Fealty
By Cerasi
Chapter 8: Comeuppance
A/N: I'm slipping into Gala-cam for a bit, I needed the change of perspective for this scene. It'll slip back as soon as our enigmatic lover-boy is back in view. Forgive me…
"Little runt!" Ronus backhanded Galahad for the third time. In an effort to stay alert, Galahad had counted the number of times he had been hit. Three backhands, two punches to the stomach, one to the face, and one kick in the ribs. That coupled with rough handling, was more than he had ever expected to face.
Galahad's pride kept him up on his feet, in spite of the fear he felt, eyes staring into those of his main captor. The other men had removed themselves to a safe observation distance, but remained within the clearing. They watched the beating with stoic expressions; this was no novelty to them.
"You think you can make an idiot of me? You'll learn never to run away again, you'll learn to respect those above you, and you'll learn never, never to look at me with that smug look on your pathetic little face!" Ronus hit him again, Galahad fell hard. A moment of breathing in the fresh smell of grass at night, and then he twisted his body, rolled onto his knees and stood up, looking back in Ronus' face.
"Brat!" Ronus yelled, striking Galahad again. This time he struck again before the frightened child was able to stand. He punctuated each word with a kick to the boy's ribs and gut. "Worm, maggot!" He growled in frustration. "Whelp!"
Galahad coughed and retched, and bit back the forming tears that stung his eyes. He had no intention of crying, but nor could he fight back. His hands were bound, his mouth gagged. He wanted to run and escape, but the Romans would have been on him in a second, and then they would kill him. His eyes flitted around desperately, wishing, praying to the high heavens that someone would come.
He wanted Gawain to come charging through the trees, his axe ready to kill all the Romans. He wanted Tristan to appear, suddenly as he always seemed to, and save him. He wanted Bors and Dagonet to charge in, roaring like they did in practice, and hack the Romans to pieces, and he wanted Arthur, with Lancelot and Percival and Bedivere and Kay and Lamorak to tear in, killing all the Romans, especially Ronus.
He whimpered slightly as another kick fell in on his chest. He felt another rib break, and winced at the pain. This time he didn't try to stand; this time he lay still and held back the sobs that he knew were coming. All his bitter pride was welling in him and telling him not to give in, that he would escape and the Romans would pay for this.
Ronus' face appeared next to his, a rough hand gripped his face and shook it.
"You should have tried harder to escape when I brought you here. Too late, now. Far too late for that." Ronus grinned, baring hideously unwashed teeth. The man reached down and grabbed at Galahad's groin. Galahad's eyes widened as he became fully aware of what he had been brought here for, and his stomach churned at the thought. He turned his face away, burying it into the grass and tried to slither away from Ronus.
"And you know what?" Ronus continued, scrabbling around at Galahad's crotch. "You can't do a thing about it. Not even Arthur can save you, because Maenus is in charge, and I happen to have quite a nice arrangement with Maenus."
He pulled the boy and flipped him onto his back, pinning Galahad's shoulders and forcing the terrified child to look up into his eyes, utterly helpless. The grotesque man lowered his head and started placing rough kisses all over the Galahad's face, despite the struggle that was put up.
"Stop moving, you little rat! It'll make it a lot more pleasant if you don't argue." That sickening smile again. Galahad felt the hand reach down again and he tried to bring his knee up into Ronus' groin. He only made contact with the thigh, though, and as his blow was deflected off the inside of Ronus' leg he felt, with sickening surety, the stiffness that had developed in Ronus' crotch. Galahad squirmed again, and tried to roll over onto his stomach, tried to escape this foul nightmare.
"Perfect, good lad. Roll over and be a good lad." Galahad instantly spun onto his back, despite his better judgement, wary of doing what Ronus demanded.
"Not smart, boy, not smart." Ronus growled and gripped Galahad's shoulders, flipping him over so the young lad was lying flat on his stomach. Galahad tried to scream as he felt his breeches being pulled down, about his knees. He tossed about as much as he could, but strong hands held him down and held him still.
