Today is my birthday (or it was, until a few minutes ago, haha) so this is a present to myself and to all of you!
So, so sorry for the delay. The last few months have been difficult and writing was neglected…. But I'm so happy that I finally got this done. I'm sorry it's not as long as it should be.
I wrote this to Tracks 7 and 15 of the Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban soundtrack. Beautiful, beautiful music.
Please read and review! Summer is on, yes!
Warning: Major Angst Ahead
Chapter 13: Separation
Lancelot sniffled, head hung and face wet. He took a shuddering breath and his body trembled. The pain had returned full-force. He didn't want to move, sure as hell didn't want to try standing. His heart hurt more. He stared at is hands and his fingers but could only make see blurs. He hadn't bothered to ask Gawain where he was going, and he didn't care. He was drowning. He wanted death to come. He wanted it fast. Life has been slow. Pain had been slow. He needed the end in one final blow. No drawn out torture, like the Saxon captivity.
At last, he began to pull himself up, pushing off of the crate. His brow creased, the veins in his neck tightened, and he gritted his teeth. They gleamed like his skin. He dug his boot into the ground, refusing to falter. He staggered when he let go of the crate, but he did not fall. His chest was a pulsing fire, and it stung to breathe. He coughed. Blood. His eyes shone. They only lingered on the red slime for a moment, before denying it's presence on the ground. He held his side and began to struggle away, stray tears still leaking out of his eye corners and through the creases the pain pulled from them. The blood moved in the dirt.
Arthur half-squinted at Galahad's face. The physician waited nervously behind him, fearful that the Roman would throw a fit. He didn't know Arthur well. Otherwise, he wouldn't have expected any such outburst from him. Arthur stared. But he only saw Galahad half of the time. The other half, flashes of memory seared through his mind, cutting through it like a knife through a sail. They left tatters in their wake.
Galahad was white.
Tristan's body flinched even when he didn't make a sound at the whip.
Galahad didn't move.
They dragged Lancelot's body to the tree and heaved him up – lit the bale.
Galahad didn't breathe.
The Saxons laughed, and Lancelot threw himself into the sky.
Galahad was dead.
Arthur sighed with closed lips. His eyes glimmered with pain at Galahad, sweet Galahad – Gawain's flower. This explained everything. Gawain had gone to his only duty, his only purpose. Nothing was left here for him now. He had cleaned the blood from Galahad's face, smoothed through the curls and the blanket covering the younger knight's body. He had left the wash cloth folded next to the water bowl on the crate. He had abandoned his chair. And Galahad was beautiful, as he had always been – white youth, not a thread out of place now, when he lay released and conquered. And Gawain was out there somewhere. He was out in the wind, without a soul. Arthur grew grimmer at the thought. He did not expect Gawain's return. He turned on his heel and left. The physician stayed. He drew the blanket over Galahad's face.
Gawain's horse had stopped. He remained a lone figure in the wind, hair lifted up and soul carried away. He was on their trail – his fellow knights. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to go any further. He considered disappearing. He didn't know where he would go or what he would do when he got there, but some part of him figured it was the best thing to do. He supposed the only place left to him were the white cliffs of this damn island, high enough to lift him into light. Sarmatia wasn't home anymore, and the Romans would hunt him down across their whole, bloody empire like the bastard dogs they were. He couldn't very well become a Woad – that was insanity. He wondered if he might cross the water to the Western Island, where the Celts ran rampant in their paganism and rivaled the Woads for Britain. No – they wouldn't welcome a foreigner. He resisted a sigh. He didn't belong anywhere.
He squinted though there wasn't any sun. His horse nibbled at their green hill. Gawain wondered if he should be weeping. Didn't all men mourn when they lost someone they loved? Should not he feel pain? His most beloved companion was dead. And he felt nothing. He had spent so many hours in the recent weeks in hysteria, and now, when hope as finally lost, he felt nothing. There was not any pain or longing or impulse to weep. He was dry-eyed and empty. He was more stable than he'd been in weeks. But in the back of his mind, there was the fear that when he least expected it, he would fall apart without warning. He didn't think he could take anymore emotion. At the same time, he no longer cared if he was beyond help. The only thing he had to think about now was where he would go.
He searched the land without knowing what he was looking for, without even seeing.
Galahad was laughing in his head.
Beautiful. Beautiful as always. Eyes full of light.
He thought for a second that perhaps he felt a twinge in his chest – but nothing.
He reached into one of his pouches, rummaging for his bottle of ale, and stopped breathing when he pulled out a scrap of cloth. It was a piece of Galahad's tunic, ripped away in a moment of rush to tend to him. Gawain moved his fingers gently, staring at it with shining, gray eyes.
He felt nothing. He felt nothing.
Galahad was laughing in his head, a piece of him was crumpled in his hand, and Gawain felt nothing.
What was wrong with him? Why was everything so much better than it had ever been since this trip through hell had started? What was he doing out here? Did he really plan on catching up to all the other knights and taking revenge on the Saxons now? What did it matter? They had already won.
