Two days of trekking did not wear well on Galahad's patience.

Nor was the fact that Arthur and Lancelot were in good spirits again, kidding each other with light jokes and leading a merry charge across the frontier to track down their enemies and make sure they were staying away. For every smile Galahad saw on Lancelot's face, and for every laugh of Arthur's, he felt twice as miserable and upset. He trekked forward, pushing to the head of the pack with Tristan and helped scout out the road ahead more often, just to get away from all the blasted good cheer.

It seemed Bors had quickly noticed the sour mood that Galahad was in, and during one of their breaks, he made a comment that turned everything both awry, and patched things up.

"Well, you'd best cheer up boy, because there aren't any whores around here to do it for you," Bors had chuckled to himself.

Tired of the situation, bitter at another jibe sent his way, Galahad rolled his eyes and didn't think before he spoke. "No, the only thing close is Gawain." Only after the bitter words had passed his lips did Galahad pale, his attention immediately turned to Gawain and he started in his place, ready to apologize. Before he could say a word though, a look flickered over Gawain's face, the angriest look he'd ever seen on him outside of battle. It was barely seen by Galahad before he stormed off.

"Best chase him down," Dagonet nudged Galahad forward with a quiet murmur.

Galahad stumbled to his feet and followed the footprints on the path, finally catching up as Gawain slowed down to a halt, bent over his knees as he turned slightly, and shook his head.

"You…" he stood upright, his spine straight and a harsh glare directed right at Galahad. "You son of a whore, you miserable brat, there are no words for what you are," he raged, taking steps towards Galahad.

Gawain did not hesitate for a second before connecting his fist with Galahad's face, sending him stumbling back. Gawain launched himself at Galahad, sending them both tumbling over the side of a gentle slope. Galahad wrestled to get free of the grip, managing to knee Gawain in the groin, but not before Gawain could land several more punches. With a a final punch to the side of Gawain's face, he managed to pry him off of Galahad's body.

They lay there upon the dew on the ground, faces up to the sky, gasping for breath. Galahad frowned, feeling the sting of the blows and knowing that he would probably have bruises for a few days. Galahad turned slightly so that he could see the expression on Gawain's face.

"Are you still angry with me?" Galahad ventured hesitantly.

"Of course, you idiot," Gawain snapped at him. He brushed away the twigs that had fallen onto his chest as he sat up halfway and inspected himself before groaning and lying on his back again.

Galahad sat up, his hands draped over his knees as he studied Gawain. "You haven't killed me though," he said with a shrug, offering one hand to Gawain to help him sit up. Gawain took it and gave him a terrible glare that made Galahad feel slightly weaker in stature than he had in many years.

"All good things in time," Gawain promised, brushing off his sleeves. "Besides, I had it in mind to get Tristan to do it, and make it less work for me." He got to his feet and extended his hand to Galahad, who reached up to take it, but at the last second, Gawain pulled it back with a smirk. "Come, they're probably worried about us."

Gawain grasped onto Galahad's arm and hauled him up, brushing away the leaves that were on his clothing, and shaking his head as he looked down at the skirt that Galahad always chose to wear.

"And when they ask of our bruises?" Galahad inquired.

"We were attacked," Gawain stated.

"Yes," Galahad shook his head as they began their ascent up the hill. "For that won't cause unnecessary panic."

"Perhaps I won't bruise, then it's an easy explanation! You are quite clumsy," Gawain cheerfully said, making it to the top and pulling Galahad up with him. They both made sure that they still had their weapons before heading back to the camp to find the rest of the Knights waiting for them, a displeased set to Arthur's face.

"Have you two kissed and made up?" Lancelot teased from behind Arthur. Gawain rolled his eyes, and Galahad massaged his jaw lightly, already feeling the soreness from Gawain's punches. He noticed with smug satisfaction that Gawain was having slight trouble walking properly and hoped that the awkwardness would last for a day or so.

Dagonet raised a curious eyebrow Galahad's way, but he was too busy massaging his jaw to notice. Bors nudged his elbow into Gawain's side, an action that got a wince out of Gawain. They were assembling to continue on westward, finishing up their circle before returning back.

"If you say another word, I'll beat you," Gawain tiredly threatened Lancelot as he grasped a bundle in his arms and began to load up his horse. "With the dull side of my axe blade."

Galahad pulled Dagonet aside, and quietly inquired as to when they would pass a flow of ice or anything else that was particularly cold, explaining that Gawain had landed a few well-placed punches before they could reach a temporary truce. Dagonet nodded with quiet understanding and promised to get him something when they camped at nightfall. As they saddled up and prepared to pull away, Galahad caught Gawain's gaze and gave him a slight smile.

"The sun shines again," Gawain commented as they pulled away from their encampment.


