Thanks everyone for your reviews. I know! Last chapter was a downer, to read and, believe me, to write. But I had to build up Lamorak's character, which ultimately makes you like him in the process, before he went. I ended up loving him myself, but it was just how the story was going.

Enjoy this chapter, though and keep on telling me what you think. Believe me, it helps.

Chapter 27

Fallen Knight

The clouds drifted swiftly across the gray morning sky, shielding the warmth and light that the sun had to offer. The air was cold, instantly chilling all the way done to the bone, as the people surrounded up high on Badon Hill. The Sarmatian Knights and their commander, Arthur, encircled a newly prepared burial mound, each man bowing their heads low to the ground in grief. Their friend, their comrade, their brother was gone.

Arthur stood at the head of the freshly earthen mound, higher up on the hill than all the others. His exhausted eyes stared down hard at the short sword that had been placed in the earth above the grave, marking Lamorak's place among his ancestors forever. The perished knight's bronze colored armor was placed up against his weapon of choice, and his metal helmet sat on the top of the hilt. It almost took on the shape of a body. Arthur shook his head, trying to rid himself of the foolish wishes that plagued his heavy heart; wishes that the events of the past days had not occurred, wishes for this all to be just a dream, and wishes that somehow, Lamorak would walk up the hill at any moment. He had failed another one of his faithful men.

Gawain sniffed, desperately trying to keep the tears that threatened to spill down his red, swollen lids at bay. He had to be brave. That's what his uncle had told him. To be brave. Gawain gritted his teeth at the memory of his departing day from Sarmatia. His uncle had told him to be brave and strong, directly after telling him to always protect and watch over his little cousin. He had sworn that he would. And now he had failed. Lamorak lay dead in the cold ground, buried far from his homeland, and from his people. Gawain felt Galahad's arm on his shoulder, but couldn't look up to meet his best friend's sorrowful gaze. It was all just too much to bare.

Elaine stood solemnly in between Dagonet and Lancelot. She wore a deep black velvet gown, with ornate red and gold collars and gold buttons on the bodice, and a blood red sash tied around her middle. It had been a gown she had made herself in Shalott, and saw such a regal gown was appropriate for the burial of a great man. He deserved to have a proper burial, with proper mourners. And she was one. A long black silk veil completely covered her face and most of her hair. And as she stared down at the brown dirt that had been placed carefully over Lamorak's fallen body, the breeze gently blew the veil, giving her an almost mystical look. She gulped, her throat burning as a sob remained trapped in her chest. She had failed to save him as he had saved her.

Tristan was the only one among the many there, whose eyes were not fixed upon the fresh mound of dirt. Of course, he grieved for his brother, because Lamorak truly was like a brother as were all the rest. It was just that Tristan mourned differently than most, in his own way. He wasn't one for all the ceremony, and the tears and wails of agony. Simplicity, was in his mind, the honorable way to bury the brave. Tristan hated having so many villagers there. It would have been better if it were just the knights, the men who knew him as the man he was. And Elaine, for she was closer to them than any one else.

So, the scout's eyes were not staring down on the untrodden mound, but were fixed heatedly straight across from where he stood by Gawain, Galahad, and Bors. He had watched her the entire time. Although the veil she wore, hid most of her features, Tristan's trained eyes could see each teardrop that slid down her soft cheek. They shone like precious diamonds underneath the darkness of the veil. His heart ached for her. She was in pain. Since the two days past the horrible day, she hadn't spoken at all, nor ate a thing. Arthur had begged her to eat and seek comfort in his arms, but she simply sat alone in her chamber. Tristan wouldn't let her kill herself over the loss of Lamorak, so he had gone into her room on the second night. She was sitting by her bed, stitching away at the veil she would wear the next day. Upon seeing Tristan standing before her, for she did not hear him until he was indeed in front of her, she gasped but did not scream nor speak at all. Tristan strode forward, plopping down on the bed, and sliced fiercely into an apple. She had refused him at first, but he slowly got her to munch on the apple. But she made him promise that he would eat with her too, which he did. They sat for an hour in silence, sharing many apples. When she fell to sleep, he had wrapped a warm blanket around her body. It surprised him, how comfortable she was with him. Thoughts of the day she'd seen him in the stables with the blood of the Woads on his hands, had made him try to stay as far away from her as he could, but it seemed like it was just impossible to do so. Something always seemed to bring him close to her. Tristan hadn't left her room immediately after she had fallen into a heavy sleep, but sat for a while watching her from the shadows. He knew he shouldn't be there, that he shouldn't have even gone to her in the first place. But as the moonlight cast down upon her creamy skin, his heart ached. He knew that there was no other place he'd rather be. After a short while, Arthur had come into the room, and Tristan had slipped out into the hall unnoticed. But in the hall, he felt a pair of eyes staring at him from the darkness. He ignored them, walking straight into his room, and bolting the door tightly behind him.

Arthur's stern voice brought the scout out of his thoughts.

"Let us never forget Lamorak, the brave. Keep him forever in our hearts and our minds."

The mourners bowed their heads, each saying a pray to there own Gods. A silence filled the space again, as the flames from the incense burner on top of the mound whipped violently against the cold morning breeze. The thick, rich aromas of frankincense and myrrh permeated out from the clay burner, stinging each nose with its sweet scent. Before long, the ceremony was complete, and slowly the villagers who had come out to show respect to the brave young knight, began to drift away, back towards the wall. Soon, only the Sarmatian knights, Arthur and Elaine stood by the burial mound, none of them moving at all from their initial spot, as they continued to stare at Lamorak's grave.

Gawain was the first to break the cold sullenness. He knelt forward upon on knee, sighing and placing his dirty palm flat on the brown earth, where Lamorak's head would be deep down below.

"Go home, cousin," he said just above a whisper, "I'll follow you soon."

Elaine's throat felt terribly sore as she watched the saddening scene before her. Her heart went out to Gawain. He was her close friend now, as were all the men. As was Lamorak. His pain was hers.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, a great wind blew hard to the East. Towards Sarmatia. The men trembled against it, feeling as though they had all been individually touched by a familiar force. Elaine gasped as the breeze swept the black veil completely off her head, revealing her face, as it drifted along the strong east wind. And as it was carried all the way out of sight, Elaine's tears were dried from her face by the wind.

As they all watched the veil float away, each man and Elaine knew inside their hearts what had just happened. Lamorak was set free.

Okay this one was relatively short, but it was a little way to give us allsome closure.