Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.
Warning: This chapter also contains darker material and ideas that some readers may find offensive. I apologize if I make anyone uncomfortable.
Chapter 53: The Right Thing To Do
Arthur reached the group just as Galahad and Bors dragged Gawain away from the banner and sat him on the ground facing away, each on an arm. Arthur looked down. Lancelot stopped, his own stomach heaving. He could go no further towards that... that thing on the ground.
His throat was working, trying to hold back the bile. Lancelot couldn't look at it. He already knew what it was and he began to shake, and felt his stomach roll.
These men were indeed mad. And for years... he couldn't even go there in his mind. He bit his lip and grimaced to stop the shaking. All those years, all the grieving, came right back to the surface. How had this happened? How was it possible? After all this time, and so close to when they had found him...
Lancelot crouched down and dry heaved, willing himself to keep his composure, one hand out to the ground to steady himself. He buried his fingers in the soft dirt. It was cool to the touch and he focused on it. It felt real.
This wasn't, it didn't feel real.
He steadied his breathing. It would do no good to panic or fly off the handle right now. But Gods, he wanted to... He wanted to run screaming and kill that Saxon. Hack him to bits and skin him like they had done...
He growled lowly, and dry heaved again, his jaw muscles popping with the effort.
Tristan quietly stood beside him, and hesitantly put out a hand, pulling it away as Lancelot straightened and pushed his fingers through his hair. Tristan swallowed and looked away.
This was hard for all of them, Lancelot thought as he took a moment to gather himself together. None of them had ever expected this. It was so strange that they would discover it now. He supposed that the troop, being small, would have been able to hide in the woods for years, moving from spot to spot without detection.
It wasn't impossible, but it was still very strange to have it come so close to Gawain finally being overcome by memories of...
Of that, sitting over on the ground, not ten paces from him.
"This is very strange. It's as if..." Lancelot said quietly, then spat, wrinkling his face as he tasted bile. Tristan shook his head.
"It is done. We need to do the right thing now. Get yourself together." Tristan jerked his head back to where Gawain was. "He needs you to be. You can be your own madman later."
From behind them, Bors and Galahad were trying to subdue Gawain, struggling against their grip on his arms, sobbing and roaring.
"Let me go. Let me at him... Bastard... Savage..."
Bors looked up at Arthur who had finished his examination of the banner. Perceval could be heard around the corner of a tent retching. It had been too much for the younger knight. No one thought less of him for it. Gawain stopped struggling, seeming to give in. He slumped in their grasp, but they dared not let go.
Arthur glanced back at the Saxon chief and he began to pace. Arthur was measuring something in his head. Lancelot made his way over to Arthur and came right up to him, nose to nose so that they could talk quietly, stopping Arthur in his tracks.
He knew what Arthur was thinking. It was cold, and it was murder, but the circumstances were beyond their control now.
An eye for an eye... He remembered Cerys reading to him from one of Arthur's books about some Hammurabi leader in Mesopotamia thousands of years ago. That was one of their laws on a big stone tablet.
A life for a life.
"It would end his misery." Lancelot muttered, his eyes snapping. He unsheathed a sword and twisted the grip in his hand. He twitched and turned his gaze towards their captive.
"Gawain, that Saxon... or you?" Arthur replied, forcing Lancelot's eyes back to him. Arthur's eyes were hard, and searching Lancelot's face.
Lancelot gave him an exasperated look and ran his fingers up through his hair once more.
"Arthur..."
Arthur wrinkled his forehead and his gaze levelled. He had made up his mind. Lancelot could see the moment it happened, the hardness coming across his face like a curtain.
"No, if anyone, it is to be Gawain. You would do yourself no good with this."
Bors was still looking to Arthur, waiting. He knew as soon as they turned back to where the rest of the men were waiting, with Gawain.
Bors nodded, understanding, grimaced and stood, loosing Gawain from his grasp. Galahad saw the exchange and he looked away from the group, his eyes hard, and his disgust evident. He released his hold on Gawain and spun, walking away quickly. Galahad would want no part of this. He began the task of gathering up the horses.
Lancelot braced for what would happen next and sheathed his sword again. He undid the laces on his helmet and tore it off to give relief to the sweat pouring from his forehead.
Gawain looked up through his watering eyes at Arthur as Arthur stopped in front of him. Arthur unsheathed his sword, handing it hilt first to Gawain. Gawain got up from his seat and looked from Arthur to the sword.
