The Roman village to the East was a day's ride, and Arthur had given the call that the Knights were to camp for the night, citing a need to attend to bruises and wounds from the battle, a sharp and reprimanding look sent Lancelot's way. Around the fire later that night, as they shared a measly and stale loaf of bread, they sat in silence, listening to the flames crackle.
"Lancelot didn't tell Arthur," Dagonet said simply when Arthur dragged Lancelot away, their voices loud and angry.
"The wound in his thigh?" Gawain asked.
Dagonet nodded.
"You are not my keeper!" Lancelot was shouting in the gathering of trees near them, by the river's side. "Why should I report my every moment to you? You are not my keeper and I am not a child!"
Galahad grimaced. It would be no hard task for any enemies to track them with the noise they were making. He hoped that Tristan would return with the news that they were leagues ahead of any enemies, because the way this was going, a night attack was going to be inevitable.
"You are a Knight!" Arthur snapped back. "My Knight, and I will not have you tolerate in silence when you are suffering! You must tell me when you are wounded!"
"Are my wounds to be your responsibility? Did you pray to your God and is that what he told you to do? Leave me be," Lancelot replied snidely. "I will suffer this, and it will be a suffering that you will have no part in."
"Lancelot, I ask you…"
"Let me be, Arthur," Lancelot shouted wearily. "Go!"
Yet, neither Arthur nor Lancelot joined them around the fire. Galahad sat there, gnawing on the hard bread under Gawain's watchful gaze as though he were expected to go off again and lose his wits for the second time in a day. One by one, the Knights turned to sleep, but Galahad did not succumb to the same fate, for fear of nightmares. He doused the fire and got up to walk the borders of their camp, intending to search for scouts and find if anyone was tracking them.
What Galahad found, though, he had never expected.
He froze before he went down to the river's edge where Lancelot and Arthur had battled with their words earlier, staying quiet and keeping true to his best scouting instincts. There, in the moonlight, were two bodies. The shadows of night were marred by brilliant and bright bursts of moonlight through the trees that made that secretive scene upon the river more than private to Galahad's eyes.
Down in the beams of the moon, Arthur was slowly undressing Lancelot, delicately laying the armour to the side and dressing the wound. Lancelot threw his head back to the sky and his breath came out in jagged little bursts, seen in the cold of the night as Arthur traversed his mouth down the side of Lancelot's neck, his hands carefully amassing near the wound, but careful to never touch it.
Galahad was frozen in fear, watching the scene before him. He knew this must be some form of release. He knew it well. In the past year, he himself had found it in the back rooms of girls in the village when the desire became too much. Once, Dagonet and Bors brought him a whore that had taken one look at Galahad and announced she would do it simply for the experience and Galahad need not pay.
But this…
This was…
He did not understand. He could not. What honour lay there in intimacy with a fellow comrade? His eyes would not move as Arthur's lips paused and pressed against Lancelot's collarbone, touching gently before he sunk down to his knees, Lancelot stopping him in his descent. They were still for a moment before Lancelot brought Arthur closer to him, murmuring soft words in the night as they clung to each other and though there was no wind to carry sound, Galahad was sure he heard the guttural sound of Arthur in a desperate voice swearing to his god, "mine, Lord, my God. Mine."
And then they sank to their knees. In Galahad's hazy mind, he recalled a similar motion that very day, when Gawain had caught him. But here, here and now, it seemed that they were catching each other. They did not move, but their fingers were frantic against each other's body, one of Lancelot's hands slipping inside the waistband of Arthur's breeches.
Galahad finally found the strength to move, and broke away. He breathed out, exhaled for the first time it seemed since he had stumbled upon the scene. He took ragged breaths and forced himself back to where the other Knights were sleeping. In his brain, logic and all manner of sense had been lost and he found himself at a loss for any explanation or comprehension of what he had seen.
He could not understand.
And yet, as he settled down to sleep in the fog of night, there was a deep ache to his bones. It was a deep ache in his heart that quietly made a plea for something similar. Anything to tide over the cold grasp of night and protect him from the harsher light of morning. Should the solace prove to be more long-lasting, more satisfying than it did with the girls of the village, perhaps then, Galahad would finally know some form of relief from the perpetual desire that coursed in his blood.
