He was not so lucky as to be without dreams this time around. This time in his dreams, he relived the events so vividly it was as though someone had snuck up on him in the night once again and had bound his hands with the very same rope. He tried to speak and call for aid, shouting for Tristan, nearly desperate to cry out Gawain's name, but still none came, nor did sound come from his mouth.
And slowly, very slowly, the Romans were carving symbols into his flesh, spelling out one word on his chest. He squirmed, the pain throbbing in his chest and leg, his head tilted back to the ceiling in a silent plea for help.
"Not this time, boy," the Roman cradled Galahad's head roughly, forcing him to look down. "They won't save you."
On him, they had carved the word 'cursed'.
He woke to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears and found that Tristan had not gone anywhere. He had instead kept vigil by his bedside all night, one hand resting lightly on the material of the sheet, as though a barrier, keeping Galahad from rolling too much and falling to the ground.
Groggily, he found that Tristan was awake, still confused as to why he was receiving such attention suddenly. After a moment, Galahad shifted from sleep to a full awake and noticed that Tristan was in a ready status, one hand on his knife. He did not move his hand from the bed and instead, shifted it to lift up Galahad's bed dressings and check on the wounds.
"You scream in your sleep," Tristan stated simply as his fingers brushed against the cloth and made sure it was secure.
"Why are you staying here? What purpose could it possibly serve?" Galahad inquired wearily, wincing every time Tristan's fingers passed over the chest wound. "I can't imagine you actually want to be here, so why…"
"There's suspicion that the Romans may return," Tristan interrupted, arching one eyebrow upwards. "Perhaps to finish the job."
"You're my guardian?" Galahad whispered with clear amusement. "Well, if there was something I hadn't been expecting…"
"You should sleep," Tristan interrupted gently, his hands brushing Galahad's hair away from his forehead and resting there for a moment. "You're still warm, chasing off the last of the fever. It will do you no good to sit here and speak with me."
Galahad opened his mouth to protest, lowering himself under the sheet. Finally, he looked over and gave Tristan an apologetic look, almost ashamed to speak his fears aloud. "I really don't think I can sleep right now. The nightmares have been…"
"Rest, nonetheless," Tristan interrupted, his voice stern. Galahad was not looking to be on the wrong end of Tristan's wrath and so commanded himself to at least close his eyes and perhaps just focus on the soothing motion of Tristan's fingertips brushing through his hair. He gave a sleepy yawn as he began to drift off unwillingly and gave a tiny hum of contentment matched with a small smile. He'd have to tell Tristan just how good that felt, that talent with his fingers. Of course, it would have to wait for morning. Yes, morning. He fell to sleep; Tristan's fingertips warm in his hair.
When Galahad awoke, Tristan was still there with him. He was quickly becoming a presence that Galahad was growing accustomed to. Tristan was sewing something together and Galahad couldn't piece together the time that Tristan had slept – it seemed nonexistent, really.
"I'm still alive," Galahad murmured, propping himself up into a sitting position. "Job well done."
"I'm going to have to stitch up your leg," Tristan murmured, tearing off the thread with his teeth. Galahad frowned, they had concurred that it would be fine as it was. "I took a look at it while you were sleeping and I don't trust it to heal properly without some stitches."
"But you said…" Galahad began to protest.
"I lied," Tristan replied smoothly. "You said that Gawain had spoken to you the other day about not understanding something, yes?"
Galahad nodded, confused as to why this subject was reappearing and still feeling rather indignant about needing to go under the needle once more. While Tristan had many skills, his talent at stitching up human beings was praised about as often as was Bors' tact. He sat back and allowed Tristan to undress the bandages on his stomach and clean him up.
"I may have pieced it together," Tristan continued. "This was after you took that girl to bed, wasn't it? Her name was something with…an L, yes?"
"Lara," Galahad nodded. "I'd asked Gawain for help because they've been good friends for many years now and I was hoping to learn more about her before I," he swallowed hard and blushed, "well, bedded her."
