Title: A Time To Heal
Author: sabor ice
Rating: PG-13
Story Status: Not completed.
Summary: How much will it take to mend a a broken heart? This is something both Galahad and Tristan will have to find out for themselves.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one except for any original characters and this here story.
Author's Note: I don't know how many chapters will be added onto this piece of writing, for it could range to a few to many. I am just playing it by ear here. Enjoy!
Feedback: Yes, please.
One
The knights sat silently in their own corners of the outdoor tavern. There was music and ale and bar wenchs galore, yet the knights' minds were clouded with the thoughts of the past days' events. Two fortnights past their brother, Percival, had been killed in the line of duty. Most everyone was torn by his sudden and unexpected departure into the netherworld. A fortnight past Percival was buried in the sad, little cemetary with the other fallen heroes, knights, brothers. This night was upon the knights, yet still they were grieving in their own ways.
The mood among the men shifted slightly from its sullen solitude. Lancelot and Arthur had begun a game of cards with some local patrons. (Lancelot was cheating, of course, but he wasn't about to let the others know that). Gawain, as usual, was in a corner surrounded by beautiful barmaids. He had a girl on each knee and one hanging around his neck playfully. Dagonet and Bors were at the bar with Vanora, Bors' girlfriend. They spoke until Bors asked Vanora to sing a song for the men. She at first declined, but then agreed and walked into the middle of the square proudly.
Galahad's eyes watched her from behind his mug of ale for a moment, before shifting them toward the lone knight. Tristan sat at the furthest part of the outdoor tavern, skillfully playing with his knife before using it to cut up an apple. Galahad watched as he slipped each apple piece into his mouth, savouring the juices as if it were wine from the Garden of Eden.
The scout's gaze did not look up as Vanora began to softly sing her tune. The words seemed to course through his body, stiffling his actions as he cut his apple up. Galahad watched the slip of his blade cut his finger. Tristan, not caring, wiped the blood from his cut on his pants and continued eating. From Galahad's view, it seemed more than a small cut. The blade really dug deep into his skin, yet the older knight's face stayed emotionless. That was his way, though, to not show how he felt. Most would think that to be an inhuman nature, but Galahad found it to be a dictator for grief and pain.
As Vanora ended her song, the knights cheered before going about their business. Then, Galahad saw something he swore he'd never see. Tristan picked up a glass of ale and drank it all. Soon after, he picked up two more and drank them as well. Galahad rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. Tristan getting drunk! Now, he had seen most everything!
After finishing his third or fourth mug of ale, Tristan began to depart. Galahad slowly got up, but waited a time before following. (He did not want to make it so obvious that he was following the scout). As he passed out from the tavern area, Galahad walked into pure darkness. He could hardly see, save for light coming from lit torches. Suddenly, he came upon Tristan sitting in the snow. He approached carefully, so not to surprise the drunk and armed man. He wasn't intending to lose an eye over foolishness this night.
Tristan's head was cocked back on the wall behind him. His eyes were closed, but he did not appear to be asleep or unconcious in any way. Galahad stayed back a few paces as he looked down on the knight.
"Tristan?" Galahad whispered.
The only reply was a quiet moan from the scout's lips. Galahad stepped closer to him.
"Go away," Tristan muttered, making Galahad jump back slightly, surprised.
"You're drunk, knight, I think it'd be best you get to your quarters," Galahad said, almost timidly.
Tristan turned his head and opened one eye to Galahad. He could hardly move any other part of his body, save for his lips. He was completely out of it.
"Make me," Tristan slurred out. Then, he began talking to himself. "I don't care...I don't--I don't care anymore. Not right...wasn't his time...wasn't...no...my fault--"
The knight's words were cut off as he passed out head first into the snow bank beside him. Galahad stepped over Tristan and quickly sat him up. He listened to his breathing until he could hear Tristan was breathing fine. Struggling a bit, Galahad finely propped the scout up enough to throw him over his shoulders. Now, Tristan was definately taller and more built than the small-framed Galahad, but there was some muscle behind the youngest knight none-the-less. He heaved his body upright, Tristan still across his shoulders like a cloak.
Once Galahad finally made it to his quarters, he found it severely occupied by Gawain and some barmaids. He left before anyone noticed his presence and made his way towards Tristan's place. He backed into the small room and kicked the door shut with his foot. Fianlly, he collapsed backwards onto the scout's bed. He sighed deeply, catching his breath. He ran his fingers through his curly hair and looked down at Tristan. The knight was still out cold, and no amount of anything was about to get him awake tonight.
Galahad patted his shoulder and crossed the room. He exited the scout's room, closing the door behind him. As Galahad made his way towards Gawain's quarters (since Gawain occupied Galahad's place,) he bumped into Lancelot.
"Hey, Galahad," the knight said. He was also slightly drunk. "What happened to Tristan?"
"I don't know," Galahad lied. "He had a few drinks and went back to his quarters I think."
Lancelot chuckled, clasping Galahad's shoulder lightly. "Don't worry, I'm sure Tristan will be his usual charming self by morning!"
Galahad let out a forced laugh as Lancelot left him. His eyes looked back at Tristan's quarters, shook his head, and blew out a sigh.
"Sleep well, friend," he said.
Then, he continued walking back again to find sleep himself. Galahad lay in his bed (actually it was Gawain's,) in a restless state. His arms were folded behind his head, propping it up a bit. His eyes carvings from knives in the ceilings. He saw each knight's name in the wood. The last names were Percival and Tristan, but written in Percival's handwriting. (The lone knight wouldn't care to have his name be known anywhere anyway).
Turning on his side, Galahad blew out another sigh. He wondered again about Percival, but then his thoughts wandered toward Tristan again and again. He could tell the two had a special bond. Tristan acted differently after Percival's death. His attitude had changed, become more sullen than usual. Then, there was the drinking to consider. Tristan never touched a drop beforehand. Whatever was between them before, Galahad knew now was gone...broken...severed...by Percival's untimely death. As the night dragged on, Galahad finally closed his eyes and found sleep.
End, 'One.'