Lancelot held his breath. He heard Tristan do the same. Bors went around the corner to find Perceval.
"Gawain" Arthur said quietly, motioning the hilt towards him.
Gawain slowly took the hilt of Arthur's sword in his hand, his eyes not leaving his commanders. He blinked, and Arthur put a hand to his shoulder. Lancelot watched the realization dawn on the knight's face.
The wind was tossing Gawain's hair about as he strode purposely forward to where the Saxon lay, the clouds flying across the sky, silhouetting him as he stood above the deranged man at his feet. He looked like a man possessed, then more than ever, his stillness even more frightening than his tortured screams.
This was the demon Gawain needed to confront. This was all the dreams, all the sleepless nights, all the screaming. All the sorrow. All wrapped up in this sorry excuse for a man, his mind nothing but mush.
He could end it all in one action.
The rest of the knights gathered together, hands on weapons. Perceval wiping his mouth, his own sword re-drawn. Bors pulled his hand-blades out and walked halfway between the knights and Gawain, at the ready.
"He has to do this or he will never find peace." Arthur said quietly to them as he wiped his arm across his brow, his own helmet dangling from his hand.
"Are you sure this won't just make it worse?" Lancelot muttered under his breath. Arthur's eyes told him that he didn't know, but it was the best they could do for him. It was a chance to let him kill his torment.
The men went silent, thinking about that and watching. It was one thing to kill a man in battle. It was another to kill a man for revenge, in cold blood. A helpless mad man, tied on the ground. They all knew this; it was part of their honour.
They had been trained to kill, but not this way. Lancelot flicked his glance to Tristan. Of all the knights, he would be the one who would find this the easiest. Tristan's face was unreadable, his hands clasped in front of him, standing at ease, simply watching, his chin tilted up.
He would have had no hesitation if it were him, Lancelot knew.
Lancelot also knew that even though he wished for revenge, Arthur was right. He would not have been able to. It would not have solved anything for him, he had said goodbye long ago to his own grief.
He reached up and touched his chest where Cerys' mint was. He held his hand there, willing control. Willing it to be over. He needed her right then. He wanted to bury himself in her hair and just make the rest of the world go away. For awhile, anyways.
He wished for peace right then so none of them would ever have to endure this again.
Ever.
They waited for Gawain to scream, hack at the man with abandon, lose his control. All they could hear was the wind through the trees circling the clearing, the sunken stream gurgling with spring runoff, birds crying in the air. From behind them they heard Galahad rounding up the horses.
Perceval coughed. The knights shifted.
Gawain just stood and stared at the man, gripping and re-gripping the sword in his hand, the tip pointed at the ground.
"Get up." He rasped.
The Saxons eyes had gone wide, he was trembling. He began to keen as he seemed to recognize Gawain, or at least Gawain's intention.
"Get up."
"You are the lion! You died, you roared..." The Saxon screamed, then began gibbering and hitting his head once more on the ground.
Lancelot moved forward and Arthur put an arm out across his chest.
"I know. I'm sorry."
Lancelot ground his teeth together and stopped. Arthur understood that Lancelot felt just as strong a need. But this was Gawain's battle. The real one. Their slaughter of the rest of the camp had been child's play compared to this.
Gawain roughly pulled the Saxon up by his hair, bringing his own face down.
"I'll ask you one more time...Get up and fight me."
The chief babbled nonsense and rolled his eyes. More blood and drool dribbled out of his mouth.
Gawain let go of his hair and let the Saxon flop back to the ground. The whole group watched him take a deep breath in and his face harden more. He paced in a small circle around the man, screaming at him, telling him to get up and fight, calling him names, spitting on him. He kicked him, the man only grunted.
It was no use; the chief was not capable of fighting. He was not capable of anything right then. He had gone into his own mind completely.
Gawain stopped in front of the chief. He hefted the sword above his head, his arms taut with the effort, the blade glinting what light there was. Lancelot could see a tremor in his arms as he held it a moment, looking down on him. They could see him mouth something, but they couldn't hear it.
"Gods..." Perceval whispered, covering his mouth.
Lancelot closed his eyes as Gawain let out a scream that spooked the horses and turned Galahad's head. In one motion, he cleaved the Saxon's head from his body, burying the sword in the dirt from the force. The corpse twitched and went still.
