Fealty
By Cerasi
Chapter 6: Burial
"Tristan!"
Tristan sat up immediately, dagger in hand and eyes scanning about. All he found, however, was Lancelot with an excited expression, practically bouncing up and down beside Tristan's bed. Tristan groaned and rolled back over, fully intent upon returning to the sleeping world.
"Don't you dare go back to sleep!" Lancelot warned playfully. He jumped onto Tristan's bed, straddling the man's hips through the blanket. "I have news that you have waited months to hear!"
Tristan reached for his dagger again but Lancelot pinned his hands either side of his head. While Tristan was the uncontested winner of style and skill, Lancelot was still stronger than him in pure muscle and Tristan was unable, at that hour of the morning, to wriggle free of the firm grasp placed upon him.
"What is it?" Tristan mumbled, accepting defeat and turning his head to the side, closing his eyes.
"Look at me and listen, and then I shall tell you!" Lancelot said with a smile.
"I'm listening." Tristan said, praying that Lancelot would believe him and ramble on anyway.
"Oh, no you don't!" Lancelot grinned. One of his hands released Tristan's wrist and moved swiftly downwards. Tristan's eyes shot wide open not a moment later and he swallowed, hard.
"Cruel." He said, desperately trying to quell his physical reaction to Lancelot's pointed touch.
"But necessary." Lancelot grinned. "I don't suppose you'd care to hazard a guess as to who I spent most of the evening with last night?"
"No." Tristan said shortly. This answer only proved to enhance Lancelot's questing hands and Tristan was forced to look up. From the expression on Lancelot's face, Tristan had his answer. Despite himself, he grinned. "Well done."
"Well done? Well done!" Lancelot yelled and leapt off the bed, his previous motions completely forgotten. "Months and months and all you can say is 'well done'?" He grinned and composed himself once more.
"Was it worth the wait?" Tristan asked, awake now and in a rather uncomfortable situation. Lancelot had intentionally left him wanting, and not for the first time, he thought bitterly. He silently damned Lancelot's cruelty. Then again… Lancelot helped out, the other times.
"I..." Lancelot stopped and frowned. "We didn't get to that." He looked down at Tristan's groin and his grin returned. "I suppose you'd like a hand?" He asked with the traditional tilt of the head.
Tristan glared. That is, until Lancelot pulled the blankets back and lent his helping hand to the task.
When all was done Tristan lay back with a satisfied sigh. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Lancelot questioningly.
"Didn't get to that?" He asked, mind back on the task. "What did you do?"
"We spoke." Lancelot said, busily preparing himself for his return to the waking world. "That God of his, he's obsessed! But other than that…" Lancelot smiled and finished tying his boot. He looked up with a smile on his face.
"You're in love." Tristan muttered, shaking his head.
Lancelot nodded and looked down and then sighed. "The funeral is today."
Tristan jumped slightly. He hadn't exactly forgotten, not quite. But the memories had been repressed in his mind as though he was refusing to think on them. He stood up and prepared himself, Lancelot rocking back on his chair and staring at a wall the whole time. When both were ready they looked at each other and nodded. This was not the first funeral for either of them.
They emerged to find Bors at their door, hand poised to knock.
"Ah, I just came to get you." He said. "Bedivere and the others are up there, we're to bring the young ones."
Lancelot nodded and followed Bors down the hallway. Dagonet was there already, ensuring that all four of the young lads were dressed. The young ones wore their ceremonial armour today. For a moment Tristan was surprised, it was not the custom to do so. Perhaps theirs was a different custom.
"A sign of respect, we thought." Gaheris said when he saw Lancelot and Tristan staring. Both of them nodded to the young man, considering that perhaps they should have done the same.
Gareth found his way over to Lancelot's side. "Shall we wear our weapons also?" He asked quietly. Lancelot nodded and indicated to his own sword, hanging at his hip today. Gareth trotted off to retrieve his sword and walked quickly back to Lancelot who half smiled at the boy.
Tristan stood silently by the doorway, head down and eyes scouting about. They flickered back to Gawain every few moments. Gawain was watching the others quietly, especially Galahad. Gawain's eyes met with Gaheris' once and they seemed to acknowledge something between them.
The young Knights made their way up the hill to where the graves stood, overlooking the wall and fortress. Here was where the boys got their first real impression of the scale of loss at Badon Hill. The many graves, side by side but seemingly unordered, were none of them Roman. The sword that stood upon each of the graves was different. As they walked up the hill, each man's eyes lingered for a moment on the single swordless grave.
They arrived to find the grave dug and Mordred's body wrapped in pale linen resting in the hole. Bedivere, Percival, Kay, Lamorak, Dagonet and Arthur stood silently by the grave. When the other boys joined them a circle was formed about the grave.
Arthur led the ceremony. He spoke prayers in an ancient tongue and called upon Bedivere to speak the Sarmatian passages. The young Knights noticed several young lads running about quietly. Gradually, all the grave fires were lit and two young boys filled in the earth atop Mordred's body.
At last Arthur stepped up and drew Mordred's sword from a sheath at his side. He held it aloft, resting it across his upturned palms. The older Knights drew their swords and the boys followed suit, thrusting them to the sky as Arthur plunged Mordred's own into the earth. Each man bowed his head in silent respect and, one by one, turned and made their way down the hill.
Tristan wasn't the last to turn away down the hill. When he did he watched the remaining boys carefully. Gaheris stood by Galahad at the grave, each staring at the sword that was barely used. Gawain stood dutifully behind them, Gareth gripping his hand. Tristan sighed and turned back to the fortress.
That night the drinks were heavy. The days following, training was slack, and all was silent for some time after.
When training had resumed they soon learned to press down the thoughts. Mordred was not forgotten, but the mourning passed and the Knights learned to accept the loss.
Maenus fell ill shortly after the battle and remained confined to his bed for several days. He emerged weakened and angered, but could find no legitimate outlet for his anger.
Tristan later learned that Galahad had remained the longest at the grave. He had stayed late into the night before Gawain returned to bring him back. He also learned that Gaheris had effectively destroyed a practice post in an outlet of his anger and he, too, had been pacified by Gawain. The eldest of the brothers had seemed to place some measure of blame on himself, outrageous as that seemed, for Mordred's fall.
Arthur, too, had felt responsible for the tragedy; a fact greatly lamented by Lancelot, for the worried expression Arthur wore everywhere. The general consensus amongst the men, however, was a condemnation of Maenus for the events of that day, and none hid their hatred there after.
Unfortunately for the Knights, and Galahad in particular, Maenus only grew further agitated by their anger. He had been searching for some time for retribution for the 'illness' that had befallen him, and in Ronus he found it.
Danger lay ahead for the Sarmatian Knights.