"You took her to bed, the next day was the day that you and Gawain fought?" Tristan inquired, grasping a clean bandage and wrapping the wound back up, taking his time and resting one strong hand on Galahad's back to keep him from moving. Galahad nodded and a look of comprehension flitted across Tristan's face. "I see," he said with a smug grin and a snort.
Galahad frowned. "What?" he asked, his expression wounded. "You see what?"
"It's…"
"Tell me!"
"Galahad, I don't…"
"Tristan, please," Galahad pleaded, coughing slightly after straining himself so. It was strange that he could be rendered so weak that even verbal communication became difficult for him. Tristan waited for him to finish coughing. Galahad swiped at the spittle on his chin with his wrist and looked askance to Tristan, pleading with his eyes. "I have absolutely no indications as to what this is about. Please, Tristan. For our friendship's sake."
Tristan seemed to take this into consideration, leaning back into the chair and tapping his fingers on his chin in a steady, staccato rhythm. Galahad stared at him, unable to think about anything save for receiving an explanation. He leaned forward as much as he could.
"Please," he added quietly, locking eyes with Tristan.
"For friendship's sake, you said?" Tristan finally spoke after a great moment of heavy silence.
Galahad nodded fervently.
"Fine," Tristan nodded in agreement. "I will save your friendship if I can. This does not mean I'll be telling you anything right now, but rather that I will attempt as best I can to see if we can't repair things between you two."
Galahad gave a wide beam of gratitude and faintly in the back of his mind, he tried – and failed – to grasp at something he had been supposed to tell Tristan, or rather commend him about. He couldn't put his finger on it and brushed it away, telling himself that it would come with time.
They postponed Percival's funeral for three weeks, long enough so that Galahad was able to walk on his feet again without his body buckling after two steps. Even so, he needed the support of either a staff or another able-bodied person. Tristan's leg had healed quite quickly and properly – always the more important of the two – no doubt thanks to his taking many foul smelling herbs in his process of healing. He always took them in Galahad's quarters, stinking up the place to no end.
Still, it did not mean that Galahad could walk without a slow, halting limp. He shuffled forward with one arm draped around Tristan and his body tightly wrapped with bandages. It did mean that he had no part in digging the grave and he did not have to help prepare the body. There were small miracles, Galahad supposed. Lancelot was sweaty, covered with dirt and together, the three of them made a small group of mourners, the rest of the Knights still out in the woods tracking down the Romans. Briefly, Galahad wondered why Lancelot had been left behind as he seemed more than able to fight.
Lancelot murmured the rites of the dead, falling to his knees and leaning heavily on Percival's sword as he thrust it into the ground, quietly promising that his death was not in vain.
Finally, as Lancelot lowered his torch to the ground, Tristan spoke aloud – words loud enough to be said only to himself, yet with Galahad's hip pressing against Tristan's, he was close enough to hear.
"I'll kill them with my own bare hands, every last one."
Galahad hopped slightly, shifting to look at Tristan and marked the sober, cold-blooded and furious calm to his face.
He meant it.
As the funeral broke apart, everyone seemed to head off in their separate directions, but Galahad was without a direction, or rather he was without a method to go anywhere without Tristan helping him – and as helpless as it made him, he appreciated Tristan's efforts to assist. It did leave him somewhat incapable of going anywhere on his own. He cleared his throat and looked up to get Tristan's attention.
"Yes?"
"Maybe I should rest," Galahad said hesitantly, knowing it would be best, but still not wanting to confine himself to a bed. "There's not much that I can do in this state and really I'm leaving all this friendship work to you, so I needn't worry about that. Speaking of that…how is it coming?"
And then Tristan gave him a strange look that Galahad could not quite decipher.
"You still want me to repair this?" Tristan asked mildly as he began to walk them off slowly towards Galahad's quarters. Every step was slow and every so often, the leg that Tristan had fractured would give out without warning or reason. Galahad tried to support him with one arm slung around his back, but it did little good most of the time. "There are some things I have to be sure of first."
"I do," Galahad began enthusiastically. "Yes, I do want you to continue. I trust you to always finish a task to completion, Tristan. Always."
