A/N: Thanks for all the reviews for chapters six and seven. Chapter seven was especially personal for me. My dad's been a firefighter my entire life, so I know at least a little bit about what it's like to go into a burning building.

Now onto the thank you's:

VK- You are so awesome! Thanks for the info about Lancelot and Gawain...And your welcome for my review, I really did love your story! Sandra- Thanks! I know, it is hard to picture them younger!

Evenstar-Mor2004- Rome...And the whole point is to keep you reading! Thanks!

WildRose- Thanks, and what you said made sense. That's what cool about Lancelot.

Camreyn- Arthur and Lancelot do have a lot in common, as they will come to realize. Gabrieal and Tristan are complete opposite, lol, you're right. Thanks!

Now on to the story...

They ran back to where they had left the others, happy to leave the fires behind.

"Lancelot, thank you." Arthur said after minutes of silence.

Lancelot just shrugged, looking down into his horse's mane.

"You were really brave," the Roman continued. "I never expected you to do that. I don't know if I would have..."

"Yes, you would've." Said Lancelot suddenly. "I knew you would have done the same for me. You risked your life for Galahad, and you barely know him."

Arthur sighed. "I have fifteen years to get to know him better, than."

"We all do." Said Lancelot, managing a small smile.

"Yeah."

And they rode on in silence until they reached the site where they had left Galahad and the Sarmatians.

The sight before them made Lancelot freeze in the saddle.

No one was there.

Arthur seemed equally shocked, and he cantered over to the area. "This is the place, right?"

Lancelot nodded. "Or near to it. But I can't see anyone even around here."

"Where are they all?" Arthur asked the obvious.

"I don't know." Answered Lancelot, mystified.

The sky was black, and the only light came from the moon.

"Lancelot!"

He turned sharply in the saddle at the cry of his name, his mind dimly registering the voice as belonging to Gawain.

Arthur noticed Lancelot reaction, and quickly started to canter towards the sound of the voice, Lancelot right behind him.

The reached where Gawain stood, and both Lancelot and Arthur quickly dismounted to meet him.

"Gods," Gawain marveled, taking in Lancelot's appearance. "You're alive."

Lancelot nodded. "Galahad?"

"He's going to be fine," Gawain grinned. "He's over in his cabin over there." He pointed behind him a little bit.

But Arthur frowned. "Did you move him?"

Gawain shook his head. "Not us, no. Some man did. He came after you left, said he knew healing. Tristan trusted him, and so we followed him."

Now it was Lancelot's turn to frown. "Did he say his name?"

"No."

Lancelot turned to Arthur, who was chewing his lip distractedly.

"Who...?" The Sarmatian urged the Roman into answering the unspoken question.

"Merlin!" Arthur suddenly spoke, anger flashing in his eyes.

Lancelot blinked.

"I've seen him twice before." Arthur spoke, his voice shaking, fists clenched. "Once when I was younger, in the forest. He told me his name, and then disappeared. And then-"Arthur blinked hard. "Earlier tonight."

Lancelot did not see or understand why Arthur was so mad at the mention of Merlin's name.

"It was him!" Arthur suddenly shouted.

Gawain took a step back from Arthur, getting a strange look on his face; as if he thought Arthur had suddenly sprouted a second head.

"What?" Lancelot asked hesitantly.

"He did it!" Arthur screamed, tears running down his face. "HE KILLED MY MOTHER!"

And neither Lancelot nor Gawain asked him anymore.

-o-o-o-o-o-Two Months Later-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"You got me!"

Lancelot laughed, his black curls lifted by the wind. "It is hardly my fault," he chuckled. "That I am a better swordsman."

Arthur groaned in mock annoyance. "More like a better faker. Besides, you have a one sword advantage to me. I never should have given you that other dagger."

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "And left me to suffer an agonizing fate while you ran into a burning building to fetch a man who wasn't even there?"

"Well at least we'd be free of you then." Arthur retorted.

It was funny, Lancelot thought, how quick friendships form. And how small things—like the matter of saving Galahad's life—could ignite such a brotherhood that the Sarmatians and their commander had seemed to form.

As young as they were, training had started.

It never would end.

"I, for one, am appalled that a Roman commander, such as yourself," said Lancelot, feigning disbelief. "Would stoop to such a level as jealousy!"

Arthur laughed. "Jealous of an arrogant easterner as yourself? I think not, Sir Lancelot."

"Careful, Bors, or Dagonet'll claim one of your fingers..." Gawain called tauntingly from behind Arthur.

The day was young still, not yet mid day. And the birds sang to each other from their perches in the few trees. The grass was as green as green could manage to be, and the sun shone-determined to heat the land.

"Ha!" Bors shouted. "I'll be a dead man first!"

And as his own form of defense, Dagonet slashes his sword over Bors, who managed just in the nick of time to deflect it.

"Anyone looking would be hard put to call us knights..." Tristan remarked, smiling next to another Sarmatian who looked oddly like him.

"Gods hope we see a battle before our hair turns gray." Gabrieal complained, bringing his sword down upon an old tree stump.

"We should." Arthur answered. "There are rumors of Saxons to the west. There'll be a battle to fight if they should meet us."

"Good," said Gawain. "Some real competition at last."

Galahad kicked him. "Without me watching your back, you'd be dead as soon as the first arrow's shot. Most likely it'll be Tristan's."

Everyone laughed, even Gawain, who tried to look outraged, but failed quite miserably. Instead, he cuffed Galahad around the head.

Arthur looked behind at the town. "Come on, Knights, time for a meal."

"S'bout time." Bors said loudly, as usual. "You Romans seem to procrastinate as long as ya can before eating."

"Here here!" Someone agreed.

And they had no idea that the next time they would sleep, there would be less than thirty-seven Sarmatian knights opening their eyes.

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