A/N:Whew, this is such a sad chapter :'( I think I'm going to write the story behind Kahedan's death and post it in The Stories We Haven't Heard sometime soon. The others will probably be written too, eventually, but Kahedan's is practically writing itself for me in my head, so that one will probably come soon.
As usual, if you like this chapter, feel free to review! Or if you didn't like it, you can let me know that too!
Disclaimer: See ch. 1
.*.*.*.*.*.
The knights stayed with Bors the Elder and Elyan that night, then set off for the next village, leaving Bors behind and promising to return once they had visited the other villages they were taking news to.
Galahad practically buzzed in his saddle as they rode, ecstatic to be finally returning home. He rode several paces ahead of the rest of the knights, eager to be the first to catch sight of his childhood home. Gawain and Arthur followed him, mildly amused at their friend's enthusiasm, with the four younger knights strung out behind them.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Gawain and Arthur crested a hill and found Galahad sitting still on his horse, staring ahead. They followed his gaze, but it took a long moment for them to realize what he had seen.
Not far ahead of them, the plains broke into long, bare patches of dirt. All that grew there were weeds, rather than the long grasses, although the grasses had begun to infringe on the borders of the old fields. A path, set apart from the fields and plains with a border of stones along its packed dirt, stretched between the fields and into what had once been a village.
Every building of the farming village was a black-burned shell. Most of them had been burned down to low rings of blackened materials, although a few still stood partially. From the distance, Gawain and Arthur could see bumps in the soot-, dirt-, and dust-covered stretch of the village that sickened them.
"What happened here?" Ewan murmured, shocked, staring out over the husk of the village.
Without a word, Galahad spurred his horse, and galloped towards his home. "Galahad!" Gawain called after him before spurring his own mount and following.
Gawain followed his friend through the village to a specific half-crumbled structure. As he approached, he saw Galahad slide off of his horse and fall to his knees before the house, head in his hands and shoulders shaking. Gawain reigned in his horse and dismounted, approaching his friend slowly.
"Galahad?" he asked softly, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"It's gone," Galahad sobbed, trembling under Gawain's hand. "Everything… Everyone… It's gone."
Gawain knelt beside Galahad, hand still resting on his shoulder, and looked up at the shell of what he guessed had been his friend's childhood home. "Not everything," he said. Galahad looked up at him, face streaked with tears. "You're still here," Gawain said softly. "You're still here, and you remember, and as long as you do, it's not really gone."
.*.*.*.*.*.
When Gawain and Galahad returned to the town center, leading their horses, they found Arthur and the young knights carefully picking through the rubble there. In the distant fields, they could just barely see Galeschin and Lamorak digging, while Arthur, Aggravaine, and Ewan collected bones and carried them out to the graves. Silently, Galahad joined them, while Gawain found a shovel and began helping with the graves.
It took the rest of the day and all of the next to collect all of the bodies and bones and dig graves for each of them. In the end, they had no way of being sure that the bodies were complete, or that the bones in each grave actually all belonged to the same body, but there were over five score graves in the old fields, each marked with a piece of charred wood.
On the second night in the burned village, Galahad and Gawain sat staring into the sad little grass fire as it flickered, the other knights asleep around them.
"I always thought it would be here when I came back," Galahad said so softly that Gawain almost didn't hear him.
Gawain nodded thoughtfully. "We all did."
"Except for Bors," Galahad snorted. "He thought that everyone he cared about was dead, but they were actually waiting for him to come home. I thought that everyone I loved was waiting for me to come home, but they were actually dead."
.*.*.*.*.*.
In the morning, the knights set out again, leaving the burned village behind. They were all covered in soot and dirt, having found that the village's only well had been filled with dirt and stones by whoever destroyed it. Gawain rode beside Galahad at the rear of their convoy for most of the morning, both men completely silent. Galahad stared stoically ahead, refusing to look back and see the scorched husk of his home again. Gawain snuck quick glances at his friend as they rode, watching his face for any sign of emotion.
"I'm fine," Galahad said suddenly.
"No-one said you weren't," Gawain replied.
"Then stop staring at me," Galahad snapped.
"I'm not staring," Gawain protested.
"Well, stop it anyways," Galahad grumbled. "It's annoying."
Gawain arched an eyebrow, but fell silent, letting his friend grieve in peace.
.*.*.*.*.*.
"This should be Tristan's village, if I remember right," Gawain told Arthur, riding up beside the monarch.
The mountain had come into view just before midday. The plains had mostly leveled out, sloping almost imperceptibly so that they couldn't tell that their altitude had changed until they looked behind them and saw that their path through the long grass cut away at an angle. The mountain loomed over the mostly-flat plains, surrounded by low hills that grew in stature the closer they got to the mountain.
