A/N: Well. Here it is. Chapter 9. I think it sucks. I'm sorry. It's too short, too. Damn it.

Thank you too all of my readers and reviewers. Your support means a lot to me. I just hope the ending of this story will be satisfactory. (And no, this isn't the last chapter.)

NO SLASH! Please Read and Review!


Chapter 9: Aftermath

The Round Table rode into Hadrian's Wall while the rain pelted the earth, and doors swung open like broken dams, letting dirty faces wash through. They flocked to the arriving knights, sounding their awe at the resurrected. Or perhaps they looked more like ghosts. Too many horses and too many people and mud everywhere. No one looked for blood yet.

"Get some water!" yelled Jols, already steadying one of the horses. "The healers! They need healers!"

"Oh, gods, I thought you were dead!" Vanora took Bors' face in her hands before he was even dismounted. She kissed him and wept, and their children huddled around her skirts. He slid off of the horse and into her arms, still bleeding. The moment that Gawain's horse halted, Galahad swayed down and into Jols'. Gawain leaped off and his fingers found Galahad's curls.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Jols murmured. Galahad sagged against him.

"I don't know," said Gawain, taking Galahad to his chest though his legs quaked with weakness. "I don't know." Arthur was the last to trail in, and no one seemed to notice him at first. He watched his knights with empty eyes, hair dripping. Vanora found him at last, Bors and the children trailing behind her.

"Arthur," she said. "Where's Lancelot?"


Arthur sat on his bed in new clothes. They were clean. They were dry. He was alone. The candle glowed softly at his back, and he polished Excalibur for a while without stopping. The blade gleamed whenever it caught the light, and he moved it back and forth just to watch it shine. He hadn't said a word. He hadn't answered Vanora or any of the healers. He had walked away from everyone, returning to his room like nothing had happened. No one had stopped him. He wondered if he had wanted them to.

The flame flickered when he stretched out his hand. He pulled the drawer open in the bedside table, wasn't sure what he was looking for. Maybe alcohol – he had kept a bottle for emergencies. He wasn't one to drink away grief. Or anything, for that matter. He had never been drunk; the Lord commanded sobriety. Perhaps that was why he didn't find the flask. Instead, his fingers recognized a rosary. He pulled it out but didn't scoop it up into his hand. He let it drag along the wood and make noise. They were the black beads. He looked at them for a moment, before letting them drop to the floor. He waited until he was sure the sound was gone and returned to shining Excalibur. The sword was clean.


Gawain hadn't allowed for examination. He had called for a healer until one arrived, not caring who was left untreated because of it. Galahad had not woken in his hold. The healer's eyes had widened upon seeing Galahad. It reminded Gawain of Samhain. The healer had taken Galahad's limp body from Gawain and hurried to one of the back rooms. Gawain had followed and waited outside the door, while the healer cleaned Galahad's body. A long while later, he had reappeared with Gawain's best friend in new clothes that seemed a tad too big. Gawain took the young knight again and guided him to an empty cot. Once he backed away, the healer had continued his work, using bandage and herbs. Eventually, Galahad lay undisturbed, wrapped in three blankets, and the healer pulled Gawain aside.

"I know what happened," he whispered. Gawain's eyes didn't flinch. "His arse…. It was…."

"I know," Gawain snapped. "I was bloody there, okay?" He turned his gaze back ahead, watching Galahad sleep from afar.

"What the hell happened?" Gawain's breath came like a horse's. He looked fine. His eyes matched Arthur's. He didn't want to remember.

"I'm not the one to tell you."

"Who is, then?"

"Arthur." The healer scoffed, to Gawain's vague surprise.

"Arthur isn't himself anymore." It was a dismissal, almost like he was calling the Roman mad. Gawain wasn't angry.

"None of us are."


"Bors," Vanora started, voice trembling. "Where's Lancelot?" No one had answered her question yet. Bors didn't look at her. He was stiff in his chair, gripping the wine goblet too hard. Dagonet lay his hands on her shoulders.

"Leave him be," he said gently. "Save the questions for later." Gawain arrived finally, boots slowly clicking. His eyes scanned the room. Only Bors, Dagonet, and Vanora seemed to be in sight.

"Where's Galahad?" Tristan lingered in the shadows, stroking his hawk.

"Sleeping," said Gawain. Vanora pursed her lips and looked away from Bors.

"Where's Lancelot?" she cried out to Gawain.

"God damn it, woman, don't you know when to hold your tongue?" Bors had slammed the goblet on the table and risen to his feet, roaring. Vanora cowered in her chair now, looking at him with wounded eyes. Dagonet had lowered his eyes, but Gawain stared at him.

"Fine," she breathed as she stood. "If you don't want me here, then I'll go look after the children." She turned away and left. No one made to stop her. Bors sat back down after a moment, silently realizing his mistake. He took another drink.

"We can't keep silent forever," said Tristan. The hawk's eyes glinted in the dark.

"You seem to do a good job of it," said Bors.

"You're drunk," Tristan dismissed, looking away irately. "And nothing intelligent ever comes from a drunken man." A pause of silence followed.

"You're right," Gawain said. "People need to know."

"I think we should leave it to Arthur," said Dagonet, moving away from the empty chair and passing Gawain.

"I don't know if Arthur's in his right mind," Gawain remarked.

"What do ya mean?" Bors countered, looking up at him with shining lips, frowning. "You ain't callin' him mad."

