A/N: So, for anyone who's read The Stories We Haven't Heard, you maybe might have noticed that in the very first chapter ("Gawain") I mentioned Cynan's cousin "Ywaine". That's Ewan's classic name from Arthurian legends, but I totally forgot that I had referred to him as that at all ever. I chose Ewan because it's less similar to Gawain, and I thought that would make things a little less confusing. Just wanted to put that out there in case anyone else had noticed; I'll probably go back and edit "Gawain" at some point so that it just says Ewan instead of Ywaine.
Anyways, let me know what you think of this chapter! I was actually grinning while I wrote at some points, because I was actually happy with how it was going (which I wasn't at other points in the chapter, because it gave me a lot of trouble-hence why I published "Poison" over in TSWHH before I published this chapter).
Disclaimer: See ch. 1
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Once again, the knights set off in the morning. They bid Iseult and Merichion farewell, mounted their horses, and set off on the winding road out of the town. Aggravaine rode up beside Arthur and Gawain. "Our village will be next," he said, anticipation clear in his deep blue eyes.
"How long do think it will take us to reach it?" Arthur asked, already trusting the young knight's memory.
"It took us about four days to reach this village from ours last time," Grav replied. "But we were travelling slower. We had boys and even some of the Roman soldiers on foot. I think that we can make it in about two, depending how long we camp at night."
Arthur nodded. "And once we get there..?"
"Once we get there, let us go in first," Grav replied decisively. "Me, Ewan, and Lamorak. Gawain too, if he wants." He shot a side glance at his older brother.
Gawain stared off towards the horizon. "I'm not sure yet."
Over the next two days, the knights rode through every hour of daylight. At night, they burned piles of grass before eating meager suppers of their carefully-rationed provisions. In the morning, they ate similarly meager breakfasts before mounting up and riding again.
The sun was just beginning to set, darkening the sky into the third night, when they saw the third village. It was smaller than Tristan's but larger than Bors's, the huts clustered around a wide but shallow stream with several small trees popping up along its banks.
Aggravaine nudged his brother in the ribs and pointed towards one of the huts set slightly away from the village, near the small stream that wound along that side of the settlement. It had once been a small, round structure like those in the rest of the village—and most of the other homes they had seen—but had clearly been added onto since it had originally been built. "Home," Grav grinned toothily at his brother.
Gawain nodded, but remained silent.
"Come on," Grav waved at Ewan and Lamorak.
"We'll meet you in the morning," Arthur said. "Galahad, Galeschin, and I will camp outside of the village."
"I'll stay with you," Gawain decided.
"No you won't," Galahad materialized at his friend's side. "You're not going to wait until morning to see your family again. You're going tonight."
Gawain narrowed his eyes at Galahad, trying to come up with a reason to spend the night out camping, but couldn't seem to do so.
"Come on," Grav was still grinning as he nudged his brother again.
Wordlessly, Gawain followed along behind Grav, Lamorak, and Ewan, allowing the younger men to pull ahead of him. As they neared the village, the world seemed to fade away; all he could see was the backs of the knights in front of him; all he could hear was the sound of his horse's hooves. He remained silent as he followed them through the village, hardly noticing the curious stares of the villagers that they passed. Part way through the village, Ewan, with a grin and a wave, split off from the others, heading for his own home. Gawain continued to follow Grav and Lamorak as they made for the hut by the stream.
As they crossed the stream, the door to the hut opened, and a figure emerged. Gawain felt his heart drop as the figure solidified into a woman's shape. Grav and Lamorak spurred their horses faster, but Gawain held back.
When the woman saw them approaching, she screamed and dropped the bucket she had been holding. Lamorak dismounted and pulled her into a great hug, which she returned. Even from the distance, Gawian could hear her sobbing. Another woman soon exited as well. There was another shriek, and she pulled Grav into a hug. Gawain dismounted and slowly led his horse forward, his heart pounding in his ears.
"We never thought you'd return," Morgause was saying tearfully, holding Grav's face in her hands.
"You were gone for so long," the other woman, her arm wrapped tightly around Lamorak's shoulders, added. "But it hasn't been fifteen years yet. Did the Romans release you early?"
"Yes," Lamorak nodded. "They were withdrawing from Gaul—where we were stationed—and released us from our service after just over ten years."
"And it took you that long to make it back to us?" the younger woman teased, pinching Lamorak.
