Title: Fealty

Author: Cerasi

Pairings: Initially Tristan/Lancelot. Future chapters get much more involved.

Disclaimer: Nobody actually owns the original Knights, but I do owe these particular versions to the makers of that wonderful film King Arthur. I suppose this disclaimer is just filler, isn't it. Few people read them, and I find it hard to believe that anyone, script writer, novelist etc, actually goes through to uncover those dastardly writers who refused to put a disclaimer at the beginning of their fanfic! Evil writers! But, yeh, if you want to sue me then good luck to you. If you manage to find me then I think you deserve money! But I ain't payin' ya diddly squat because I put a disclaimer at the top of my fic, and here goes the fic:)

Knights of the Round Table

Chapter 1: Last Call

Tristan let loose another arrow and it thudded heavily in the tall, dead tree. He sighed contentedly and smiled just a bit as he admired his own marksmanship. Reaching over his shoulder be brought forth and cocked another arrow. He breathed in an out once to concentrate his attention and let fly another perfectly placed shot.

Tristan had been one of the elder boys to be brought from Sarmatia to serve at Hadrian's Wall. The Romans had taken any boy over the age of ten to serve 'the mighty empire'. Tristan had, at that point, been nearly twenty and a fine hunter. His father had never held any hopes of keeping his son from the Romans, and Tristan had grown up without the fanciful images of knights in shining armour, as the other men of the village told it.

Knowing the future his son would have, Tristan's father trained him as a fighter, as well as a hunter for their village. He had learnt swordplay and archery almost as soon as he could walk. His father had been a scout in his days of Roman service, and taught Tristan the same skills with extreme attention to detail.

Tristan stood now, barely months after their departure from Sarmatia, a man of twenty and the finest warrior amongst the latest group of young boys to have been stolen from their families and homeland. The roman officer overseeing their training, having noted Tristan's superior skill and training, had sent him off to practice alone.

Thus Tristan came to be standing just outside the Roman fort at Hadrian's wall, amongst trees at the bottom of Badon hill, when a small party trekked it's way past him and up the small dirt road. Tristan's interest was piqued and he saw the perfect opportunity to test his scout skills on a group of Roman legionnaires.

Tristan slung his bow over his shoulder and left the arrows he had already fired in the tree. He then ducked low and paced quickly behind a tree that would keep him shielded from the Romans. He peered around the tree and then ducked over to the next tree in the same manner as before.

This he repeated until he was mere paces from the road on which the Romans walked their horses. Tristan ran ahead of them, his footsteps light and his position always hidden, and then sprang up into a tree to peer down from the mid-branches. He balanced himself and swung his body partially around so he could peek past the trunk and down onto the road.

The Roman party turned out to be, not just Romans, but a group of young boys surrounded by an escort of the imposing officers. The entire party looked exhausted and bedraggled as their equally tired horses plodded their way along the last stretch of the road. The Romans seemed to brighten ever so slightly as they got closer to the fortress, but the young boys in their company, if possible, seemed to darken further at the approach.

Tristan studied their garb closely. He was certain that they were Sarmatian boys, possibly those mentioned in a report he had heard earlier. If this were truly them, then they would be "the final group of would-be knights. A bunch of troublemakers, they were. Thrice the lot of them ran away, despite warnings and whips."

Tristan recalled laughing to himself when he heard of one boy who had sat his horse silently for the first week of travel before making a break for it and the rest of the boys had followed his example. Another slightly older boy joined the young lad in his plans the second time round, and the rest had followed suit as before.

The third time had been the Roman's greatest trial of the journey. Two of the boys had died of frost and fever respectively on the path, and one was showing similar symptoms. Together the Sarmatian boys had decided on a much more organised plan of attack, and one that involved getting the sick boy to safety. Tristan had not heard all of what had been done, but it involved nighttimes, stolen horses, diversions, and one sick boy managing escape on the fastest horse they had.

Looking down on the group of dishevelled Sarmatian boys, Tristan fancied he could guess those of the tale. He saw one boy under particular surveillance from the Romans, and he held his head higher than the others, though it bore obvious signs of a severe beating. He seemed to be one of the youngest of the group, and one of strong spirit also.

The second boy, Tristan deduced, would be the one whose already dread-locked hair hung to his shoulders. He sat his horse well, but looked about him warily as though ready for attack at any point. He also rode quite close to the first boy and glared away any Roman who dared even look at his friend.