"If you insist on that move, Galahad, for god's sake, at least use your shield to protect yourself," Arthur shouted down from the top of the watch. "Unless, of course, your will is to be killed by anyone with two eyes that can see the large opening to attack."

"Yes, Arthur," Galahad briefly paused to speak to him before returning his attention to Gawain's ready sword. He gave a brief, cocky grin to match the one on Gawain's face as their swords met above their heads, the shield protecting Galahad's body.

One, Galahad counted. Two, the swords spun and clashed again. Three, Galahad turned right as Gawain slashed to his left. Four, that damned axe of Gawain's was right where Galahad had spun off. It hovered in front of him, and for a moment, it looked as if it might leave a scar on his upper arm, but Gawain recoiled immediately.

Galahad gave a frustrated sigh and tucked his sword away, stepping away so that Dagonet and Bors could have some time to train. He made his way through the courtyard and filed out the gates, heading towards the stables, but turning instead and pacing around the empty tables of the tavern. Quick footsteps were catching up to him, and of course, lo and behold, there was Gawain. Galahad turned, feeling his patience about to snap, his anger hot on his heels, and all common sense flew from his mind.

"Why do you hesitate when we spar?" Galahad immediately spat angrily. Gawain frowned, following Galahad as he turned and paced.

"I don't!" Gawain protested.

Galahad spun so that they were facing each other. "You do. I have the ghosts of a hundred scars you never gave me. No one holds back, save for you. If you mean to protect me, then hurt me. Do not coddle me! Scars are inevitable, and I would much rather have them by your sword. By your hand."

"I've killed many men," Gawain began quietly, one hand reaching out to grasp Galahad's wrist and restrain him from pulling away and storming off. Gawain caught Galahad's gaze. "I've hurt more than I've killed. You will not be one of them."

Galahad snorted. "You do this in vain. I bear marks of Arthur. Of Lancelot and Dagonet. Bors has painted my flesh with scars, and I've a fair share from both Tristan and that damned bird." He paused, and looked up, strangely feeling something akin to disappointment in him. "But not a scratch from you."

"No," Gawain admitted, before confusion and amusement flickered over his face. "I didn't realize that hawk was capable of scarring."

It was something meant to make Galahad laugh, to break the mood, and inject desperately needed humour into the moment. It did nothing for Galahad but make him feel a painful reminder of things past. He was so tired of it all, of dancing around subjects and emotions. Perhaps he had made a mistake in the clearing that day. That was not the issue for the moment though, and Galahad needed to stay true to that.

He stepped closer, quietly speaking and with every word, placing the intensity of four men behind it, "Mark me, Gawain," he moved even closer, Gawain's hand still burning on his wrist. "Leave your legend," he quietly urged.

Gawain shook his head. "You refused it of me," he replied just as quietly before turning and walking back to the courtyard, his steps slow and heavy. Galahad paused, closing his eyes tightly and sorting himself out before returning to join the rest of the men, now turned to archery and provoked by Bors' young ones who were demanding, 'Tristan! Tristan! The apple! Hit the apple!'

Tristan obliged with a slight and confident grin, shooting three arrows in the same shot and managing to hit three pieces of fruit laid up side by side. Bors and Lancelot groaned together.

"Making me look bad," Bors grumbled.

"And ruining the fruit," Lancelot added woefully.

Tristan calmly raised an eyebrow, lining up his bow and putting another arrow through the arrow in the middle apple, causing it to split from the feathers to the tip. He winked at Gilly before heading over to the apple, plucking the arrows out and taking a bite of it. The assembled knights stood there in amazed silence.

"Now he's just showing off," Gawain muttered grumpily.

"I'd like to see him hit that mark from further off. He's so close, he can practically see the shine of the apple," Lancelot added cockily, an unsure set to his face despite the confidence of his words.

"Don't worry," Tristan commented as he chewed on the fruit. "I'm not trying to encroach on your masculinity, Lancelot. The other Knights do that far better than I could ever hope to."

He departed the courtyard with a wink, leaving a furious Lancelot in his path.

Galahad remained on the outer flanks of the group, watching the scene, and wondering briefly just how long this too would last before battle could snatch another of them away. For a terse and miserable moment, he actually prayed to this supposed god that it not be soon, that it happen never, that they might be granted safe passage through this life.

"Well," Arthur's voice broke into his thoughts. "Isn't it time for Galahad's weekly reminder of how much he misses home, and the grand tales of Sarmatia, a land spoken of so greatly, I am beginning to believe doesn't quite exist."