As he settled down on the frozen ground, he shivered slightly and forced himself to close his eyes and not see the images of that day, not the man whose life he had taken, nor the desperate need on Lancelot's face, nor the calm desire that Arthur wore.
Galahad drifted off to a blank sleep, feeling colder than ever before.
When he roused himself to waking in the morning, snow was falling slowly and he was being watched. He rubbed at his eyes and brushed away the snow that had nestled in his curls before sitting up completely to find Gawain chewing thoughtfully and watching him.
"Are we moving yet?" Galahad asked, his voice still heavy with sleep. He sat up slowly, to see Gawain shake his head. "How late in the day is it?"
"Still early," Gawain reassured him. "Dagonet is tending to Lancelot's wound, and Arthur is nowhere to be found. You have time."
Galahad shifted under his blanket and felt his face flush with embarrassment. His cock was painfully hard, a symptom of the morning he was not enjoying. He wondered if Gawain had noticed his predicament, and he tried valiantly to hide it. He covered himself with his hands and waited for Gawain to move first, but he wouldn't. He merely sat there, watching Galahad.
"Well?" Galahad snapped finally. "Leered enough, yet?"
Without a mind to his condition, he got up and made his way to his armour to suit up for the day, turning away from Gawain. He hastily set about preparing for the day, the thoughts of Arthur and Lancelot lingering in his mind as he got everything on and cleaned off his sword. The blood was still there, darkened now and still staining his blade. Once again, against his will, Galahad's world had changed.
They trekked East, the days growing colder and colder. Snow fell and obstructed their path. More than once, Galahad felt pity for his steed, knowing that the difficulties had multiplied since they had set out. As always, Gawain rode beside him. The promise from yesterday was still fresh in Galahad's mind, and he wondered idly if Gawain intended to stay true to it, and protect Galahad. Ahead of them, Lancelot and Arthur rode in silence, and Tristan had gone ahead.
Behind them, Bors and Dagonet chattered on about the children back home, going on about how Vanora might be in a condition to yield a third soon. Galahad shifted uncomfortably, feeling the silence press at him like a weight, heavy and painful. He finally resolved to put the morning, the past night, and the past day's events out of mind and sight, but for a little.
"Just think," he mused, loud enough for only Gawain to hear. "We're approaching the half point of our service. Half our freedom is within our grasp."
"Freedom," Gawain snorted, something that sounded like he had been taking lessons from his horse. "Nothing more than a pretty little tale. Like all those fairy tales that you hear Arthur going on about. His god, and his miracles, and this life of servitude to a faith that gives nothing back." He shook his head. "Freedom," he scoffed. "I'll believe it when I see it."
Galahad paused, unsure of how to respond. "You speak of freedom as though it were a myth."
"To me, it's little more than that. A lovely myth told to placate a lonely heart," he added bitterly, riding up forward and away from Galahad before he could even think to formulate a reply.
It was strange that in all the years that had passed, and with all the things they knew of each other, there were still secrets left hidden between Gawain and Galahad, and that Galahad didn't have the slightest idea if he would ever know them all.
Perhaps it was better that way.
For Galahad's celebration of his birthday, the seventeenth now, the Knights had taken him out to the woods. There were but seven of them left now. Bors had brought the ale with him, and together they drank in quiet solitude. Rowdy celebrations tended to end in mishaps, and the years of slaughter and battle had finally begun to wear on them.
The peace and quiet was welcome. With years gone by, Galahad began to understand more and more, and his hands no longer shook when he claimed the lives of his enemies. It was beginning to be normal in a terrifying and frightening manner. He drank his ale quietly, Gawain close to him and telling him a tale of the Saxon he'd witnessed Tristan kill with naught more than his bare hands and his shield. In hushed tones, they conversed, glad for their proximity. The years had tempered out Galahad's desire, turning it into a slow burn of need rather than the desperate bursts of lust he had first experienced.
"Happy birthday, Galahad," Lancelot murmured, lifting his cup to him before rousing himself from his seat. "May you have all the best, and let no one kill you this coming year."
"Lest you be so annoying, one of us has to do the job ourselves," Tristan interrupted.