There were three other boys in the small party. Studying them closely Tristan noted a similarity in appearance between two of them and the boy with the dreadlocks. Of these two one looked to be older than the others, maybe fifteen, and the other looked no older than eleven, if that.

The last boy that rode in was the eldest of the lot, seventeen. He rode at the back of the Sarmatian group with his eyes downcast and his sodden hair falling over his face. It seemed to Tristan that on this boy had the journey taken its harshest toll. As they passed Tristan's perch he climbed to the lower branches in silence and leaned as close as he discreetly could. The last boy's face looked grey in its paleness and Tristan shook his head with a sinking heart. The boy was not going to make it.

Tristan dropped out of the tree and scampered quickly around to the training area where, in a low voice, he told the others that "new Sarmatian blood has just arrived." He grinned ever so quickly to himself as the group of four young men dropped and sheathed weapons and moved off toward the fortress entrance. Just as they were leaving the practice yard Percival and Lamorak looked up from where they threw dice across a table.

Lamorak sprang up and grabbed Lancelot by the shoulder and spun him round.

"And where do you think you're off to?" He asked with a growl. Lancelot smiled, though warily as Lamorak was the uncontested strongest knight at Hadrian's Wall.

"New Sarmatian boys." Lancelot said, in an air of reporting.

Lamorak smiled to Percival who watched the encounter with interest. "Boys!" Lamorak laughed. "As though he's anything more himself!" He turned back to the boys, having released Lancelot's shoulder but Percival asked his question before he got a chance.

"How do you know?" He asked, looking about.

"I saw them." Tristan said, looking Percival carefully in the eye as he spoke. "When I was training."

"Hmm." Lamorak smiled. "Sounds good. The main gate?"

The boys looked to Tristan who nodded.

"Right then, Percival. Shall we have a look?"

Percival grinned and stood; poking his head in through the window of the building they were sitting by. A moment later Bedivere and Kay emerged with smiles on their faces and started jogging off toward the main gate, closely followed by Percival, Lamorak and then all the young men who, for all their youth, still struggled to keep up with their veteran senior officers.

They got to the gate just as it was opening to admit the convoy. The Sarmatians weaved their way through the gathering crowd of Romans and Britons to get to the head of the crowd. When they got there the Roman party dismounted but the young boys stayed atop their horses and gazed about with a mixture of apprehension and amazement.

Ronus, the officer in command of the small group, approached the Sarmatians with his head held high, despite his obvious fatigue. He snarled at the Sarmatians, demonstrating the rift that still existed between the two peoples.

"Bedivere." He called. Bedivere had a slight smile on his face as he stepped between Kay and Lamorak to come to the fore of the group.

"Ronus." He said with obviously false nicety. "I see you were successful in kidnapping more children to serve the empire."

"Bedivere, your men are blocking my way. Have them take our horses and clear our passage to the sleeping quarters." He said with a growl.

"Ronus," Kay mocked, stepping forward and using his immense height to force the Roman soldier to back off. "We do not take your orders."

"You take the orders of Rome, Kay. And I am of Rome. Move aside, and do as I say."

"We shall never take orders from the likes of you, Roman filth!" Lamorak sneered as he, too, stepped forward. Tristan and the others watched with enthusiasm as the Romans backed further and further away in the face of these fierce warriors. Already Ronus was standing alone, the rest of his men 'tending to their horses' instead.

"The way I see it, Ronus." Bedivere resumed with a calm tone of voice. "You and your men can see to your own horses, and clearing the road. We shall take this group of Sarmatians," he paused with emphasis, "and get them out of your way. They are, after all, our charge when they reach Hadrian's Wall." He smiled pleasantly and both Kay and Lamorak grinned widely. Percival chuckled to himself and glanced back at the four younger men who were each trying to keep back their laughter. Even Tristan had a wicked smile on his face, and he did not oft show his emotions.

"Fine, then." Ronus glared at the lot of them. "I'll be glad to get rid of the little brats anyway."

"Yes." Percival spoke up from behind Lamorak. "The way I heard it told, those 'little brats' had you chasing them all over the countryside."

Ronus shot him a dark look and turned quickly back to the young boys. "Off you get, then. You're in the Knight's care now and you've no need of horses for the time being." He shouted at the boys. As he approached the spirited young boy who had had them all on the run so often Ronus saw one final opportunity for revenge.

