They were to be stationed on the Isle of the Britons.

Britain.

Galahad tried to say it over and over again, linking it to the notion of home, but it was no use. Home would always be Sarmatia, and he would never associate this talk of moors and fog and rain with home. He'd be damned thrice over before he did so. So he resigned himself to a temporary home in this Britain that the Romans spoke so highly of, commending it as a stronghold foreseen by Hadrian himself when he erected a great wall, crossing the country. To the South, they would guard.

They were moving quickly now, taking to their horses and learning the paths of the countryside. It took one month of intense training before Galahad could even shoot in a straight line. In the end, it had taken Bors and Dagonet's threats of leaving him behind in a snowdrift to get Tristan's lessons to sink in. Once he had learned his way with the bow, the lessons of the sword were not far behind. Percival was quite patient with him in guiding the blade and teaching Galahad how to be patient in his strikes, to think one step ahead, and most of all, to never be impatient with the sword.

Gawain had simply snorted that Galahad would never learn patience.


It rained in Britain. It rained often, and it was cold. By the time they had reached their outpost, Galahad had endured twelve years upon the earth, and not a one of them were as miserable and cold as this British winter was proving to be. Perhaps as the time went by, he would learn to get used to it. The other knights had become used to Galahad and his youth, and all the benefits it came with. Often, he was sent with Tristan to scout an area thanks to his speed and small stature.

None were as good to him as Gawain had become. It seemed that finally, Gawain had acknowledged that their ages bound them closer together, and they had spent many a night around the campfire sharing tales of memories past, trading off the stale bread from a week past, and laughing over silly jokes made to keep the mood light.

In fact, Galahad would even go so far as to call Gawain his first true friend amongst the knights. Together, they had mourned the deaths of two other knights before they arrived at their outpost. Galahad had not been present when they had died. He had returned from a scouting mission to find Arthur bent over two bodies – bloodied and marred with dirt – hands ploughed deep into the Earth.

Together, they had stood at the funeral and watched as graves were dug and swords were thrust into the Earth. And that night, Bors had even slipped some ale to the both of them, muttering, "best grow up now." By the fire they held that night in memoriam of the fallen knights, they had quietly exchanged words about how they thought they would forfeit their lives. Galahad had clung to a half-cup of ale, not quite drinking it, and he had learned all the secrets and whispered admissions of Gawain. His brother in arms, and his true friend.

"I hope they take my body home," Gawain admitted quietly, the fire crackling before them. It was deep into the night now, but Galahad did not feel the slightest bit drowsy. He wanted to cling to his waking hours. He was alive in those. "Let my family have me."

"You don't want to be buried with the rest of us?" Galahad raised an eyebrow.

"Only if there are no Knights left to mourn," Gawain said. "I won't have you grieve for me. That's not what I want."

"I'll mourn you," Galahad volunteered bravely, in the best bravado a boy could have.

Gawain turned to him, smiling wistfully and painfully in the flickering flames of the fire.

"Don't," he said simply before walking off.

Later in that same season, Galahad learned from Tristan that while Galahad was off scouting in the woods, Gawain had killed his first Woad – a terror and a fright that Galahad had only yet heard of, not seen, and most certainly never battled. When Galahad had left, Gawain's hands hadn't been stained with the blood of a man. When Galahad had returned, the world had changed.

As winter changed to a miserable spring, Galahad was left wondering just what it would be like when he killed his first man.


Two years passage, and Galahad had begun to feel the definitive twitch to his skin, a sort of low rumbling in his stomach, and the mindless disorientation that his head seemed to present. The lass that minded the tavern took him aside one night while the Knights were drinking and he confessed to her his symptoms.

"Seems as though you might hit manhood soon, m'boy," the feisty redhead replied with clear and easy amusement. She slapped him hard on the back. "Enjoy it. And don't you be worrying about anything those Knights of yours say to you. Just let it pass."

It wasn't quite such a clear and simple issue. Galahad found himself eager to work off his aggression, no matter the method. He began to earn his scars from the various other knights, a task both Lancelot and Bors seemed keen to volunteer for. Gawain still tried to spar with him as much as possible, but was endlessly kind to Galahad and never followed through with his blade, not marring his skin once.

But there were mornings where Galahad would awake, drowsy and heavy-lidded to feel a heavy weight pressing into his stomach and a clear ache lower in his body, his cock throbbing with the need for release. He found that rough strokes by his hand brought him quickly to a climax in the hidden shadows of the forest, and he prayed to the gods that Tristan was not out scouting.