"Is it so hard to believe that maybe we all are?"

"I ain't crazy," Bors growled. "And neither is he."

"Then you try talking to him. Get him out of his room." Bors didn't answer. He took another drink.


Gawain returned to the healing ward after an hour or two. He didn't want to hover over Galahad; the boy needed his rest. But at the same time, Gawain wished he could sit at his friend's side until Galahad woke. No good news greeted him. Galahad had sunk into fever.

"How much longer?" Gawain questioned.

"I don't know," said the healer. "If the fever doesn't break soon, I don't think he'll make it." Gawain turned to look at him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"They beat him, didn't they? Maybe there's more damage than we can see." Gawain looked back to Galahad with glimmering eyes, and the younger knight struggled on his cot with invisible demons. He couldn't believe that after all of this, he was going to lose Galahad. He couldn't believe that their fight had been for nothing. He couldn't believe that they had escaped only to greet death in some other place. No. Gawain couldn't believe it. He refused to.

"Gawain," Galahad whimpered. "Gawain." The older knight strode from the healer's side to Galahad's at once, kneeling down on the stone and laying his hand to Galahad's brow.

"I'm here," he whispered, eyes searching his friend's face. "I'm here." He stroked at Galahad's curls gently, just as he always had. He wasn't afraid this time. This time, he had to be all right. His fingers graced Galahad's sweat like it was something delicate. His hand tarried down to his friend's cheek, and he traced Galahad's jaw with one finger. Arthur didn't have this. How could his captain still be alive?


Arthur remembered what it had been like to live. He was haunted by one memory now, one last piece of humanity. It was like a shard of glass wedged into his flesh. He had to get it out. He needed release. He didn't feel anything. All he knew was that the ghost wouldn't leave him until he forced it out. He took Excalibur, pushed into his boots, and slipped out of the room without blowing out the candle.

It was cold. December always brought snow, even if walls stood between it and them. They didn't need windows to see it. They could feel it, like heat radiating from a pot in the fire. Buried in layers of bedclothes, their bodies were dormant summers, but cheeks and eyelids and exhaled breaths were cold. They were cold no matter how close together they were.

Arthur followed his feet without thinking. He must have gone this way before. Where was he going? The tower. That's right. The first eastern tower. It was dark; he hadn't bothered to bring a lantern or a torch. He held Excalibur loosely at his side, keeping it off the ground, and tried to catch the shadow flickers. They were like a pale light that he couldn't see, that had no origin. Like God. But perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps none of it was there.

He hesitated. His eyes liked the dark, the rest behind their lids. But he was awake. Slowly, he began to feel his arm sloping over Lancelot's body. That arm connected to his hand that lay over Lancelot's hand. He could barely feel Lancelot's fingers with his. His skin had melted into Lancelot's, and he could feel the knight's shoulder blades like little hills against his chest. His heart beat in the valley between them.

He had reached the stairwell. The darkness suddenly narrowed, and he knew it would begin to wind into a spiral that no one could either see or feel. It was almost like a seashell. He could remember pressing one into Lancelot's palm. It flashed through his mind in a startling breath. The Sarmatian laughed. He couldn't hear it. The shell had been streaked with purple. And now he remembered violet fields. Lancelot had liked violets. They were far away in the south. Were they were blossomed now? He couldn't remember what season it was. Or what day.

He breathed in and Lancelot's scent invaded him like a perfume. He couldn't decide what it smelled like. Maybe nothing at all. His other arm locked perfectly under Lancelot's neck, and his head lay on the knight's. His cheek rested on Lancelot's, and he could almost hear the Sarmatian's curls bristle, as if the wind could pass through stone. He opened his eyes. Lancelot slept.

A stream of light broke the darkness when he pushed the door up. Three windows. Three windows like the Trinity, faceless statues standing in the tower circle. He could hear the rain again. It dripped through the window and made little puddles on the floor. Everything was gray, he realized as he approached one of those windows. He couldn't remember what direction they had come from, returning from the woods. Had the Saxons moved yet? He wondered what they had done with the bodies.

For a moment, he waited. He stood still and alone with eyes to the stones, listening to the rain. He looked up again. Without doubting, he neared the window and lay Excalibur against the wall next to it. He pulled the rope from his belt where it had been hiding. His tunic fluttered in the wind. The rain touched him again. He was a silhouette in the window.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

He was wearing the burgundy tunic. It had always reminded Lancelot of wine. He tried to smell the grapes on Lancelot's breath, realized his knight didn't breathe, knew he didn't want to either. In the twilight, his eyes had turned from green to gray, and they did not rise again. They resigned to death like the sun, for the sun could only burn if Lancelot lived. He wondered if he would find the knight or if Lancelot would find him; he wondered who would find the body here. Maybe Tristan, he thought as he lifted one boot up to the ledge. Maybe Gawain. The other boot followed. He looped the rope through the iron circle that peeked down from where it was above the window on the outside. He lifted his eyes up for the last time, and they caught one sliver of light in their search for the end of the sky. He hoped it wasn't Galahad… or Dagonet. A single monk hummed in his mind, and he could almost hear the ghost voices in the background. He didn't know what they were saying anymore. He didn't think it mattered.

And as he inched his boots forward and let the rope embrace his neck, the monastery faded from his memory for the first time. God was absent. He lowered his eyes. He had never been alone before.