"Off that horse, boy." He said with a dangerous tone and he shot his hand up to the boy's neck and pulled him to the ground with such a force that the boy had no time to react before he was gasping for air in the mud. Before Ronus knew what was happening, though his own face was dug into the same mud and was being held there by a weight pressed firmly on his back.

A few moments later the weight was lifted and Ronus heard shouts as he pulled off his helmet. He looked about wildly until his eyes came to rest upon the dreadlock lad being held back by Lamorak's strong arms while Kay had taken the young boy Ronus had assaulted and the rest of the Sarmatians gathered around the final three boys who they had spirited off the horses.

"That boy deserves punishment!" Ronus shouted. "Hand him over to me now, so that I may deal with him in the Roman fashion!"

"Enough dishevelled young boys have reported to us of the 'Roman fashion' that you deal them with late at night." Percival said with an evil smile before the smile faded and he glared icily. "And I swear you shall never touch a Sarmatian in that manner!"

"Insolent bastard!" Ronus shouted. The other Sarmatians laughed at his expense as the colour rose to his face and turned away before he had time to come up with a reply. As they retreated Lancelot looked up at Percival with a surprised look overcoming his amusement.

"Is that true?" He asked Percival quietly, but all the Sarmatians listened intently. "About the boys?"

"It has happened twice. Each time I ensured that he knew I was aware of it, and he… suffered an illness and a fall both times." Percival smiled. "Not for many months has it happened, and I doubt it shall ever occur again while I live."

The older knights grinned at Percival's wicked ways. He had arrived at the Roman outpost with none of the skills needed for this life but had quickly adapted to the life and had learnt the more subtle ways of dealing with the enemy. The enemy that, when not present, would be replaced with Roman officers at every opportunity.

The group walked through the streets more sedately than before, now having a tired group of youngsters with them. As they went it began to rain and they hastened to the quarters of the Sarmatians. Inside the room that had been set aside for the newly arrived boys they found fires lit and water boiling as well as basic clothes set out and eight pallets on the floor. Huge pots stood over fires at one end of the room for bathing water and several tubs had been brought in and set up.

"Service!" Bors said, clapping one young boy on the shoulder. "Relish it, boys. We haven't seen service this good since we arrived, months ago!"

"And that was the first we'd seen it since we arrived." Lamorak said. He had finally released the shoulders of the young boy with the dreadlocks and watched as the boy went amongst the other lads to check on them.

Bedivere stepped toward the boys and they all stood to attention, acknowledging the command he seemed to possess. They stared at him with varying emotions, but for the ill looking, dark haired boy Tristan had spied earlier, whose sight wavered around the room, occasionally seeming to focus on a face or an object.

"What are your names, boys?" Bedivere asked with a look that told nothing of his emotions if, indeed, he had any at that point. It was the dreadlock lad who stepped forth first. He faced Bedivere, with his alert, blond head tipped down slightly, eyes looking up at Bedivere with an expression that suggested there was defiance in him if he deemed it necessary.

"I am Gawain." He said. "These are my brothers Gaheris and Gareth." He indicated to the two Tristan had thought similar in features. Both boys nodded a greeting. "This is Galahad." He nodded to the young boy who had been thrown to the ground earlier. "And this is Mordred." He turned a worried glance to the ill boy at the back.

"I heard that eight travelled with you. What of the others?" Bedivere asked. He spoke as if expecting a full report from a soldier, not as one usually spoke to a thirteen year old boy.

"Two died on the road of fever, caused by the cold." It was Galahad who spoke this time, an undercurrent of seething anger in his voice. "That Roman bastard had forced them to sleep out in the snow and then wondered that they had not survived." He sneered at the ground as though reliving the events in his mind. "Of the third..." He trailed off and looked at Gawain.

"My brother Agravain travelled with us also." Gawain said. His voice seemed to always slightly muffled, but his words were clearly understood. "But he began getting sick during the second week of travel so… he got away." The guilty look on his face told all.

"So this was the party that made three escape attempts and got one boy away." Percival said, beaming with approval. "Well done, boys. Pity the rest of you didn't escape because we can't let you, now."

The boys looked up at him expecting evil, but all they saw was a look of apology. His expression then changed to one of confusion and almost horror before he leapt forward past the boys.