They followed a winding track through a maze of boulders, cliffs, and low hills. It finally ended between two high cliffs, the ground between them rising up to end in a large open area that had been cleared of boulders to allow for the growth of a sprawling village. A large house, the closest thing they had seen to a manor or villa—although it almost resembled a Woad gathering hall, rather than a Roman architectural design—sat in the back of the village on the highest point, separate from all of the others.
"That's different," Arthur nodded towards the hall. "We haven't seen any other buildings like that in Sarmatia."
Gawain shook his head. "The only other time I can remember seeing one is when we came here when I was a child. If I remember right, Tristan's uncle was some sort of king of a large tribe, so I'm guessing that's his home."
"Then we'll go there first," Arthur said decisively.
They rode slowly through the sprawling village. It was the largest settlement they had seen since coming to Sarmatia, at least several times the size of Bors's home town. The village was quiet, although lively, and the people the knights passed stared at them distrustfully. Gawain wondered to himself if they were wary of all strangers, or if this was simply a reaction to how Roman Arthur looked.
At the top of the hill, the knights were met by a woman with golden hair that fell all the way to her hips. There were strands of shimmering silver mixed in with the gold, paling its overall color; she had pale green eyes set into an even paler face. It took a moment before Gawain realized, with a start, that she reminded him immensely of Kahedan. Arthur and Gawain dismounted and stood before her, while the others remained a few paces back.
"Who are you?" the thin woman demanded, her voice full of equal parts defensiveness and combativeness.
"I am Arthur Castus," Arthur bowed slightly.
"Gawain," the bronze-haired knight added, following suit with a bow of his own.
"I am Iseult," the woman inclined her head towards the two men. "What brings you to our village?"
"That may take some explanation," Arthur said.
"Then explain," Iseult arched an eyebrow.
"I was the commander of a Roman fort in a land called Britain," Arthur began. "Twenty years ago, twenty-seven men and boys from Sarmatia were brought to the fort and placed under my command."
"Twenty years ago?" Iseult repeated.
"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "Were there boys taken from this village around then?"
"Yes," Iseult looked down at the ground. "Three. A boy named Durnure, my brother Kahedan, and… my late husband's nephew. Tristan."
Arthur nodded. "Yes, they were brought to Britain."
"But, as I don't see anyone I recognize among the men with you, I must assume that none of them survived their term in your service," Iseult said.
"That is correct," Arthur said. "I am sorry to bring you such harsh news, but we thought it would be best to give you the news we had, so that you could know the fates of your loved ones."
"I am grateful," Iseult smiled sadly. "Please, come in," she added. "You have come this far to bring us this news; you will be welcome in my home tonight."
"Thank you," Arthur bowed again.
"Tell your other men to come forward," Iseult looked at the other knights behind them. "I will send someone to show you to the stables, and have food prepared for you." She glanced at the sooty, dirty knights. "And I will have baths drawn."
"We would appreciate that," Gawain laughed.
Iseult gave them another smile, this one with less sadness behind it, and disappeared back into the house. Arthur turned and waved Galahad and the younger knights forward.
"The Lady Iseult has offered us the shelter of her home for the night," Arthur told the others. "They will show us to stables for the horses, and she has offered us dinner and baths."
"Both of those will be appreciated," Galeschin laughed, dismounting. The others followed suit as two boys, hardly older than thirteen, if that, appeared out of the manor.
"Iseult told us to take you to the stables," one of the boys said.
"We will follow you," Arthur smiled down at the boys, who grinned shyly and started off for a nearby building. Inside, all but three of the stalls were empty, leaving plenty of room for the knights' horses.
"Where are all of the horses?" Aggravaine asked one of the boys as the knights stabled their mounts.
"The Romans take them, sometimes," the boy replied, staring sadly at one of the stalls. "And last winter, there was a fire, and some of them escaped."
Aggravaine nodded and continued to brush his horse down. "And the three that are here?"
"One belongs to Iseult, one belonged to King Mark before he died, and one belongs to Meirchion," the boy replied. "The Romans don't take their horses."
Aggravaine nodded again. Once the knights were finished with their horses, the boys took them back to the manor, where a serving girl whisked them away to a room with several large, steaming tubs in it. "We didn't have enough baths for all of you, so you'll have to take turns," she said apologetically.
"Thank you," Arthur said kindly. "We appreciate it."
.*.*.*.*.*.
Once they were done, the knights joined Iseult in the main room of the hall. They found her with a woman with bright red hair and a young boy who looked like a very young version of the knights' old friend Kahedan. Iseult greeted the knights and invited them to sit at the long table in the center of the room.