"This," Tristan began, his tone warning as they stopped for breath in the middle of an alley. "This you must be sure of, Galahad. Once I do this, there is no going back or any kind of second thoughts. Do you understand?"
Galahad nodded, feeling slightly out of breath and thinking to himself that it was a kind of madness that a simple walk from the cemetery back into town would cause him so much grief. The weather was taking a turn for the worse – worse being in British terms of course, the normal course of weather not decidedly appealing. Fog was creeping in and it made Galahad's joints ache.
"Trust me, then," Tristan said quietly, turning and pinning Galahad to the alley wall. He slowly stepped forward, his hands gently cupping Galahad's face and slow, warm lips sealed over Galahad's own.
Galahad gave the slightest of murmured protests before he relaxed his muscles and relinquished himself to Tristan, melting into him and leaning into the touch. His fingers tried in vain to climb up to Tristan's hair, trying to thread in between the locks but he got no further than the shoulders where they rested finally and clung to him, trying to bring him closer. He opened his lips and let in Tristan's tongue, trying to pitch the pace faster, biting down lightly on Tristan's lower lip. Finally, he pulled away in a desperate need for air. He bent over slightly, looking up to see the same unmoving calm on Tristan's face.
"That was saving my friendship with Gawain?" Galahad questioned, still slightly breathless with a wide grin plastered on his face. "I must say, it's a lot more interesting than I expected it to be."
Tristan snaked one arm around Galahad's hip, securing him from taking a fall to the ground when he stumbled slightly. Slowly, they moved to his quarters in silence, the rush of the moment eventually fading away from Galahad and confusion taking its place as they walked. Finally, they arrived and Tristan slowly eased Galahad back onto the bed, grabbing a sheet and draping it over Galahad.
"Tristan," Galahad started, two fingers touching his lips. "What exactly was that?"
"It seems Gawain does have a valid reason to be upset with you," Tristan answered, not looking Galahad in the eyes. He turned and began to walk to the door. He turned back to speak over his shoulder. "Even if you hadn't been aware of it."
"Wait!" Galahad sat up quickly and reaching one arm out, wincing at the pain that shot through him as a result. Tristan stopped, turned and raised an eyebrow. Galahad found himself embarrassed, yet again, as he folded in on himself. "Can you…will you…stay, please? I'd feel better," he said in a rush.
Tristan took a step back inside the room, frowning in concern. "Have the nightmares returned?"
Galahad nodded. "Always the same," he murmured quietly. "You can yell at me all you want about how I've ruined things with Gawain. You can call me names and everything, I promise. Just…I'd feel safer," he finished, looking away and at the wall instead of at Tristan.
He heard footsteps and heard the same noisy scratch of the chair on the floor that told him that Tristan was staying. Galahad looked over with a smile of sheer gratitude and felt himself settle slightly, feeling just that much safer with someone watching over him. He pressed his fingers to his lips one last time.
"Tristan…"
"Yes?" Tristan relaxed into the chair, pressing the back of his hand to Galahad's forehead. Tristan made a tiny satisfied sound, which hopefully meant that the fever had subsided slightly. "What is it?" he prodded.
"Whatever that was for," Galahad began, biting on his lip. "Earlier, that is. In the alleyway, whatever purpose that served. It was," he paused, smiling slightly. "It was nice. Good. Rather, I enjoyed it."
Tristan gave a nod.
"Thank you," Galahad murmured, dropping off to sleep to the feel of Tristan's fingers running through his hair once again. That was it, he realized with his mind tainted with sleep. He was supposed to commend Tristan on how soothing he was. "You're good at this," he said softly, his words slurring together.
Just before Galahad fell asleep, he remembered hearing four words as clear as day from Tristan's mouth, a statement not to be argued with and one that Tristan was most certainly sure of.
"I'm good at everything."
Had Galahad been more alert, he would have argued. Now, he was too tired to even give it much thought. So instead, he relaxed his body completely and drifted off to sleep. For the first time in weeks, he slept without incident of nightmares plaguing his sleeping hours.
tbc