Galahad screamed, but only muffled sounds escaped his gag. Galahad felt the heat emanating from Ronus' body as the man lowered himself, and he tasted his earlier meal returned to his mouth when he felt the man's penis press against one of his cheeks.
Thrashing about Galahad managed to knock one of Ronus' knees from under him, but that only succeeded in having the man plummet down on top of him. Too high, Galahad thought, and would have smiled had the situation not been so desperate. Ronus' grip was loosed for half a second and Galahad tried twisting out from underneath, but he was pressed. Ronus sat up for a moment and struck Galahad on the side of the head.
One blow too many, Galahad thought dazedly. He felt his consciousness slipping and the tears finally rolled as he realized that his final defences were about to fail. He sobbed once, twice into the gag. Ronus had stopped for the moment, clearly angry, but Galahad knew it was only momentary.
The blood throbbed loudly in Galahad's ear where he had been struck, obscuring the night sounds. His skin had split in three places, he noted. He counted them: his cheek, his lip and the side of his left eye. The stinging on his ear made him think it was three. He sobbed again, and wiped his nose on the grass below him. His vision went hazy and he heard Ronus' voice again, but he didn't hear what the man was saying. Was it 'sorry'? 'You'll be sorry' Galahad assumed was what Ronus had said.
He felt a whole lot of warm liquid spill on the back of his neck. Galahad felt ill, praying it wasn't Ronus'… well, his… juices. But then, there was an awful lot of it! Some of it dripped past Galahad's nose, and he fancied it smelled like blood. I can't have bled that much! Galahad hoped.
He twisted and coughed when he accidentally rolled onto one of his broken ribs. Then someone was turning him. Galahad summoned up his pride and wiped the tears away before he was seen. He couldn't see, of course, because he wasn't conscious enough. He felt more bile rising from his stomach, but forced it down on account of his gag. After that he saw and felt nothing, slipping at last from consciousness.
"… a beating. He's sleeping now, but I don't know for how long. A man my size would suffer from that much of an uncontested thrashing, let alone…" the voice trailed away. Galahad wanted it too keep talking. He couldn't name it, but the voice was a friendly one. When it didn't start again he went back to sleep.
"… no change, but the bruises are fading. The jaw still looks sore and the ribs, well, we don't know about them. When he wakes up we'll know more." Galahad smiled. The friendly voice was back. What did it remind him of? Oh, yes. His father. But it wasn't his father, he reminded himself bitterly. He wouldn't see his father until he, too, died. Or maybe he was dead?
"So has he been tended to today?" Another voice. But that one didn't remind him of anything. Well, yes it did. But not of his father.
"The Romans… well, they're not welcome here."
And that was it. 'Romans'. Suddenly Galahad's stomach emptied itself of all the acid it had been storing in waiting for food. He rolled over and his primal logic told him to face down, and the liquid poured out, splattering the wooden floor and the smell! Oh, the smell.
"He's up! Quick, water!" The friendly voice was worried, but Galahad wasn't listening this time.
"Here." Another voice, an odd voice, but also familiar. Galahad liked that voice. He paused and gulped some air, and then his stomach threw more of that vile fluid up his throat and out his mouth, inconveniently passing his tastebuds on the way. Normally he didn't mind throwing up, because he knew that it was getting rid of the bad stuff, and his stomach felt better afterwards, but he hadn't noticed his stomach feeling bad before, and this just hurt his throat.
"Galahad." Another nice voice. How many people are in this room? He wondered. He stopped vomiting and breathed as much as he could, but lightly so that his stomach didn't react again. A mug of water was held under his nose, and somehow it smelled sweet. He took a sip and flushed it around his mouth, spitting it on the floor to rid himself of that horrid taste. Then he took another sip and gulped it down his aching throat, and another sip to settle the first. Then he held the water to his nose and just smelled the freshness of it. So cool, he thought.
"Here, I'll take that." Arthur, his mind told him. The mug was taken from his hand and he rolled back onto the bed. Aches and pains coursed his entire body, and he groaned as he slowly became aware of all of them.