"A possibility," Gawain chimed in with a grin and a loud laugh. He saluted Galahad with his mug. "To our Galahad, the youngest, most stubborn, impatient bastard we've ever had the malfortune of meeting."
Galahad glared.
Gawain just smirked and continued. "And yet, we endure him."
"Love him, even," Arthur interrupted, his voice heavy with irony. "Strange that he wasn't kicked out of the camp but a week after he stole rations from the Roman soldiers. Lucky that Gawain took a shining to him, and had a talent for being quick-witted."
"Even luckier that the brat's arse never connected with my foot," Bors spoke between a deep belch. "Another year!"
"To Galahad," Gawain announced, lifting his mug up. The others followed suit and echoed the sentiment with great care to their words.
Galahad nodded with thanks, and watched as their group disbanded. Lancelot made his way back to the village, with Arthur in tow. Dagonet was inquiring about the children, and Bors made many noises as to their growth and their skills as fighters. There were six now, a maddening number, and Galahad pitied himself the days he drew the short straw and had to mind the bastards. Gawain clapped a hand on his shoulder as he drained the last of his ale and steadied himself as he got up, eyes down on Galahad. He leaned over and pressed his lips to the top of Galahad's head of hair.
"I wish you well," he murmured, stumbling off towards the village, leaving Tristan and Galahad behind. Galahad watched Gawain go until he was but a shadow in the night before he turned back to Tristan's watchful eye. He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutinous gaze and tipped back his mug, drinking the last of the liquid.
"You've been improving with the bow," Tristan remarked. "I thought maybe you were ignoring my lessons. That was saddening me for a great many minutes."
"You've the best advice," Galahad commented, his gaze drawn back to the village. He slowly stood, feeling the ache in his legs. "It was a good celebration."
"They always are. It doesn't matter how the occasion goes, the only thing that matters is that you've survived another year," Tristan said, sitting perfectly still upon the log in the forest. "I hear that Bors has paid for a lass to bed you."
"It was his gift," Galahad explained half-heartedly. "I told him I'd be happier if he'd clean his own blasted horse and armour once in a while. Besides, the poor girl was just doing it out of kindness. I sent her home."
"You've been doing that quite often," Tristan remarked with a mysterious little smile on his face. Galahad froze, raising an eyebrow and turning his full attention to the Knight. "Sending them home, that is. You've still taken a few to your bed, but nowhere near the number we've expected."
"You…why do you notice these things?" Galahad replied warily, his voice breaking slightly. "It's not as if I've done anything wrong, and it's certainly none of your business whom I bed!"
"No," Tristan agreed, a slight chuckle. "No, not at all. I merely notice."
"You notice everything," Galahad accused childishly. "There's not a mouse that can get past you, and you remember everything twice as well as you notice it."
"I haven't wronged you," Tristan rolled his eyes. "I'm being your friend, Galahad. Accept it as such, or else I really will have to kill you and then tell the rest that Woads mysteriously ventured to the walls and plucked you away."
"And what friendliness do you have to offer?" Galahad continued on hesitantly.
"My noticings and remembrances," Tristan replied lightly. "Gawain has taken quite the shining to you over the years. An affinity even."
"Yes," Galahad said.
"It would be a shame if you two ever drifted as friends."
"Tristan, if you don't start making sense, I will have to drag Arthur out here to curse you to God, or some other such deity he enjoys so much," Galahad exhaled, feeling more exasperated than he had but a few moments past. "What are you trying to say?"
"You'll see," Tristan remarked, getting up gracefully. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."
He left Galahad in the light of the moon to let the words sink in, the torches burning brightly at the walls of the village and the mark of age hanging upon his head. He had been in this service for eight years now, and freedom was still far off, the sweet reward at the end of the long journey. Maturity was settling nicely in him, battles never taking away from his conscience. He still retained his morals and never did he kill without being attacked first – something Tristan often indulged in – and he held tight to his responsibilities as one of Arthur's Knights.
Yet, there was not completion within him.
He slowly began to make his way past the sentries and the gates into the village to find some of the Knights assembled at the tavern, Vanora singing a song in her clear, angelic voice, and Gawain nursing two mugs of ale. He sat beside Gawain, and chuckled to himself when the second mug was slid over to him silently, a knowing grin on Gawain's face.