Percival caught Mordred just before the young boy hit the ground, and lifted the seventeen-year-old's limp form near effortlessly to a pallet on the floor by one of the fires. The boy was shivering all over and his half-lidded eyes shot wildly around the room, no longer seeing anything.

All the Sarmatians froze, except for Tristan who dashed out to his shared chamber and found some herbs and any healing items he held therein. He trotted quickly back to where the young Mordred lay and dropped the items down by Percival's side.

"What happened to him?" Bedivere asked, looking worriedly down to the boy. The other boys mirrored Gawain's expression of fear and anxiety. They all looked at Mordred with a horrified knowledge that he was dying, but they couldn't admit that to themselves. After a moment's inaction Gawain tore over to Mordred's bed and knelt down.

"When the other boys were sent to sleep outside he followed. He went to take care of them because he was the eldest and he thought he should." Gawain explained hurriedly as he looked about for something he could do. "They beat him for doing so, and for a while he looked like he would be alright." He shook his head. "He was doing fine until today. I don't know what's happened to him." Gawain said honestly and desperately.

"He has a fever, Bedivere. But I'll check his body in case he has wounds that may have caused it." Percival said. He was already sorting through Tristan's herbs for things of use to him, occasionally selecting one or two and setting them aside.

"Put him in my chamber." Lamorak offered. "He can take that bed."

The boys watched as Lamorak stooped and lifted the boy to carry him out, followed quickly by Percival who snatched one of the large pots of the water from a fire and took some of Tristan's herbs. Bedivere passed a quick instruction to Kay before he, too departed. Kay closed the door behind them and turned back to the boys.

"He…" Kay suddenly realised he could say nothing to ease the minds of these boys. "You should get some sleep. Or food." He paused uncertainly then continued on, evidently having formed a proper idea in his head. "Bathe yourselves, all of you." He glanced at the older boys. "I shall return to fetch you for food later this evening."

The older boys nodded and Kay turned to follow the rest of the knights to see what must be done. Once he was gone they all turned back to the shocked young boys standing about the room.

"You heard him." Bors said once as he and Dagonet stalked out of the room. Tristan sat by the pallet collecting his herbs and medicines. He glanced up at Lancelot who was looking intently at where the boy, Mordred, had just been, a troubled expression on his face.

He broke away from his troubled thoughts when he heard the sound of a struggle of some sort. He jumped to attention, immediately expecting to find the boys squabbling. When he turned, however, all he saw was Gareth attempting in vain to lift the heavy pot of water from the hook above the fire. Lancelot stared for a moment before veering over to the fire. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder to draw his attention.

"Together?" He asked, knowing full well he could lift it alone.

Gareth nodded somewhat warily and returned his hands to the handle of the pot. Lancelot counted to three and they pulled the pot off the hook and walked over to the tubs. Here Lancelot lifted it up and Gareth used his sleeves and cloak to protect his hands as he tilted the pot and poured the water. It steamed and hissed as it poured into the tub.

"Now get some cold water so you don't scald yourself." Lancelot instructed. He turned to see Tristan assisting Galahad with the same task and chuckled to himself as he looked at the young boy. "Tristan." He said quietly as he passed. "Perhaps it is best that this one does scald himself."

Tristan raised an eyebrow in question.

"With a face that pretty, he'll soon be rivalling me for the women around here." Lancelot explained with a grin. Galahad caught that comment and gave him a look part way between confusion and anger, not entirely sure what to make of it.

"And what use," Tristan whispered quietly so that none of the boy would hear. "Do you have of women?"

Lancelot playfully threw a discarded washcloth at his comrade and returned the pot to sit beside the fire. Seeing that all others were managing well with their own burdens he and Tristan left the room and the boys to themselves.

So, a quick note (and the only one, I promise) to inform you of this fic and it's future. I'm writing this mostly because I'm having real difficulty restarting After Troy (apologies to those readers!) and I have read every Galahad/Gawain/Tristan/Lancelot and some Arthur fanfics that exist on and most of the others (obsessive much) and I decided to have my say. It starts as Tristan/Lancelot, will meld into Gawain/Tristan, Lancelot/Arthur and eventually to Galahad/Gawain, Lancelot/Arthur, and Tristan doing whatever and whoever he so chooses. And it is somewhat Tristan-centric throughout. So, pray tell, what did you think of the beginning?