto the saddle and urged the horse toward the east. The rest of the ride back to the fortress was a blur of gray mist and pain. Luckily the horse seemed to know its way back without much guidance from Gawain. When they got within a mile of the fort, they encountered a small patrol of knights. Bors, Dagonet, and Launfal galloped up to the boy. Immediately noting his distress, Dagonet caught him before he could tumble from the saddle.
"Saxons, we saw them..." Gawain gasped, clutching at the knight's jerkin. "Sagremor..."
"Dag, get him back to the fort, quickly," Launfal ordered. "Bors and I will bring his horse and catch you up. Go!"
Gawain was running, running faster than he had ever run before. He felt strong and free. The wind was whipping through his hair and the long grass was tickling along his flanks. His hooves beat a steady rhythm as he galloped across the rolling green hills of the steppe.
As he galloped, another horse appeared to run along beside him... Gareth. Gawain didn't need to be told, to know that the dark honey-colored stallion beside him was his younger brother. They ran on together, racing each other and the wind. They ran without thought of the future or the past, only the pure ecstatic joy of the moment, of their freedom. They ran until Gawain thought his heart would burst.
He found himself slowing, abruptly stumbling on the uneven terrain. Gareth was pulling ahead. He was still running at full gallop. Gawain tried to keep up, but he was suddenly so tired, he could hardly move. Glancing down, he saw that he was standing on two legs. He was human again. There was no way he could catch Gareth now. Looking up, he saw his brother, hundreds of yards away now, stop and rear up on his hind legs, as though saying farewell.
"Gareth, wait!" Gawain cried out. "Wait for me!"
But the stallion was already on the move again, flying across the steppe like the griffons that were the symbol of Gawain's tribe. The older boy was left behind, alone.
"Gareth, come back," he whispered. "Come back..."
"Gareth..." Gawain awoke to find himself in the large room he shared with the other boys at the fort. Glancing around him, he noted that the room was empty, so it was obviously daylight. It was warm in the room, too warm. The firepit was burning and the boy felt as if he were burning with it. Pushing the covers down, he made to try and sit up. He gasped at the sharp pain from this left shoulder and fell back down.
He had been mistaken when he had assumed that the room was empty and his aborted attempt at movement had awakened the other occupant, who had been sleeping in a chair with his head resting on the foot of the bed. Galahad sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. Seeing that the other boy was awake, he smiled.
"Don't move," the child ordered. "I'll go and get Bronwen."
Galahad returned a few minutes later, leading a small, plump woman in her late thirties. Gawain recognized her. She was some kind of priestess from the nearby village and she frequently acted as a healer for the knights. Settling herself on the edge of his bed, she carefully peeled back the bandage from Gawain's shoulder and looked at it. Leaning close, she sniffed the wound a few times. Seeming to be satisfied with what she found, she replaced the bandage and sat up.
"You did well at removing that arrow," she said. "I'll bet that hurt."
"Yes," Gawain said simply, marveling at this amazing understatement.
"You're lucky. The shaft didn't sever anything vital and none of the wood seems to have splintered off. I smell some slight infection, which is what's causing your fever, but we should be able to take care of that. I'll be back in a little bit to clean the wound and change the bandage. In the meantime you try to rest."
She patted his good shoulder a few times, pulled the blankets back up to his chin then stood. As she turned to go, she said to Galahad, "Don't you keep him awake with all your chatter. He needs rest."
Looking back at Gawain, she added. "The child's barely left your side since they brought in here, two days ago. And he's been asking all kinds of questions about your condition. A right little magpie, this one," she said, ruffling the boy's curls affectionately.
When the woman had gone, the two boys stared at each other awkwardly for a few minutes. "Well, I'll let you get some sleep," Galahad said, starting to leave.
"Wait," Gawain called weakly. "What happened? Did I tell them where the Saxons were? I don't remember."
"Yeah, you managed to tell Ector and he sent out the knights. They caught the Saxons and killed them."
"Sagremor?"
The boy shook his head sadly. "He and the others didn't make it... I'm sorry, I know you liked Sagremor."
Gawain nodded, but didn't say anything. Yes, he really had liked the big knight. He hadn't realized how much until just now. Wasn't it strange how you never seem to appreciate the things you have until they're gone? And wasn't that essentially what the man had been trying to tell him? That he should appreciate Galahad while he could?
Seeing that the older boy was lost in his grief, Galahad turned to leave the room. Gawain's voice called him back.
"Galahad, could you stay and keep me company... at least until I fall asleep? Unless, you have other things to do..."
"Oh no, Ector said that I could stay here," the boy said, suddenly feeling shy. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Okay, Little Magpie, tell me what's been happening around the fort. What have I missed?"
The younger boy made a face at the usage of the undesirable nickname, but still launched into his story, "Well, there's a new serving girl at the tavern. She's got red hair and she's really pretty. Bors decided that she was his and no one else is allowed to flirt with her... Well, as you can imagine, she wasn't too happy about that when she heard about it. Now, this girl's got a bit of a temper..."
Picturing the melee in his mind, Gawain closed his eyes and let the flood of the younger boy's words lull him into sleep...
THE END
Author's note: the "Sarmatian" moon deity which I referred to earlier is, in fact, not Sarmatian. Very little is known about the Sarmatians' religious beliefs and there is no reason to suppose that all the various tribes worshipped the same deities... Oh well, we'll call it artistic license. Lord knows, the movie took enough of that, why can't I? Anyway, I feel that I should point out that this particular deity is from Latvian mythology. Since the areas in which the nomadic Sarmatians would have traveled, would most likely have included what is now Latvia, I figured, close enough.