"Galahad, lie still." Percival said, a cool hand pressing to Galahad's forehead. Galahad sighed, relieved to have such a nice feeling on his face. Then it went away and he realised how warm it was under all these blankets. He pushed them away and looked about wildly for a moment, but his eyes hurt every time they moved, especially the left one that was still closed.
More slowly, he looked around the room. Three people, he counted. Percival in a chair beside his pillow, Arthur standing just behind Percival, still holding the water, and Tristan perched beside the door. Galahad tried to turn a little. Four people, he amended when he spotted Gawain sitting at the end of the bed. Gawain smiled a little, sadly though.
"Galahad, lie on your back." Percival instructed.
Galahad's breathing became quick with fear for a moment, and then he remembered that Percival was here, not that bastard. Galahad closed his eyes, trying not to think about it. He rolled onto his back and looked over at Percival, who was carefully crunching herbs into steaming water. He took a cloth and soaked it, ringing it out quickly and putting the warm cloth on Galahad's bruised skin.
The herby scent was almost as soothing as the wet cloth, and Galahad's eyes drifted closed bit by bit. Eventually he was asleep again and Percival continued to dab the cloth over the boy's flesh. Almost his entire torso was discoloured, raw and painful.
Tristan frowned as he looked on. In his distracted state he had forgotten to observe which herbs Percival had used. His eyes flitted over Galahad's bruised face and body and then to Gawain's still form. Gawain had barely moved, barely eaten or spoken since he had sat on that bed. They had been there, the three of them, since Galahad had been put in this room. It was Tristan's bed they had used, it of course being free when they had returned.
Arthur had spent his every free moment in the room, darting between a stern-faced, tactical meeting with Maenus, and a distracted, dysfunctional training session with the Knights, to be with Galahad as often as he could. The Romans were in a period of mourning for their fallen soldiers, though the cause of death remained unclarified as far as the masses were concerned.
Arthur sighed and excused himself, running off to check on the other Knights in their training. Gawain and Tristan had been excused from training that day, given their activities the previous night. Bedivere was recovering lost sleep, but Percival had refused to let up his vigil until the boy was awake.
Kay and Lamorak, having remained blissfully undisturbed the previous evening, now trained the young Knights. Each of them felt slightly frustrated that they had not been able to help young Galahad, and kill Romans in the process.
Galahad stirred again as Percival pressed the cloth to his cheekbone, the herbs penetrating the broken skin in that area and stinging him to wakefulness. He breathed sharply through his nose, and marvelled that it had not been broken in the events of the previous evening. His eyes still stung as he looked about, but they settled on Gawain for a moment before returning to his healer.
"Percival, what happened?" Galahad whispered.
"You should rest, Galahad." Percival instructed, looking down as he rinsed the cloth in the bowl of water again.
"What happened to the Romans?" Galahad persisted.
"They got what they deserved." Percival growled angrily. Then he looked up at Galahad with a sad expression. "They got what they had coming." He repeated more softly. "And thanks to two of your Knights-in-arms, you got away with a beating."
Galahad sighed and almost smiled, but his cheekbone ached and he stopped himself. He turned back to ask Percival who it was who saved him, even though he quite fancied he knew, but before he could say it he passed out again and slept deeply for a few more hours.
Tristan found a chair and sat patiently by the door, Arthur brought in food for them, and drinks. Percival ate and Bedivere soon joined them. As evening drew on each of the Knights came to see how Galahad was faring, and all were relieved to hear that he had awoken.
Gawain, for his part, remained silent and mostly still on the end of Tristan's bed, currently occupied by Galahad. His eyes rarely moved from Galahad's bruised face, and each moment he watched that precious, angelic face, so terribly bruised by that bastard, he grew a deeper, more fiery hatred of the Romans.
If any Sarmatian had thought, even for a moment, that they served the Roman Empire, that day they swore a different oath. They served no empire, and certainly not one that would so harm a young boy of barely eleven years. They served one man, the man who, at every opportunity, stood patiently by his Knight.
Fealty, true fealty, is given to leaders who earn it. And if killing one's own superior officer for the sake of protecting one's charge does not earn the fealty of the men who serve one, then very little will.