"It does exist," Galahad snapped back defensively, stepping into the inner circle. "And it's far more hospitable than this British hell, and far more welcoming than your Roman civilization and culture." He propped one foot up on a crate, and took out his knife, stabbing it into the wood before settling down on the crate and sitting beside it. He closed his eyes. "If I just concentrate hard enough, I can still smell the cooking of the women, I can still hear the familiar conversation. If I just…" he let his head tilt back slightly, a small smile on his face, "…if I just concentrate," he went on wistfully, "I can see the land, and the faces, and hear my mother welcoming me home."

He opened his eyes and surveyed the faces of the Knights around him, all looking quiet and wistful themselves.

"Sounds like some fantasy you've got there," Gawain spoke up finally.

"Speaking of fantasies," Bors shook off the saddened set to his face and lifted up his child from the barrel she stood atop, putting her down on the ground, "I'm off to see my Vanora if we're done here. I don't suppose I can best Tristan with the bow, and Dag's already left enough marks on me with his axe for the day."

"Knights, take rest," Arthur commanded. He turned and gave a slight look of disquiet towards the outer wall. "Who knows when we shall be called into battle?" He clapped Dagonet on the shoulder before turning to head inside to his quarters. The rest of the Knights sat quietly, counting to themselves.

It was ninety-two seconds before Lancelot followed him.

Once he was completely out of hearing, Gawain chuckled to himself, holding out his palm. "Boys, I do believe I said it would be under two minutes," he laughed to himself as Bors and Dagonet placed coins in his hand. Galahad rolled his eyes and flipped a coin over to Gawain, which was caught easily. The moment the assembled knights had found out about Lancelot and Arthur – not by Galahad, he was glad to be able to withstand his virtue on that front – it had become a game to them, Gawain in particular. The most aggravating part though was that Gawain had a tendency to win.

It made Galahad wish he'd never shared his knowledge.


The fateful day that Galahad would never truly forget came soon after Arthur's proclamation that battle could be anywhere around the corner. It was as though he had invoked a curse as he spoke those words.

It was a forceful hand to his shoulder that woke him. Galahad sat up slowly, sweat sticky on his body, and rubbed his eyes. "What is…" he started to speak, but it came out hoarse, deep, and cracked. He cleared his voice and tried to focus. This summer was particularly brutal with its heat, and Galahad had taken to sleeping in nothing more than a long pair of underwear. He grasped for his sleeping shirt and tried to wake up. "What's going on?" he asked when he cleared his vision and found Gawain crouching beside him, a grave look on his face.

"Woads," Gawain said quietly. "Outside the walls."

"How many?"

"A hundred," Gawain replied. "Maybe more."

"That's not so bad," Galahad got up in search of his armour. Gawain was already fully dressed. "There are seven of us, but the Roman infantry ought to even…" he trailed off as he noticed the slow shake of Gawain's head. "What?" Galahad asked, his voice gone quiet.

"The Roman infantry is gone," Gawain said, hanging his head. "They went East to evacuate a village and reclaim some artifacts for their precious Vatican," Gawain spat out bitterly, spitting to the side and letting it hit the floor. Galahad was frozen, unable to do anything but stare down at the saliva on the ground.

"Wait," Galahad replied, his voice stricken with panic. "Wait, so it's just…it's just us?"

Gawain nodded silently as Galahad suited up with his armour. Galahad turned and undressed, ignorant to whether Gawain was watching him or not. He grabbed his chainmail, suiting up and finally tugged on his skirt before turning to find Gawain staring at him darkly, his eyes deadened.

"This is hopeless, isn't it?" Galahad quietly commented.

"So you'd think," Gawain nodded in agreement.

"Is there even a plan?" Galahad asked, putting on his boots and grasping for his shield. Gawain held out his sword to him, which he took and sheathed away before tucking his helmet under his arm. He and Gawain made their way out of Galahad's room, hearing the odd silence of the village and the cries of the Woads from outside.

Gawain gave a mirthless chuckle. "Arthur's praying right now. Perhaps that will work."

"Has it ever before?" Galahad questioned, grabbing a bundle of arrows and setting them up on his horse. He gave him a good petting and a quiet whisper to subdue any panic before going about preparing.

"We're doomed," Gawain replied simply.

They made their way into the courtyard, and Galahad was pleased to see that the field was clouded in the smoke that came from the brush being burnt to make way for new crops. Smoke meant surprise attacks and an advantage. They met up with the other Knights, save for Arthur, and they stood there in a strange and heavy silence.

Finally, Arthur exited from the stables, striding confidently.

"Bors, Dagonet, Tristan," he started, his words quick as arrows, "you three start up on the wall. There are a few villagers and soldiers left that will be there with you. You're the archers. Lancelot and I will charge from the East with our horses, cut a path through them. Gawain, Galahad, you charge from the West while we turn about. Bors and Dagonet, you two will join us after we've made two passes each, but Tristan, you're to stay and take care of their archers until the last possible minute."

"And is God to be with us?" Lancelot muttered bitterly to himself.