There was also the keen edge of confusion that accompanied the changes. He felt indignant towards each and every man he counted as a friend when they lobbed their teasing remarks Galahad's way. They had all been down the very path he was just starting now, but every cut stung him deeply and none hurt so much as the ones from Gawain because he had no right to tease Galahad so, only two years his elder.

"Pains in the lower countries lately, Galahad?"

"If our Galahad is a man now, he really ought not to wear that flimsy skirt he loves so much."

"Tristan, could you tell that hawk of yours to quiet down with that incessant squawking and squealing. Oh…begging your pardon. It's only Galahad."

It was going to drive him mad.

But what was worse was the desire. There was no quelling it, it seemed. For every time Galahad brought himself over the edge with a climax, he found himself needing more. His eye began to stray around the outpost, settling on any figure that was appealing, the buxom women, the fair heads of the town, and though he was slow to admit it, once in a while, he drank in the sight of a fellow man's scar-dappled chest.

Mad, he'd be. Past the edge of sanity and all its settlements.

And of course, the paranoia that came with this affliction was terrible as well. It seemed as though all eyes were upon him, watching his every move and waiting for him to do something irrevocably stupid. He felt it the worst with Gawain. It seemed that lately, he could not pry Gawain's gaze from him with the effort of a thousand men. He rolled his eyes, he stormed off, and he kept a short temper, yet Gawain persisted on.

Dagonet kept a watchful gaze on him, and Arthur stepped up his training as though sensing that Galahad needed some form of release. He was getting better with the sword, so Arthur had handed him a shield, saying that the best warriors could transform a defensive weapon into an offense. Bors was letting him share in the joys and spoils of manhood more often, and Lancelot had decided that the young Galahad's ears should no longer be shielded from harsh words and lewd remarks. Galahad thought that, perhaps, he owed Tristan his life, for he had said nothing, had offered nothing, but had only given Galahad a dagger one morning, quietly commenting about 'the rites of passage when a boy becomes a man.'

Gawain though, was the one who was going to drive Galahad mad, the one who would not stop watching.

And then one morning while they were scouting in the woods, it happened.

Galahad awoke, and in the process of his morning rituals, he noticed that the smooth slope of his cheek was dappled with the rough stubble of hair. His eyes widened and he had sat up in a flurry of movement, alerting Arthur and Tristan that something was wrong.

"What is it?" Arthur murmured, sleep hanging off the edges of his voice.

"I…" Galahad started, and swallowed his words. "Nothing. It's nothing, sir."

He lay back down, but there was a hand clamping on his shoulder and pulling him up to his feet. It was Lancelot, and he was inspecting his face, laughing with shrewish delight. Galahad really wanted to hit him. Everyone seemed to be roused from sleep now. Bors rubbed his eyes, quickly adjusting to the situation, and Galahad observed that he was earning himself a good crowd. Gawain pushed through and ran a flat palm over the stubble, laughing to himself and shaking his head in wonder.

"Well now, it's finally happened," he turned and announced to the collective Knights. "Our Galahad is becoming a man!"

"Say goodbye to boyhood, Galahad," Lancelot announced, letting go of him finally and turning him loose so that everyone could have their fair chance inspecting him. Bors stepped up, clapping a strong hand on Galahad's shoulder – something that he visibly shook from. Galahad had no false ideas about his strength matching Bors' in any way.

"And say hello to the damned middling years. Transition, embarrassment, and the desperate need to sate your pleasure with anything that moves," Bors growled. Galahad bit back the urge to tell Bors that he already knew quite well about the frustration that gnawed at him.

Gawain smirked, scratching the side of his face and his own beard by extension. "I volunteer Tristan's hawk for the duty," he replied airily between light chuckles. Galahad glared at him, and didn't even notice that Lancelot was speaking until mid-sentence.

"…ought to be, I nominate Gawain for the task," Lancelot was saying cheerfully in a mischievous tone. Galahad snapped his gaze straight over to glare at Lancelot and barely caught that tiny knowing set that Lancelot had to his face, the one that held knowledge that Galahad could only guess at. There were questions there, and answers that he wasn't quite sure he wanted yet.

"What!" Gawain was protesting, his eyes wide and panic written on his face. "You can't…"

"Seconded," Tristan interrupted, petting the hawk's beak affectionately.

And then, of all people, the reply to this madness came from Arthur himself. "Then I find this in effect," he announced in a booming voice of authority, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand.