It was done.
Gawain let Arthur's sword from his grip, it quivered in place where he left it. He turned empty eyes to the men, and fell on his knees, sobbing, his hands upturned.
"Gareth... I'm sorry..." He whispered before he fell to the ground completely, the men running towards him.
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
Lancelot had allowed no one to help gather up Gareth's remains and fold him into a cloak. Just like when they found his bones and his armour strung up in the tree, he set to work gathering his cousin up, once piece at a time, after Gawain had cut what remained down.
This time, there was only one piece.
He had mustered his courage once Gawain was subdued, and walked over to the banner, lying on the ground. The others had given him peace for a few moments, turning to gather their horses from Galahad, Galahad gathering up his brother.
As he had finally gazed at it, he saw, and he remembered.
There, faded and stretched on one corner, was the Roman cavalry tattoo that all the men had been given when they entered service. All seven of them had one on their right shoulder, each with their own number. The first part of the number was the batallion number, the second their entry rank, the third was their identifying numeral. Only Arthur had a Centurion symbol above his, granted when he became commander.
It was Gareth. One number higher than Lancelot. There was no mistaking it, and Gawain had known it the moment he saw the banner.
Lancelot had retched twice while he worked. The skin was dry and cracked, the red paint of the symbol staining it, the stitching criss-crossing the breadth popping as he worked. His hands shook, and flakes came off as he undid the sinew holding it to the wood frame. He had, however, refused to cry. Not yet.
He had to look away as he folded up the arms into the cloak. Gareth's hands. They had been so wide compared to his own.
Gareth used to tease him and tell him he had women's fingers, when they were young.
Arthur had stood sentry, his back to Lancelot, while he had finished the gruesome task. It made a small package, and would fit strapped to the front of Klyndd's saddle.
He rose. Arthur turned at his noise and put a hand out to Lancelot to steady him. Lancelot was bone-weary and he leaned on Arthur for a moment. They walked side by side to Klyndd, and Lancelot tied the cloak to the saddle. He fumbled with the laces, and Arthur's larger hands came out and finished the job.
Lancelot let his hands fall listlessly to his side. He looked to the ground. He wanted to go home.
He wanted Cerys. He didn't know if he could tell her of this, if it would be too much. But he knew she would help him right now, more than anyone else could.
They stood without talking, the sounds of Ganis and his men around them tearing the camp and building pyres to burn the bodies. They would work until nightfall gathering up what they could, setting the fires. The tents with all the grease on them would be perfect tinder. They were so old, they were of no use to them to bring back. After a few coats of grease to keep out weather, tents would begin to rot anyways.
It was lucky they had come so soon. Lancelot had no desire to stay any longer than he had to here.
They both looked up as Gawain stopped in front of Lancelot. The two men looked at each other for a moment. Arthur discreetly backed away, letting them be.
"He was..." Gawain started, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"I know."
"It's not right..."
"I know that too."
Gawain swallowed and looked away. He tore his eyes back to Lancelot, who was leaning on his horse. Lancelot put his hand out this time, catching Gawain's shoulder.
"It was the right thing to do, but I'm sorry."
Gawain only grimaced. His eyes questioned Lancelot's statement. Was it truly? They asked. Lancelot shook his head. He didn't know. Grief had taken over his mind. He could not see things so clearly right then.
Gawain ran a hand down his face and groaned softly. He was hurting. Lancelot could feel it echoing off of him.
Lancelot pulled Gawain into a light embrace. Gawain bent his forehead to Lancelot's shoulder.
Lancelot let Gawain cry.
It was over.
Dear Reader:
Ok, let me have it! Good, bad, freaky, gruesome? I hope that I was able to give the emotion behind the discovery, and in a way, show Gawain's real battle. Also Lancelot's! Gareth was his cousin, after-all. For all the men this is hard. Something like this owuld break even the most cold of men, as we see in Tristan.
Cerys is going to have her hands full when they get home, eh?
Again, thank you for reading. I am always humbled by the responses I get from this story. I routinely get a happy feeling growing from the pit of my stomach when I read reviews that tell me how this story has made you feel, helped you remember, helped inspire you.
I love inspiring, I love helping people learn about themselves and get to know themselves better. It helps me be better, and to write better.
May all of your happy feelings allow you to write better stories, and help others this way.
Cardeia
