Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 5: Aftermath

The Knights sat around the tables in the courtyard-come-tavern, in thoroughly drunken silence. Every now and again Vanora would bring a jug full of ale and refill their mugs. Each time she passed, Bors would wrap her in a hug for a moment before releasing her back to her duties.

Lancelot sat quietly near the head of the table, his usual jesting stolen by the sullen mood. Beside him Gareth sat with his mouth pressed firmly closed and a hand gripping Gaheris' beside him. Gawain sat across from them, gripping his drink tightly and staring down into the ochre fluid. His eyes would occasionally flit over to Galahad who sat deep in frustrated contemplation beside him.

Galahad was oblivious to the world around him, however, and did not once catch Gawain's gaze. He had long ago forgotten about his drink and was, at that moment, praying that he could wake up in his bed in Sarmatia. If he did that, he supposed, then Mordred would still be alive, and none of them would have to stay here with the Romans and all would be well. If only he could just awaken from this dreadful dream.

Tristan leant against the kitchen's outer wall, one knee crooked so his foot rested on the cool bricks. An apple core sat in one palm, his fingers gripping a bread crust while his other hand tore off piece by piece and he ate slowly in his typical silent deliberation. He was unnerved, though, as he had grown used to doing his thinking with noise surrounding him and tonight's silence was haunting. Even the few Romans sharing the space were quiet that night.

The older Knights had disappeared earlier with Arthur to arrange for Mordred's burial the following day. They reappeared, now, with Arthur slowly trailing them. He seemed lost in his thoughts and his face bore too much pressure for one of his age. Lancelot privately thought it was a crying shame that such a man was so weighted that his face already showed lines.

Arthur and the others sat down amongst the younger men, exchanging glances and remaining silent in wait of their drinks. Vanora offered them a quick half-smile when she brought them mugs and drink. She left two pitchers full and made a mental note to return with more.

Arthur held his drink for a moment before raising it in the air. Still nobody spoke, and the toast was a silent one, as no one needed to be told whom they toasted. Finally Arthur took it upon himself to speak.

"You fought well, today." He said quietly, though in that profound silence it seemed far too loud. "All of you." The men nodded their assent and downed more drink.

It was at that moment that Maenus made his entry with a dozen or so Romans in tow. He held his head aloft, chatting comfortably. When the drinks came he held his up high above his head. His eyes darted once to Arthur before his words came, and his smile was wide across his face.

"To a Roman victory." He said loudly, and a few of the Romans glanced nervously at the Sarmatian table, well aware of the many eyes upon them.

"To victory." Some of them chorused, while the others managed the whole toast. The Sarmatians watched angrily as those high in the ranks sat smugly and downed their drinks, calling merrily for more.

"It was a fine day, for one and for all." Maenus said with a grin. "Was it not, Artorius?"

Arthur breathed deeply through his nose once in and out before turning his body to face Maenus. Maenus, who had been drinking for much of the night, made the mistake of continuing.

"All the Woads slaughtered." He said, counting off his fingers. "Minimal and," he paused with a pointed look at the knights, "inconsequential losses."

Bors reacted first, slamming his mug down and jumping to his feet, his glare fierce. Dagonet, still seated beside Bors, lowered his drink and calmly drew a dagger, stabbing it into the table.

"Inconsequential?" Lancelot questioned, tilting his head with a dangerous look in his eyes.

"We only lost sixteen Romans today." Maenus said with a smile. "And one Knight."

"A loss of seventeen men could have meant your cavalry." Percival noted.

"But instead we only lost one of the horsemen and he wasn't trained anyway." Maenus laughed.

"You sent him out there!" Arthur roared suddenly, leaping to his feet. "It was your order that he fight!"

Maenus suddenly appeared very angry. "We needed every man out there."

"He was not ready to fight!" Arthur yelled. "You ordered him to fight when he was not ready, even after I pleaded with you. You killed my man."

"Boy," Bors growled, "not even a man. You sent an untrained boy to his death. It should have been you to die on that field."

Maenus' angry and nervous expression was covered by bravado. "Do you threaten me? I hope that you do not threaten me, I who am your superior officer."