"Dinner is almost ready," she said as they settled down. "This is Brangien, my stewardess, and Meirchion, my son."
"My lady," Arthur nodded politely to Brangien, then smiled at the boy. "Hello there."
"Hello," the boy said shyly. "What is your name?"
"I am Arthur," the king replied.
"And you?" the boy looked at the next knight.
"Galahad," he replied.
The boy, disguising his immense curiosity behind interested politeness, asked the name of each of the knights, but Iseult stopped him when he started to ask further questions.
They ate in silence, the air tense around them. Once the food was finished, Iseult bid them good night and the knights followed Brangien out of the room. Arthur paused in the doorway and looked back at Iseult. Her son had left earlier on, sent to bed by his mother as soon as his food was finished, so Iseult was alone in the room. Arthur saw her staring at a large chair—not a throne by any stretch, but clearly the seat of power in this town—set on a dais against the far wall.
"Lady Iseult," he said.
The woman jumped and whirled around, and Arthur swore he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "Is there something you need, sir?" she asked stiffly.
"You haven't asked me how it was your brother or the others died," Arthur said.
"I'm not so sure I want to know," Iseult murmured, looking down at the floor.
"One day, you will," Arthur said. "And so will your son, I think. I know you've seen it too; he looks just like Kahedan."
Iseult gave the king another of her sad smiles as her tears finally spilled over. "He does, doesn't he?" She sighed deeply and sat down again at the table. "Tell me, then."
Arthur sat down across from her and folded his hands together on the table in front of him. "Durnure was the first of the boys from this village to fall," he began. "It was four years after he came to Britain—he was seventeen. He was a good shot and good with the sword, but he was best with a spear—the only one of all twenty-seven boys who was a natural with that. I sent him and a few of the others with a group of Roman soldiers for an extended patrol. Three days later, the Romans came back with only two of the knights I had sent with them. Durnure and another of the knights—an older boy name Bruin—were laid over their horses. The survivors told me that a bear attacked them in the night. Durnure was on watch, and the bear tore into him before he knew it was there."
Iseult grimaced, but nodded slowly. "I will make sure to inform his family." She paused. "What of Kahedan?"
"Kahedan died five years after Durnure, nine years after they came to Britain," Arthur replied. "We were ambushed by Woads—some of the natives of Britain—while we were patrolling the wall. He was scratched by one of their blades—it hardly even broke the skin, so we thought he was fine. That night, back at the fort, he fell ill. Very ill. Tristan dragged him to the healer, who said that the blade must have been poisoned. He did everything he could, but… Kahedan died before nightfall."
"Did he… Did he die alone?" Iseult asked softly.
"No," Arthur shook his head. "All of us sat with him at some point during that time, and Tristan hardly left his side. And there was a woman—Camille—who Kahedan had become close to. She was there when he died."
"Good," Iseult sniffled. "I am glad he was not alone." Silence fell for a few moments, broken only by Iseult's sniffles, before she spoke again. "And what of Tristan."
Arthur didn't answer immediately. "Tristan survived his term," he said finally. "He received his papers, freeing him to return home. He even started to ride for the port, along with the other knights who survived. But… There was a Saxon hoard approaching the fort. Thousands of them. It was a hopeless battle. There were a few dozen Breton villagers, maybe double that number of Woads, and myself who stayed behind to fight the Saxons."
The king paused again. "I was looking out over the Saxon army, on the other side of the wall that divides Britain in half, when suddenly my knights were at my side. Gawain told me later that Tristan was one of the first to decide to come back, when they heard the drums of the Saxons."
"Then he died in battle?" Iseult asked.
"He challenged the Saxons' commander," Arthur nodded. "He was outmatched—somehow. I don't think I believed it had been possible for Tristan to be outmatched until I saw his body later.
Iseult sobbed quietly, her tears dripping onto the table. "Thank you," she said thickly after a long pause. "I thought I didn't want to know, but… somehow, it makes it better." She looked up at him. "They all died good deaths."
"As good as any death could be," Arthur agreed, tears pricking at his own eyes.
"Thank you," Iseult repeated.
Arthur said nothing, but stood and bowed his head. He started towards the corridor, but stopped and turned back when he reached the door. "If you ever want to leave this place, you will be welcome in Britain. Your brother and Tristan are buried there."
Iseult smiled wanly. "My husband and the father of my son is buried here." She shook her head and stood. "No, I will stay in Sarmatia. It is the land of my father, and his father before him. It is the land of my son. With Kahedan… and Tristan… gone, I have nothing beyond my son. I will stay with him."