"Yes," Arthur replied confidently. He raised his swords. "Knights!"

Outside the wall, the demonic cries of battle came, and Galahad shivered slightly as he mounted his horse, looking to Gawain for a moment and watching as Arthur performed the sign of the cross. Lancelot got on his horse and they stood in a line, watching as the other Knights clambered to the top of the wall with a meagre offering of soldiers and villagers willing to die for this cause.

They stood in formation, their horses bristling, and the voices outside the wall louder and louder now. Arthur shook his head before putting on his helmet.

"These aren't normal Woads," he commented. "There's no organization, no plan to them. This is an attack from nowhere."

"You think them rebels?" Gawain voiced with incredulity.

"Rebellious rebels," Lancelot snorted, his horse snorting right after him. "There's always something new." With that, he nudged his horse over to the side, heading for the Eastern doors, led by Arthur. Galahad bowed his head, waiting for Gawain to take the lead, and following him as he led them towards the Western gates.

"If it's not so much to ask," Gawain said quietly, his focus briefly flickering to the top of the wall, where the other Knights were preparing their bows. "Don't die on me."

"I believe you promised to keep me alive," Galahad replied swiftly, his tone dark. "I'll be holding you to that." The gates were opened for them by two young boys, and Galahad briefly recalled that he was that young once, though it felt like he had aged too quickly away from boyhood. He offered a smile to the boys and listened to the sound of the gate closing behind him, shivering once more because it had a finality to it.

The screams were louder now. Gawain put on his helmet, and Galahad did so at the same time as they grasped the reins, sitting on the outskirts with their eyes on the wall, where the bows were being aimed towards the sky.

"Let's give them something to scream about," Gawain commented, his face stern and set, his tone fierce. It sparked something within Galahad, and there was no more fear or doubt in him. In the distance, he saw the glint of sunlight off of Arthur's raised sword and heard the deep cry of Bors, followed by one of Arthur's. Galahad raised his own sword, quickly followed by Gawain and they let loose cries of their own as they gave a kick to their horses, setting them into motion.

They carved a path through the smoke, and somewhere in the midst, Galahad parted from Gawain's horse, cutting lower to drive his sword through the gathered crowds of Woads. Arthur was right. There was no organization to this. As they reached the other side, they waited a moment for arrows to rain down over their heads before charging forward once more. As they did, in Galahad's peripheral vision, he noticed the front gates opening, and out came Bors and Dagonet.

Still, the fight looked to be one-sided. And Galahad looked to be on the losing side.

His horse raised up on its hind legs, tossing Galahad off. He grasped for his sword and shield, immediately clearing a path through the Woads, killing three men in the span of a minute alone. He saw Arthur fighting near him, on the ground and clearing a path with Excalibur, spilling the blood of many men at once. Galahad was concentrating on fending off two Woads at once when he heard the sickening crack of bone, and realized that it came from Arthur.

His leader let out a great cry of pain, but instead of buckling down to his knees, he pressed on, fighting faster with more fury than before. All around him, Woads dropped to the ground, Tristan's arrows a gift from the gods. Galahad found anger and fury deep within him and doubled his pace, attacking with both sword and shield now, ducking arrows from their few archers. He moved with grace as he fought, turning every lesson he had ever learned into a lethal offense.

He saw Dag dragging a still Bors back into the village, and Galahad fervently hoped he was merely unconscious. Still, he let out a great cry and spun on his heel, catching a Woad by surprise, and using him as a human shield against an archer. He threw his shield to the ground before charging forward with his sword and slitting the archer's throat.

A great cry of panic came from one of the Woads, before that same Woad turned and began to run off. Galahad watched them go, striking down more of them even as they retreated. To his side, he saw Tristan, now in the thick of battle and wondered idly how much time had passed. Galahad raised his sword to strike down the Woad on his knees in front of him, but before he could, he felt a piercing pain rip through his chest.

Galahad staggered backwards, his sword toppling from his hands as he looked down to find an arrow stuck in him in the dead centre of his chest, just to the right of his heart. He stumbled forwards now, falling to his knees and feeling his vision first blink with brilliant bursts of light, then begin to cloud with hazy darkness.

He watched in great pain as Tristan hauled the Woad that had been on his knees to his feet, and before Galahad's eyes, he heard the Woad beg for mercy as he surrendered. The Woad pleaded in the Knights' tongue to be spared, begged for a life subservient to them, if only he could live.

Galahad swayed on his knees, watching as the Woad begged and pleaded, and as Galahad watched, Tristan pushed him away slightly, lunged forward in the same graceful motion, and beheaded him with a swift strike.

Galahad succumbed to the pain and keeled over, blacking out, the last memory in his mind the bloodthirsty look on Tristan's face.

tbc