For a moment in time, everything stopped before the incredulity of it all caught up to Galahad and he felt himself returning to the normalcy of time and the world. Galahad felt relief and laughter wash over him as he let himself finally plunge into the depths of the mockery his affliction had earned him, and to his delight, the Knights joined him in his laughter. Galahad stroked the new stubble, wondering how long it would take to earn a respectable beard, his thoughts interrupted by the sheer amusement of the situation, his serious moments broken with laughter.

It was only as he prepared to start his day that he took notice that Gawain was not laughing in the least. That was the precise moment before he noticed Gawain stomp off into the woods.


Galahad, when he remembered to take the time, counted his blessings.

He was quite lucky that in the time of his transition, they did not have to lead any campaigns against the Woads, nor defend themselves from the odd skirmish that the Saxons led and there hadn't been any uprisings within the ranks of Romans at the village. That time would not last forever, and he knew it well. The winter in which Galahad had spent fifteen years upon the earth was the first time he had ridden into battle alongside the other knights rather than run ahead to scout out the territory and return to find the battle over and done.

Time had run a scythe through the ranks of the knights, whittling their number down until they were a lean and sparse group of friends and brothers. Galahad had mourned Percival with great sorrow, not moving from his grave until Gawain, Tristan and Dagonet had forcibly removed him and locked him in Arthur's room, thus forcing Galahad to listen to the tales of fallen knights and the weakness of the human condition.

It made Galahad cling to life, and fear much more so for the remaining knights. He could not lose them without feeling another part of him drift away. And so, with this first battle, which was more of a tactical defense really, according to Arthur, he vowed to let no one slip away.

This was to be his first fight. He was to take that last step away from boyhood and learn the true brutalities of battle now. As they charged against the vicious Woads, it seemed that time slipped away. He took his lessons to heart and was a fierce fighter. He did not falter once at the war cries of the Woads, and he was aggressive with both his sword and his shield, holding mercy for none that attacked him. It seemed as though his years of training and his sparring all came to fruition now as he became a force of nature, striking down attacks with swift blows and gracefully avoiding injury.

It was as the fog was seeping in that Galahad first plunged his sword into the heart of a Woad, seeing the look in his eyes as the Briton took his last breath and surrendered to death. Galahad stood there frozen, his sword in shaking hands as he reclaimed it – stained heavily with blood – and did not move, even as the body in front of him crumpled to the ground. By the yells of victory from Bors, the battle was over.

Still, Galahad could not move.

He stumbled backwards and into a warm body, jerking around to see that it was Gawain, with blood that was not his own on his armour, a pleased grin to his face. Galahad felt sick to his stomach and never did he think he could associate Gawain with that feeling of sickness. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to form adequate words, but his mind would not work and his hands would not stop shaking.

"Gawain. I…" he trailed off, hanging his head low, knowing this was another step down another path he could not turn back from. He felt rage build in him as he realized that this would not be the last life he would take and that there were hundreds more in an endless sea of anonymous faces that were lives waiting to be plucked by his sword, by his bow, and by his shield.

"Galahad!" he announced delightedly. It seemed to garner the attention of some of the other knights. It also seemed that Lancelot had taken an arrow to his thigh, the way he was limping so with that scowl on his face. Gawain tried to grab for his arm, but Galahad recoiled. "Your first kill," he went on in that same damned voice of pure delight as though this were his initiation, as though it were something to be proud of. He grasped Galahad's wrist and pumped it into the air. Bors was chuckling happily, and Dagonet had his head bowed low, murmuring something.

Galahad was sure that Gawain was going to feel the way his hands were shaking now, there would be no missing it. The thrill of battle always seemed to leave Gawain exuberant and energetic, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Usually they would go to the tavern at the outpost – or any watering hole they could find – and drink away their post-battle stimulation. Galahad pulled away once more.

"Galahad, come!" Gawain cheerfully laughed. "I'll even buy you the first drink in commemoration of…"

Galahad stormed away, unable to listen to any more of this. He made sure to not go into the woods, aware of the never-ending ridicule he would endure and the lectures from Arthur on his safety. He was a fifteen-year-old man, for pity's sake, not some idiot child. He made his way to the outer wall of their outpost and paced around it, finding solitude against the bark of a tree, letting his back hit the wood and sliding down slowly, his sword in his lap and his hands shaking. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to breathe in and exhale again, hoping that no one had followed him.