They won. Galahad was dead. That was all. That was all for Gawain. Nothing else mattered. And if the rest of the Round Table wanted to get themselves killed on a belated quest for vengeance, then let them do it without him. He didn't have the motivation.
Gods, he wasn't even angry anymore. He should feel some sickening wave of hatred at the very thought of the Saxons, the reason for Galahad's death. His characteristic blood lust should be raging right now. He should be jumping at the chance to slaughter as many of them as he possibly could. But none of it was there. Nothing was as it should be. He should probably feel guilty for not feeling anything else, but even guilt failed to fill him. He was only confused as to why he felt as calm as he did, as blank as he did.
He tucked the cloth back into his pouch and straightened, muscles tensing. He had made no decision, but he was riding down the hill and after the knights in the next moment
Arthur wasn't surprised at the clouded sky. He was back at the battlement that he so often visited when he needed to think. A great and subtle sadness fell over his heart like a worn blanket. Galahad's death was a dull ache in his heart, not as deep or sharp as it should be. He had loved Galahad, just as he loved all his knights, and Galahad had been one of his men that he knew better than others. But the grief wasn't nearly as passionate as he would have thought. It made him feel worse, this weak pain, but no more pain itself. He knew that if it were Lancelot lying in there, he would not be standing here. He would be crumpled on the ground, weeping until there was nothing left, wailing like a woman until his voice was hoarse. But not for Galahad. It made him feel guilty.
Galahad had been a good knight, one of the best. He hadn't always agreed with Arthur, but he had never disobeyed his captain's orders. He had followed Arthur as faithfully as any other knight. He had done his best when he should never have had to serve Rome at all. And he had been one of the youngest. Arthur didn't understand why the loss of Galahad seemed to be a minor blow. And more than anything else, he didn't understand how Gawain could have been so calm when the boy he loved was gone at last.
Arthur sighed. He should have known that nothing would ever be the same. He should have known that none of them were all right and perhaps never would be. So overwhelmed had he been with the return of Lancelot that for a fleeting time, he had believed that all was well. Now his Round Table was gone without him, and one more knight was dead. Perhaps he should have felt the urge for revenge too, but he was only sad, sad without the passion he should feel and sad with no real place to go to. Except back to Lancelot, the only one who could understand all of this. He straightened. So he had decided not to follow the knights, then. He pursed his lips. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake.
Gawain's horse tread through the forest steadily and with no haste. Instead of clopping onto stone, it only crunched down on the plants or padded on the dirt softly. He watched the earth passing below him and thought only of Galahad. The scent of their love was laced into his skin and his hair. Galahad was in his pouch, and happiness was with Galahad's body, hidden under a tattered, old blanket. And where was Gawain? And what was with him? Only memory – no longer joyous but bittersweet instead. The beginnings of grief were creeping onto the edges of his heart now. This wood held Galahad; his spirit was everywhere. They had come here together from the start. Gawain remembered those first few years when they had still been boys.
"Galahad, you can't fight without Arthur around."
"You're here with me. Why not?"
"Because he knows better."
"I don't care. We're better than Rome, you and I."
Gawain smiled softly at Galahad's ferocity. Galahad turned around.
Oh, those eyes.
He took Gawain by the shoulders. "Gawain," he said, meaningful tone matching his gaze. "All we need is each other, you know. Us and home – that's all we need."
"And where is home?"
"Sarmatia," he said, eyes flickering with pain. "And we'll go back one day."
Gawain turned from him and tossed a stick idly into some plants. "I don't know, Galahad. I don't much care, really. I might like this island a bit more if it didn't bloody rain so much all the time." He grinned to himself and looked back to Galahad, but his friend wasn't smiling anymore.
"I have to go home," said Galahad. "I have to."
Gawain pursed his lips and lay his hand on Galahad's shoulder. "Then you will. I promise you. I'll take you there."
Galahad lifted his hand up to Gawain's. "And once you do – will you leave me?"
Gawain searched his friend's eyes and silence passed between them – the moment when they became bound. "No," he said at last. "Never."
Galahad gripped Gawain's hand. "Neither will I."
Gawain shuddered. His eyes were full. An empty silence filled his heart when the vision left him and he was looking at dirt again. He hadn't broken his promise. Galahad had broken it. And Gawain should be angry, but all he felt was sadness.
Their laughter was music that sent the birds flying up into the heavens. Gawain threw Galahad to the ground and straddled his friend's hips, covering them with the stolen sheet he had taken from the cook. The light was orange and gold in their makeshift tent. Gawain beamed down at Galahad, and Galahad grinned up at Gawain.
"I told you we'd beat her," the elder said.
"You're crazy," Galahad chuckled. He lifted his arms up to Gawain, who beat him and began to tickle the younger boy senseless. The sheet collapsed and they were rolling in it, lost in the wildflowers and laughing. They couldn't even see, but they didn't have to. They were tangled in each other and they ached with laughter and gasped for breath. At last, they ceased and lay still, the sheet slowly sinking down to fit their bodies. They lay together in it, a mess, a lovely mess.