"Happy birthday," Gawain commented quietly.
"Happy indeed," Galahad laughed, taking a sip and turning to watch Dagonet fight with Gilly and take a savage beating by the fists of the young boy. They both laughed together as Dagonet went down to the ground, pummeled by the brazen fists, and Bors watched with pride.
He turned to the two of them and nodded.
"You two joining me and Dag tomorrow? We're heading out to the cliffs, see if we can't improve our range with the arrows," Bors asked, swaying his second-youngest around in the air as he spoke. "Tristan said he'd seen some Saxons doing some scouting, and we figured it's as good a target practice as any."
Galahad opened his mouth to refuse, citing the need to rest for a few days. He had calluses on his fingers that were prone to never heal if he didn't give them a few days of calm. Before he could speak though, Gawain opened his damned mouth.
"We'll go," he nodded, clapping a hand on Galahad's shoulder.
Galahad turned and glared at Gawain, feeling betrayed. He shook his head and made a sound of disbelief before getting up and storming away, unsure of where he was going. He didn't want to lock himself in his quarters like a petulant child, and he had a feeling Lancelot would not be around for a late-night conversation in which Gawain's name was cursed many times.
He was saved of making a decision when he felt a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks, and turning him around. He found Gawain standing there, a confused look on his face. Galahad felt the contact of his hand linger on him, and he felt a sharp burst of the lust he thought had turned into a low simmer over the years. This was not supposed to happen. Gawain was but a year away from leaving his years as a middling boy, and Galahad was two years behind him.
"Don't speak for me," Galahad said indignantly. They were in the square, and above them, the guards were switching their shifts.
Gawain's face remained serious, but his tone was light. "And why not?"
"It presumes that you know me well enough to do so," Galahad protested weakly, feeling the burn in his fingers as he spoke. He really did need the day off to rest his fingers, but a duty had been sworn. He was not about to back out now, not when he really did need the extra practice.
Gawain gave an amused sound that sounded like laughter. It made Galahad even angrier with him. "But I do know you well enough to speak for you," he replied logically with a careless shrug.
"I'm not in your care. Do not speak for me," he repeated in the best imitation of Arthur's sternest voice he could produce.
"Yes, of course," Gawain replied airily, in a stupid, stupid mocking tone. He was always mocking Galahad. He took a step closer to Galahad, and ruffled his hand through his curls, brushing his thumb across and grabbing stray leaves that had fallen in his hair. Galahad wanted to be angry, he truly did, but the combination of the good day, and the good ale made his anger quick to dissipate.
"You won't stop, will you?" Galahad gave a resigned sigh.
Gawain was grinning unabashedly now. "Never."
"I thought as much," Galahad grumbled, turning about and marching back to the tavern. "Come, if we don't return, Bors will have stolen both our drinks." He clapped a hand on Gawain's back and led them both back into the tavern to find two drinks, weighing much less than they did when they had left the table.
Galahad's year did not start in any enviable manner. Three weeks after his birthday, the Knights set out to ride for the West in an attempt to patrol the borders of Hadrian's wall to drive away any invading Saxons or Woads who took it upon themselves to try and spread their domain. It meant another number of months in the wilderness, no food but the rations, no company but the other Knights and no weather but the harsh give of a land coming out of winter. And to Galahad's discontent, it bore no different start to his year than any of the others.
On this specific campaign, one thing had changed. Lancelot and Arthur had ceased to speak to each other when they set out from their outpost. Galahad had quite a few ideas on why this was, and he was sure that Tristan shared the ideas. The assembled rest of the knights seemed not to know what was going on, save for that Lancelot would go to no end to avoid answering Arthur's questions, unless it had been a direct order.
The first thaw had been a welcome sight, and the far better news was that not a single enemy had been seen since they had first left the village. Tristan came by in the morning and announced that he'd seen no one, and that no one was following. This was met with a warm reception from all but Arthur, who stormed away. Lancelot followed him.
Galahad was sure that the day would most likely end better than it started. As he finished tying up the tents, he heard Gawain call for him right before he saw the sword that was tossed to him. His eyes widened as he caught the sword by the hilt and looked up to see Gawain, an eyebrow raised.
