Galahad was not the last of the boys to be pressed into the service, yet it will always be recalled that he was the after-thought, and the one they had noticed last. They had traveled nearly a year across Sarmatia to assemble the Knights, and Tristan had been the true last. But it was only after Tristan had joined their ranks that everyone seemed to notice that among them, there was a young boy, struggling to even grip his sword properly.
Bors had a fit, and Gawain had stomped off in a snit while Dagonet wondered aloud whether this was all an elaborate joke. They weren't supposed to be minding cares. They were supposed to be fighting for their freedom – as far off as it may have been in those early years. Even Arthur had taken one look at the boy and expressed incredulity that he was expected to fight for the empire.
Galahad simply sat there, clutching to the sword he had been given with inquiries as to whether he should begin his training. He received a gentle, "give us time," from Dagonet and was then left alone to wander amidst the encampment, overhearing conversations and simply watching.
Bors was peeling an apple and grunting, "he's a boy."
Tristan was feeding his bird delicately, raising one eyebrow. Galahad held tightly to the bark of the tree in front of him as he leaned forward to hear the words. Tristan was quite the mystery, but he had skills as a tracker, or so Galahad had heard.
"And Lancelot wasn't? Gawain is barely shedding boyhood now. He is not the first boy to be entered into this service, and he will not be the last, that much is certain," Tristan murmured sagely. The bird squawked in addendum, a terrible sound that made Galahad jump. He recognized Lancelot's name. Supposedly, he had been only a year or two older than Galahad himself when the legions of Rome came to take him away.
"He'll bruise easy," Bors muttered.
To that, Tristan gave an odd sort of chuckle, not smiling though. "Yes, that looks certain, as well." Galahad frowned, navigating away from the fire where Bors and Tristan were sitting with a few of the other knights, many of which he had not learned the names of yet. Galahad had overheard one of them comment on how this service was likely to be the last service they would ever give.
He backed up right into another boy. He whirled, and fumbled for his knife, a task that had the other boy rolling his eyes in frustration. This was Gawain, he recalled. The youngest, save for Galahad himself. Galahad froze in his place, glancing up at Gawain with trepidation.
"You're young," Gawain accused him.
"So are you," Galahad reacted defensively, his face arranged in the best bravado he could put on. Gawain got a terrible look of absolute smugness on his face as he tucked away a sword he had been carrying.
"I'm world-weary," he announced, his voice laden with authority.
"Is that the same as arrogant?" Galahad inquired innocently, cocking an eyebrow upwards. He was young, but he was not a fool. He would not suffer foolishness either. He came here to serve, and once he was done this blasted service, he would finally return to his home. "You're young, too."
"Already, I don't like you," Gawain announced in a snide tone.
"Well, the years ought to glide by, then," Galahad muttered to himself with a sigh and turned around, intending to head back to the fire and sit there, wondering if they would talk about him while he was sitting right there. He set himself down in a great show of making himself look pathetic. Immediately, the conversation halted. Tristan wandered off, and Bors regarded Galahad wearily.
"You fought before, boy?"
"My father is dead," Galahad looked up, "and I've no brothers. My mother was not very adept with weaponry, and I aided her with the household. It was very rare that fetching the water required a battle involving swords."
"Not only is he a pup, he can't fight," Bors grumbled to himself. "How lovely this service to Rome is, where we have to teach the young how to hold their blasted swords," he added before storming off, leaving Galahad and the one they called Dagonet around the fire. Galahad stared blankly into the flames, afraid to move, wanting to be home.
He didn't move until the fire itself was put out, and their leader, Arthur, roused him to move and find rest so that he would be able to fare better in the morning. Already, Galahad was weary with the constant plagues of accusations that he was too young, too much trouble, too much a burden for them to bear.
He might have been the youngest, but he would put his life on the fact that he was just as brave as the others, if not more courageous and loyal. With great protest, he found his way to a cot, and settled into it, shivering slightly as a great wind breezed past his skin. With it, voices drifted from the nearby gathering of trees.
"I bet my life to the gods he can't shoot an arrow to save his life, and he seems all assured of himself in a terribly annoying manner, but…" that was Gawain's voice.
"You like him," that one was Tristan.
"He's not so bad," Gawain admitted.
Galahad fell asleep with a small smile on his face, curling up on himself to garner some heat. Perhaps this service would not be so terrible. He clung a little tighter to his memories of home for fear that they might drift away like smoke in the midst of the night.