"If you do not wish threats," Lancelot said, raising his eyebrows suggestively, "then do not invite them." He stood and placed his hand firmly and obviously on the hilt of his sword.

Dagonet, Gaheris, Gawain, Gareth, Galahad and Tristan soon joined Lancelot, each with a weapon clearly in view. Percival swung his feet around, ready to leap if need be. Kay and Lamorak stepped forward to flank Arthur and Bedivere took a carefully measured sip of his drink, peering at Maenus over the rim.

"Sir," one of the men said beside Maenus. "Sir, we should leave."

Maenus glared once more at the Knights and laughed, turning away from his potential death. As they walked out they all felt the glares upon their backs. Each Roman who had been in that group made a swift beeline for the barracks and every Roman who had not been in that group quickly found another place to drink.

"One day, I'll kill him." Bors said angrily.

"One day isn't soon enough." Kay grumbled as he sat back down. "He should pay for his actions."

"And if he were to pay, do you not think another Roman equally disgusting would step up and take his place?" Bedivere questioned calmly. "Ronus, perhaps? Would you rather he were in charge?"

"Percival, I don't suppose he could fall ill within the next week or so?" Lamorak asked bitterly.

"Not without the supplies they have been denying me." Percival shook his head. "They have learnt some of what I use and they're holding it all from me. I only have the right mixtures to kill him."

The knights looked from one to the other with thoughtful gazes before sighing with resignation, knowing it was not a possibility.

"We should find rest, men." Arthur said quietly. "Dwelling on this will do us no good. Each of you find your bed and dream wonderfully of his impending doom."

The knights nodded and moved off to do as directed. Tristan sat alone for a while until everyone had gone but Gawain. The young blond boy sat and stared at the table with an angrily furrowed brow. He seemed to be oblivious to Tristan's presence. It was only when Tristan reached for the jug to refill his drink that Gawain looked up, startled.

"More?" Tristan asked.

Gawain nodded and pushed his mug towards Tristan. The older knight filled the drink and set the jug down between them.

"How many were…" Gawain began speaking and Tristan heard the pain in his voice.

"How many?" Tristan prompted.

"How many arrived in your group?" Gawain asked.

"Six." Tristan said. "We had two escapees, like yours, but I don't count them. Only six arrived at the wall." He took a sip of his ale and pondered the boy - nearly a man, sitting before him. Gawain's wasn't a handsome face, though it certainly had attractive features, but there was something captivating. There was a quality to Gawain that gave him such a distinctive appeal. Gawain shifted and his short, matted blond hair moved about his face. Suddenly blue eyes peered into Tristan's own.

"I feel different." Gawain said. He searched Tristan's face for an answer.

"We are all much older, today." Tristan told him, assuming he spoke of the battle. "The youngest have aged the most."

"I…" Gawain paused, embarrassed, and looked down at the table, then up at Tristan, his eyes intent. "It's not just that."

Tristan's mind jumped and perked up to pay closer attention, but his body remained still, his face impassive. He nodded his head to Gawain.

"Tristan, I…" Gawain stopped and sat up straight. He looked aghast for a moment, as though he had just realised what he was saying. He looked into his drink and finished it off, then glanced back at Tristan. "I'm going to go to sleep. I feel tired."

Tristan's recently perked mind slouched back down, thoroughly deflated at having been denied what it was expecting. Externally, Tristan nodded and stood as well. He downed his own drink and followed Gawain, quietly and at a distance.

What had he been expecting?

It occurred to him now, as he wandered along feeling dejected, that he had expected something of Gawain. He had expected certain words to be uttered in that moment. Was it dreaming? Why on earth would Gawain even think such things? Tristan didn't even know what, exactly, he had expected.

When Gawain turned into his room he did not look back at Tristan. Tristan heard quiet talk as he passed that door, Gawain and Galahad it would seem. He shook his head and made for his own bed. He found Lancelot wasn't present and could not deny the relief he felt. He shrugged off his clothes and checked his dagger underneath his pillow, lying down and relaxing his muscles.

He stared up at the darkened ceiling as he drifted off to sleep. His mind wandered but eventually it returned to his original thoughts.

What, in actual fact, had he been expecting to hear?

Tbc

A/N: So, ready for some action:) How long can you hold out?