"If they're going to have their talks, we might as well train," he offered. "After all, when we go into battle they can talk for their truces as much as they wish. You and I, we'll just strike down our enemies."
"Sounds about right," Galahad grinned.
"There's that face of cheer and happiness," Gawain grinned in return, leading the way to a clearing nearby. "Galahad. Our beacon of light."
"Are you going to keep talking incessantly, or shall we train? Because you can join Arthur and Lancelot with all their talks if you insist on continuing," Galahad said with an eye roll, unsheathing his sword and dropping his shield to the ground. Gawain gave a hearty laugh before grasping his own sword comfortably, assuming a battle stance.
They circled around each other, meeting blades. Galahad spun away from the clashed swords and parried forward, cutting towards Gawain at the last fragment of the second – something that Gawain blocked with quick footing and a sure sword. They clashed swords once, twice, three times, and in the course of it all, Galahad lost his footing. It was a minor mistake in the land that Gawain used as an opportunity, spinning him around and resting the sword flatly against Galahad's neck, his arm wrapped around his body, clasping him and restraining him from moving.
Galahad sputtered and sighed.
"You've not beat me yet," Gawain reminded him, his voice right in his ear.
"There's a first time for everything," Galahad grumbled.
"You waste your time," Gawain released him, dropping his sword to the side. He sidled up to Galahad's side and stood at his back, wrapping his arms around him and resting them on Galahad's lower arms. "All those wasted seconds you use to make your attacks fancier are going to get you hurt. Be quick with your wrist, don't waste the seconds flaunting it about. And for pity's sake, move quicker on your feet."
Galahad rolled his eyes, still annoyed when people told him what to do, regardless of the fact that he willingly listened and went along with the advice the majority of the time. He allowed the muscles in his arms to relax and let Gawain guide them.
"Good," Gawain murmured, stepping him forward. "Never circle your opponent and always, always make sure you have a clear path of escape. I don't care if you've dug a hole that leads back to Sarmatia, if that's the escape, so be it."
"I'm sorry, but didn't Arthur teach me this years ago?" Galahad sarcastically bit at him.
"Yes, well, now I'm teaching you," Gawain retorted immediately. He made a small sound of amusement. "It's funny, though."
"What is?" Galahad sounded with confusion. Gawain trained the sword, placing both of Galahad's hands on the hilt. He felt Gawain's foot nudge his ankle forward and he assumed battle stance, the sword ready in front of him. He sighed automatically at having to be told to do something before completing the task by leaning his weight backwards.
"The way that…" Gawain began, but stopped, one hand firm on Galahad's back. "Keep your back straight," he sternly reprimanded. Galahad mocked him a moment before straightening his spine. "The way that Arthur and Lancelot dance around each other with such expert grace and advanced idiocy. I sometimes wonder if I'll need to use my axe to the back of Lancelot's head to give him some sense."
And there was a strange and terrifying moment in which Galahad realized that he knew something that Gawain didn't. It did not occur very often, and in this case, he was sure that Gawain had at least some notion of what was going on. Gawain moved his hands to Galahad's shoulders and ran them down his arms until they circled his wrists. Galahad shivered at the movement and allowed himself to go limp, watching the precise rhythm the sword danced with when Gawain guided it just so.
"Gawain. If I knew something, would you want me to tell you?" Galahad asked apprehensively, relaxing in his battle stance momentarily.
"Will it get me into trouble?"
"I…"
"Wait," Gawain interrupted, his tone amused. "It's you. Of course it will get me into trouble," he gave a long, drawn-out sigh that was done utterly in mocking of Galahad and he knew it entirely. "What is it?"
Of course the bastard still wanted to know. Curiousity killed much more than just the cat. "It's not necessary for you to beat sense into Lancelot's head," Galahad said after a moment of deliberation as to how best put it in tactful terms.
Gawain paused, but then there was movement again. One hand glided over Galahad's mid-section, and the other clasped onto his wrist as Gawain led him forward in a quick parry. "And why…wait." He paused. "Really?"
Galahad turned in Gawain's grasp on him and nodded. "For years now," he confirmed.
"How do you know?"
Galahad paused now, trying to search again for tact. "I…well, I caught them once."