"The light is fading," said Gawain, staring up at heaven through the sheet, while Galahad lay against him, face against Gawain's and eyes closed. Gawain's breath pushed the sheet up, it fell down again, and he blew it up once more. Galahad's arm lay over his chest. Gawain's arm was loose around Galahad, while his other was bent under his head.
"It's like a cloud," Gawain smiled. Galahad breathed softly against him, reaching for sleep.
"Galahad." A distant voice. "Gawain."
Gawain smirked. The knights were looking for them. They said nothing.
A tear fell at last. And another and another. Gawain could feel. He didn't want to. There wasn't even any passion. Only sorrow. He nudged his boots into his horse. He didn't even want to ride anymore. He only wanted to weep. But he dug and dug, until the beast ran, taking him faster through the wilderness. The trees blurred around him. He wept. He didn't know where was going, and he didn't care. The horse couldn't run fast enough to take away his tears. As he disappeared, deep into the wood, he screamed Galahad's name.
"Lancelot?" Arthur arrived upon an empty room. The bed still had the faint imprint of a human body, the blanket was wrinkled and half off the bed, touching the floor. The candle flickered on the table. Confusion set in to his face as he stood in the doorway.
Lancelot's footsteps were heavy and loud on the stone. He leaned against the wall and willed his feet to climb the stairs. The wind moved through his hair, cooled his face. He was feverish again. But he was not going to bed. He was heading for the battlement above, where the ghosts of so many days and nights past still wandered. He grunted and half-sighed as he pushed his leg up another step. His face and neck were cold with sweat. His hand remained pressed to his side. Every muscle in his body throbbed and ached and weakened. Sleep, O, sleep – how sweet it sounded to him. But he could not embrace it now. He must handle this alone. Arthur wasn't here anymore to tell him what to do.
"Lora," Arthur said to the cook. "Have you seen Lancelot?"
She was stirring a large cauldron of stew and the steam carried the meaty aroma to Arthur's nose. He wasn't hungry. She used both hands to move the wooden spoon. Her hair was tied up with a rag and her plump face was pink with the heat from the steam. She had been here since Arthur's arrival, years and years ago.
"I think he went to the store room," she said.
"The store room?"
"I believe so. Don't ask me what goes on in the boy's head. The lot of them have always been a handful of trouble."
Arthur smiled just a little. She stilled called them all "boys" though they were well into manhood. She had taken good care of them these years at the Wall. He saw something in her that he remembered about his own mother, and it made him sad.
"Thank you, Lora," he said and wiped his mother out of mind. He turned away and strode off, cloak swishing.
"Don't be late for dinner," she called after him.
Lancelot stared numbly at the rope, as it fluttered in the wind. It called his name. It whispered. It loved him. He didn't know if he could feel love anymore. All he felt was sin. And he didn't even believe in it.
He took the final steps and didn't hear his boots on the stone. The wind was gentle in his ears, like a distant ocean that he could see. It flashed through his mind as he approached the window – gray sky and grayer water. Dark. He remembered stories his mother told him when he was child, stories of men who sailed the seas and condemned their prisoners to drown in the ocean, jump to their own death. He was walking the shore. He was ascending into the great sails, ascending into Arthur's heaven. He longed for green hills and horse's eyes. He heard the wind and nothing more.
Arthur had found the storeroom empty, and something in his heart told him to return to the tower. He gazed up as his boots fondled the stone steps, as if he were ascending to heaven. The torches swayed, and the shadows whispered. He almost felt like himself again, though he shouldn't when he was in this tower and Galahad was dead. Suddenly he remembered his young knight and Gawain together in this tower. He could hear the ghost echoes of Galahad's quick footsteps and Gawain's laughter, as they had flown up these same narrow stairs, so many years ago. He could see Galahad's bright eyes looking down at Gawain, a familiar, "You can't catch me," and the returning of that sparkling gaze from Gawain. Their hearts were in these steps. Lancelot's and Arthur's, too.
Lancelot was standing in the window. Arthur's window. The others were at his back, and he didn't pay them any attention. He gazed into the sea. It lay beyond the rope. He could hear the tide now – louder, louder in his ears. It soothed him. It hushed him. It coaxed him like a mother does her child. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Pain rattled his ribs. Pain pulsed in his heart. Everywhere was numb. Everywhere was nothing. Empty. Done.
He would be gone by the time Arthur came back. If Arthur came back. No one would find him for hours. Maybe even days. Was this how Arthur had felt? Was this how Lancelot had made the Roman feel? Why did they do this to each other? Why did they finish what the Saxons started? They didn't even mean to.
Lancelot bowed his head, stepped into the rope, caught his first glimpse of the ocean below. The wind kissed his curls. The voices sang in faint moans. He could hear himself breathe. He was already underwater.
He jumped.