It was a thought in vain, he knew. He heard the snapping of twigs that warned him of someone's approach. He slowly got to his feet, a gesture that was unwelcome by his body, but necessary. He opened his eyes to find Gawain approaching with deft sureness to every step. Galahad shook his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat as he stepped away from the trunk of the tree and raised his sword, keeping its point in front of him.

His hands were not shaking now.

Gawain slowly raised his hands in surrender, but Galahad did not drop his sword. He kept it trained neatly to the middle of Gawain's chest and glared at him, his patience thinner than it had been in years and anger welling up inside him. After a silent moment, Gawain standing in surrender and rage building in Galahad, he threw his sword to the ground and did the only thing he could think to do. He lunged forward, attacking Gawain with a blow to the face, before feeling his knees give out from under him.

And there, on the grasses as Galahad could not stand on his own two feet, it was Gawain that caught him. He comforted the fall as they sank down to the ground, Galahad on his knees and trying in vain to push away from Gawain.

"Stop it," he murmured in protest. He had attacked Gawain, his friend. There would likely be some form of a mark in the morning, and yet Gawain was still comforting him, by his side. "Stop…why won't you leave me!"

"Galahad, it was your first life. There will be many more," Gawain replied simply. "It's a rite of passage. A cause to celebrate."

"It was a human life. I took it!" Galahad protested, his voice hoarse. He could feel his hands begin to shake again, and he willed them to stop. With everything in him, he willed them to stop. "I killed a man, Gawain. It could have…it may have been someone's father…brother…"

"He died, so you could live," Gawain replied, and this time, Galahad did not miss the intensity of those words. He was opposite of Galahad, on his knees so that their heights did not differ in the least. One hand rested on Galahad's upper arm, clinging to him tightly and pressing even tighter as he emphasized every word he spoke. Galahad let himself be shaken, felt the weariness of battle sink into him.

"I'm no one's father, nor brother," Galahad muttered, his eyes downcast.

And now the hand on Galahad's shoulder was pressing so tightly that Galahad was sure there would be a mark there in the morning. The words came fiercely and swiftly now, spoken quietly and with such confidence that there was no doubt to them.

"But you're ours," Gawain caught Galahad's eyes, using his other hand to grasp Galahad's chin and prevent him from tearing his gaze away. "A Knight. You belong to us."

"And who shall take my life so that you might mourn me?" Galahad muttered drearily.

"None," Gawain said defensively, tugging him closer and merely grasping his armour now, his hands on Galahad's arms. "So long as you fight by my side, I alone shall decide when your time has come."

Galahad felt his anger and his fear leave him in a rush as all the muscles in his body gave out and simply ceased to move. He sat there, unable to move as Gawain gathered him closer and closer into an awkward hug. Gawain ruffled Galahad's hair and gave a morbid laugh.

"I'm just getting used to you," Gawain said, and his voice shook just as Galahad's own hands had shaken earlier. "Why would I allow you to depart from us so soon? Besides, Tristan would have my head. All those lessons for naught."

In the mirth, Galahad found a laugh deep inside him and nodded slowly, pulling away from Gawain and gathering his sword as he slowly rose to his feet.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," Galahad ducked his head down and said.

"Yes," Gawain said simply. "Don't tell the others I said this, but I suppose I had it coming."

That evoked a true laugh from Galahad, and he felt his strength slowly returning to him, the dead face from before fading in his memory as though it were a bad dream. Gawain clasped his arm and nodded towards the village. Galahad turned to look there and shook his head, meeting Gawain's gaze and knowing he would understand.

"You sure you won't join us?" Gawain had to ask.

"The only joining he'll be doing is the march!" a foreign voice announced. It was Tristan, come riding up on his horse with a grave set to his face. "Arthur says we have to move East for a few days, track the Woads and see if we can't protect the next village over. The name Merlin passed his lips."

"We're not…" Gawain began, his gaze going to the side to meet Galahad's for a moment. They stood side by side, looking up at Tristan. "We're not tracking Merlin, are we? I never thought Arthur was mad."

"Not Merlin," Tristan replied simply. "But the chances of the Woads attacking the next Roman settlement in their retreat is nothing to suppose. They will rebel in their movement."

"We ride," Gawain settled for saying, looking to Galahad, seemingly checking for signs that he was fine. Galahad nodded, taking the first step forward and sheathing his sword as he began to make his way back to the battlefield where he had last seen his horse. Behind him, Gawain trailed.

"We ride," Galahad confirmed quietly.

tbc