There was another silent moment between them, in which Galahad began to realize just how close Gawain was, and how every touch guided his body in perfect and poetic motion, as though he was born to be led by these two hands. Gawain rested his hands on Galahad's shoulders, and Galahad relaxed his stance, awaiting a reply, waiting to be yelled at, and possibly waiting for questions.
"It's a way to find comfort," Gawain quietly scoffed. "And here I thought them blind. Sometimes, it's just needed after years in the cold, alone with no one that truly understands this life," he went on in that same soft tone, and it seemed to Galahad that with every word, he was pressing closer and closer to Galahad.
"Is it?" Galahad swallowed hard.
Silence again.
"If you ever want it of me…Galahad, I would be far more than willing to give you what you need," Gawain was offering him things now. The words sounded…they sounded good to Galahad, already tired of the woods, and the wilderness, and the loneliness. "It wouldn't be a chore."
"I think…" Galahad trailed off, his brain unable to form actual thoughts. There were consequences to this action as well, and he hadn't in any actuality ever seriously thought about an endeavour as such with Gawain, not in waking dreams.
"Are you blind to this too? You notice them, but not me?" Gawain voiced his incredulity.
Now, Galahad pulled away, understanding this situation and exactly what Gawain was offering, but failing to find a true and desperate desire for it. Perhaps the panic had sent it skittering away for the moment, but search as he might, it was not there. There had been passing feelings in which he had hoped for it, but nothing so concrete as to wish this moment to have happened. Tristan's words from weeks past came back to haunt his memory and the flicker of knowledge was sparked into a large flame.
"Tristan noticed this," he murmured. He shook his head, taking small steps backwards, and away from Gawain. "I can't, Gawain. I hold you dear to my heart, and I count you as my best friend, but I cannot take this from you."
Gawain nodded, his expression blank. "So be it," he quietly replied before picking up his sword and leaving the clearing. Galahad watched him go, his throat tightening as he did, and it was only when he was alone with the budding blooms on the trees that he sank down to the ground, his sword in his lap once more, and listened to his own heartbeat, seeking desperately to find reality in this muddle of confusion and offers.
Resolutely, he pushed back any emotions that were surfacing and demanding that the issue be attended to, Gawain spoken with, and the matter dismissed entirely. There was no need.
He got to his feet slowly and instead of heading back to their equipment, he circled the perimetre of the camp, looking for tracks and vowing to perhaps hunt something down to eat later on that didn't taste of stale bread. As he made his way, he heard the echoes of voices.
"You cannot control me," it was Lancelot, his voice sharp and brazen as ever.
"I do not wish to," Arthur responded calmly.
"You wish it with every breath! You would have me kept in a stable just as you keep the horses if it meant you keep me safe from harm," Lancelot snapped. "Arthur, when I die, I will die. It will be of my own choosing, and it will be done with honour. I will not be kept away because you are afraid!"
"And if I wish you safe from harm because I love you, what then?" Arthur yelled back. Galahad froze in his steps, unused to hearing such a loss of control come from Arthur. He clung desperately and tightly to the tree, the pieces of that same strange puzzle he had started by the riverside years ago coming together. "I will not have you risk your life for unnecessary deeds."
"You do not control my actions," Lancelot replied calmly. "And if you love me as you say you do, you will let me choose my own path."
"I would let you go forever if it meant you were safe," Arthur replied, calm again. "For I do love you enough."
"Arthur," Lancelot was chuckling, and Galahad could hear Arthur's soft laughter mixing in as well. "My Arthur. There are some ways of life that you will never truly learn. I will know you best until the end of our days, but still you will never learn."
"And the love I give to you?"
"Is returned by me tenfold," Lancelot replied swiftly. "For if you were less of an idiot about the world, you would already know that. Arthur, don't pray to your god to keep me safe. Trust in me that I will keep myself safe because I don't wish to be parted from you."
Another spot of laughter from Lancelot.
"Not just yet, at least."
Galahad slipped away while their voices were quieting. He made it back to the camp, avoided meeting Gawain's gaze and instantly volunteered himself for the night sentry, if only to keep himself attentive to other matters. Still fresh in his mind though, was the warm sensation of Gawain's hands on his arms, and his voice hushed in Galahad's ear.
tbc