"Well, we made a stop first," Grav grinned, turning back towards Gawain and waving his older brother forward.
Reluctantly, Gawain dropped his horse's reigns and stepped forward, leaving the comforting shape of the beast behind. At the sight of him, Morgause went white, her hands dropping to her sides. She took an unsteady step forward, then another, and another, until she was standing directly in front of her oldest son, looking up into his face. "Gawain?" she whispered, lifting a trembling hand to brush his cheek.
Gawain nodded numbly. He could feel the tears beginning to spill from his eyes and run down his cheeks, but he remained silent, taking in the sight of his mother's face—a face he'd never expected to see again. He hardly noticed the others spilling from the hut until a pair of strong arms were throw around his shoulders. A grinning face with wide blue eyes and a copper-colored beard was in front of him, snapping him back to reality.
"Gawain!" Gaheris beamed, hugging his oldest brother tightly. Behind him, Aggravaine, was embracing a younger boy, also with copper-colored curls. Two boys with heavy, dark hair were greeting Lamorak similarly, a tall, stocky, proud-looking man that Gawain vaguely recognized as Lamorak and Tor's father Pellinore stood behind them.
"Gaheris?" Gawain turned his attention back to the young man in front of him, his own face breaking out into a grin. "You got bigger," he teased.
"So did you," Gaheris laughed, embracing the knight again.
"Gawain, this is Gareth," Aggravaine pulled the youngest boy forward. Gareth smiled awkwardly, then held out his hand towards Gawain.
"It's nice to meet you," the boy said softly.
"You as well," Gawain nodded. He reached out to take Gareth's hand, but pulled him into a big hug instead.
"Come on," Aggravaine grinned, grabbing Gawain by the arm and pulling him towards the dark-haired boys with Pellinore and Lamorak. "This is Percival," he pointed towards the youngest boy, who looked about the same age as Gareth, "and that's Aglovale, who you might remember," he pointed towards the middle of the three boys, "and that's their sister Dindrane."
"Even if you don't remember me, I remember you," Dindrane grinned, leaning forward to hug Gawain. "Welcome home."
Gawain nodded mutely, staring around the large family.
"Come on, you'll scare the boy away," Pellinore said gruffly, reaching out to clap Gawain on the shoulder. "Let's go inside."
"You're just in time for dinner," Morgause said, leading the way back into the hut. She turned to the cooking fire, leaving the men of the family to settle down elsewhere in the hut.
"It's just like I remember," Grav said softly to Gawain, looking around and smiling.
"It is," Gawain agreed.
"You look ready to bolt out of here," Aglovale plunked himself down on Gawain's other side. "I wouldn't blame you. It gets crazy around here."
Gawain managed a smile. "I remember. I remember you too, a little. You were always in trouble."
Aglovale laughed. "I was what, four when you left? How much trouble can a four-year-old get in?"
"Plenty," Grav leveled a mock glare at the younger man. "I remember that well enough too."
Aglovale laughed and put up his hands in surrender. "If you say so. I don't remember much of that."
Gawain laughed slightly and felt himself relax in the surroundings that were both foreign and familiar at the same time.
"So, Grav says he was in Gaul; where were you stationed?" Gaheris leaned around Aglovale to look Gawain in the eye.
"Britain," Gawain replied.
"Bah," Pellinore huffed. "Awful, dingy, wet island full of wildlings that wear nothing but blue paint and bits of wool cloth."
"You were stationed there too?" Gawain asked.
"Me and your father, boy," Pellinore nodded, puffing on a pipe he had produced out of nowhere.
"Who was your commander?" Gawain asked.
"Some Roman arsehole," Pellinore growled. "Something-or-other Castus. Good man, I suppose."
"My commander was his son, then, I suppose," Gawain said. "Artorius. Another good man."
"He is," Grav agreed, nodding his head so his bronze curls bounced. "He came back with us just so he could give the families of his dead knights closure."
"You brought a Roman back with you?" Pellinore arched an eyebrow.
"Half-Roman," Gawain found himself saying. "Arthur's mother was from Britain."
"Bah," Pellinore grunted. "Those lot are about as bad as the Romans. And the Woads are worse!"
"I know a few Woads who might argue that," Gawain replied.
"You what?" Pellinore nearly dropped his pipe.
"Arthur made it his mission to bring peace to Britain," Gawain explained. "After the Romans left five years ago, he actually started to succeed. He brought the Woads and Bretons together to defend the island from Saxon invaders, and managed to broker peace between most of the tribes north of the Wall."
