Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the film King Arthur, nor do I own the myth, or anything else, Dzerassa's character. This story was written for entertainment purposes only, no money was exchanged. Please don't sue, just tell me if I need to change something.
Sorry i haven't updated in awhile, life's been hectic. I think the story may seem a little jumpy or random in the next few chapters, as i try to figure out where it's going. Thanks for continuing to review, it helps! Neveah
Chapter Twelve: Painted Memories
I am not surprised that Galahad insists on spending almost every moment of all the days that I am confined to bed by my side. He feels a sort of protective or brotherly closeness to me. I am surprised, however, to hear that Tristan has been keeping a sort of vigil outside my door. I suppose he feels responsible somehow, though I don't see why. It wasn't he who shot me. In any case, I am stuck in bed for a long time. Every time I try to sneak out knights pounce on me, appearing from nowhere, and order me back. They can be quite frightening.
Gawain comes to visit me once. He can't stop smiling. He thinks my deception was just the biggest practical joke ever, and he keeps coming up with new jokes about it. To tell the truth, it starts to get annoying and I am very close to kicking him out of the room, when he pulls a small package from behind his back and hands it to me. Surprised, I take it. There is a small book of bland parchment and a black charcoal pencil, an expensive gift. "You looked bored," he explains, and I thank him. He says he filched it from Arthur's desk, but I have a feeling he made that up. I swear, that man will do or say anything for a little bit of drama.
After he leaves I play around with my new prized possessions. My only prized possessions, come to think of it, besides my necklace. I can read Latin a little, but mostly just labels; and I have never written, so I don't try. I decide to draw instead. The pencil feels strange in my hand. I am remembering faces again. I want to put the visages of my family on paper before they fade away entirely. It is frustrating at first; I can picture hair, or eyes, but not a whole face. Eventually I do though, and I sketch mother and father, my sister, even Secunda. I am working on my brother's picture when Tristan comes in. My brother is the hardest to draw. I was small when I was sold to the Romans, but even smaller when he was taken. He hair…laughing eyes, like father….Tristan comes forward and stands over my shoulder, watching. He asks what I am doing, so I tell him quickly so that he'll go away. I want to be alone. He looks at me strangely, "Your brother?" he asks, "But you've gone and drawn Galahad." I stare at the paper. He's right. The face is younger, happier perhaps, but it is Galahad nonetheless.
I must admit, the thought of having family seems to fill my mind and spirit. It means loyalties, belonging, trust. A part of me is mad at myself for feeling sentimental. Nothing has really changed, we are all still the same people, boy, girl, brother, sister, or not. But another part of me is extremely nervous. Galahad thinks that my picture proves that we are related, and even if it is not so, I know he will continue to act as a kind of adoptive brother at least. But I do not have the heart to tell him what I remember about our family, our clan, our people. This makes it hard to talk to him, because I feel I am hiding something. But this man has been waiting, fighting, for fourteen years, for the opportunity and the right to return to that home and family. How can I take that away from him? How can I tell him the one goal he's held for the better part of his life can never be obtained? I will not tell him. Or at least, not right now. Later. I tell him for now that I don't remember much, and he believes me. It is true, after all.