A/N: I'm not going to give excuses, because you don't want to hear them, and I don't want to list them, so I'll just say this: I'm very, very sorry. It has been far too long, and I doubt this chapter even partially compensates for the wait. Hopefully I can update faster, and bring this story to it's conclusion.

So here you are, chapter two, and I hope that I can start to redeem myself?

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Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand –Charles Kingsley

He shot up, reflexes that had been burned into him battle after battle for the past fifteen years springing into action.

"Sweet god-," Galahad was cut off as another cry cut into the still night air. The knight jumped to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fist to get his blood circulating again. He looked around wildly, brown curls flying into his eyes.

"Gawain!" He shouted, when he didn't see his friend. "Bloody Hell…"

Shivering slightly, Galahad sprinted out into the open meadow, searching. Looking…

Where was he?

"GAWAIN!" He shouted, listening to his voice echo around him like a phantom ghost.

Breathing heavily, the young man drew out his sword, feeling comfort rise up in him as he gripped the metal hold, the familiarity driving away his fears, giving him back bravery…

If he had ever had courage to begin with.

Looking up at the starry sky, Galahad realized he had never felt so alone. Not when they took him from his family, not when he and Bors had been captured by those damned Saxons, not when he had watched Tristan and Lancelot sink into the ground forever…

His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, his mind clogged and racing from a million thoughts he didn't want to remember, a million faces he didn't want to see, a million futures that, by some small, impossible chance had not come true.

And still he stood there, one night in a dark meadow in the dead of night, shaking from the cold, the solitude, the eerie silence, and his own twisted fear.

"Gawain…" He said again, but his voice was quieter, and it shook with unshed emotion that drowned his soul in sorrow, but was held back by the stubborn pride that had kept him alive all these years.

He turned desperately to the moon, watching black clouds swallow it, and then unveil it again…

Galahad…Whispered the win….Galahad…Go home…Go home…

Go home, Galahad.

And then his heart turned cold as realized something; something that terrified him more than his fifteen years of service to the Roman army, that made him quiver, killing his bravery, forcing him to his knees, destroying him…

He had left Sarmatia sixteen years ago. But it was no longer his home.

Rome, Arthur, the Round Table, that was his home.

All he would have to do is turn back…

And all those dreams, all those times he had woken up with green pastures on his mind…

Had it all been a lie?

He dropped his sword, listening for the clattering of the metal on the ground, but the sound was muffled by the grass. He could no longer hear it.

Who was he?

Galahad, or Arthur's knight?

Where did he belong?

Sarmatia? Or the land that had held him in slavery…

He was nobody…He belonged nowhere…He deserved death; if not for the stabs that had been taken by his brothers-in-arms, than for the traitorous thoughts he was thinking.

He was no better than Gabrieal. No better.

No better.

The night wrapped around him like a black coat, and it smothered him…Suffocating him…

He was choking…Dying…Losing everything…And he was alone…

"GALAHAD!"

Then someone was beside him, helping him up, taking to him.

And he looked into the eyes of his friend, and felt guilt come over him like a tidal wave, swallowing him. Ending him.

"Are you okay? What happened? Did you scream?" Gawain was talking fast, his voice an octave higher than usual, his face pale.

"No, I…" Galahad gave up speaking, sniffing hard to stop the tears.

"I just went out to see how far out we were," Gawain continued, trying to catch his breath. "Then I got lost, and I could not see to find where we had made camp. Then I heard the scream, and I," he cast his eyes downward. "I feared the worst.

Galahad shook his head, shutting his eyes closed tightly. "M'fine," he mumbled.

Gawain sighed, looking behind him. "It's going to be most odd, going home. There are times when I…I hardly remember it…"

"I don't remember it at all," said Galahad softly. "When you say 'home', I-I think of Rome…"

Gawain nodded wisely, replacing his sword and shouldering his pack. "It was home, for a little while. But…" He sighed. "But it wasn't our home…"

Galahad frowned, suppressing a small shiver. "But Sarmatia-,"

"-Is where we were born," Gawain smiled, surprising his younger friend. "But where you are born is not always were you end up in life, as we well know."

Galahad nodded, trying to understand.

"Who knows, maybe we shall find our families, our old homes…Perhaps a girl or five, but I don't think we will ever forget where we went…"

"And what if I…" Galahad took a shaky breath. "What if I…miss…some things…What if I-,"

Gawain smiled gently. "Then you are better for not abandoning your past."

But Galahad was not convinced, and he sighed deeply. "I feel like a traitor," he whispered, then looked up. "Like Gabrieal. He forgot about Sarmatia, he didn't want to go back…"

"No." The older knight shook his head strongly. "No, Galahad, you will never be like Gabrieal. You stayed…Loyalty, honor, perhaps it was not your duty-," Galahad smiled a little in memory. "-But you fulfilled what Rome demanded of you. That's strength, Galahad."

Silence covered the meadows, crickets sang the night to its fullest.

After a while, Gawain blew out his breath. "Eh," he said. "Where did our horses get to?"

Galahad shrugged. "Back there, I suppose."

"Let's go find out what screamed and bloody woke us up, then, shall we?"

And Galahad smiled.

TBC