"I've seen it," Grav piped up. "I never would have guessed that half of the people I met in Britain were deadly enemies of the other half only five years ago."
"Most of the trouble we have now is from Roman criminals and deserters who still live on the island," Gawain explained. "Up north, there are a few Woad tribes that are highly opposed to the idea of a half-Roman king, but they don't give us much trouble. Merlin keeps them mostly in check."
"Merlin?" Aglovale asked.
"'We'?" Pellinore asked.
"Merlin is a Woad chieftain," Gawain explained. "We spent pretty much our entire term in Britain fighting him and his followers, but he was the first Woad to agree to peace with Arthur. It was his army that helped us fight off the Saxons."
"'We'?" Pellinore repeated again, his face dark.
Gawain paused. "Arthur was more than a commander to us," he said finally. "He was our brother. To some of us, he was almost a father—although Bors was more of a father to all of us than Arthur. He was able to bring out the best in all of us."
Pellinore growled, his face growing even darker. "He was a Roman. And your commander. He was no more a brother or a father to you than any other Roman."
"You're wrong," Gawain shook his head. "Arthur isn't like the other Romans. I don't know if it was his Breton mother or Pelagius—a religious man that he respected—that made him so different, but he is. He believes in equality over anything else. He thinks that no man has the right to rule over another. He was chosen by the Bretons and Woads and Romans alike to be king in Britain when the Romans left, and it took quite a bit of convincing to get him to agree to take that position, but Britain is better off for it."
"They've brainwashed you," Pellinore scoffed.
"Pellinore, if you met Arthur you'd understand," Grav spoke up. "I've only known him for a few months, and I agree with everything Gawain has said. Arthur is a great man, and a great king."
Pellinore simply shook his head and resumed his puffing on his pipe.
"Grav, you said that you came home five years early because the Romans released you early, right?" Gaheris said suddenly.
"That's right," Grav nodded.
"But, Gawain, you're five years late," Gaheris turned to his oldest brother. "Did the Romans make you stay longer?"
Gawain paused before replying. "No. They released us on time, five years ago. The five of us who survived, anyways."
"Only five of you made it?" Gaheris gaped.
"Out of how many?" Aglovale asked.
"Twenty-seven," Gawain replied. "There should have been at least six of us, but the bishop who brought us our papers forced us north of the Wall for one final mission before he would give them to us, and Dagonet died there, fighting the Saxons. A few days later, we were heading for the coast with all of the Romans who were evacuating, but Arthur stayed behind to fight the Saxons with the Woads and Bretons. We weren't far away when the Saxons reached the wall, and we all decided that the right thing to do was to go back and fight with Arthur. Two more of us fell there, Lancelot and Tristan."
"So only three out of twenty-seven actually survived?" Gareth's blue eyes were wide.
"Yes," Gawain nodded grimly. "And we all chose then to stay in Britain. Bors had a family there, after all—eleven children at that point—and Galahad and I couldn't imagine living a life anywhere but there. We'd both been there for so long; I was ten when I got to Britain, and Galahad was twelve. Coming back to Sarmatia was just so foreign."
"So you just stayed?" Gaheris cocked his head to the side, a slight smile playing at his lips.
"Yes," Gawain said simply.
"What do you do there now?" Aglovale asked.
"We're still knights to Arthur," Gawain shrugged. "We're helping him try to bring peace to Britain. And we're building real lives for ourselves there now."
"Gawain has a wife there," Grav piped up.
"You what?" Pellinore choked on the smoke from his pipe, earning him a worried glance from Morgause.
"Not a wife," Gawain corrected.
"Wait, really?" Grav looked confused. "I thought"—
"We're not there yet," Gawain flushed.
"Oh," Grav sagged slightly. "I really thought you were married."
"Well, it took Bors and Vanora sixteen years and eleven children to get married," Gawain retorted. "Cymbeline and I have known each other for six years—or less, really—and we weren't even together until two or three years ago."
"Is she Roman?" Gaheris asked.
"Her name's Cymbeline?" the dark look had returned to Pellinore's face.
"She's Woad," Gawain admitted. "And yes, her name's Cymbeline."
"I knew a Woad king by the name of Cymbeline," Pellinore had a wicked gleam in his eyes now. "We saw to his death, and that of his oldest son. Could never find the other two, though. I guess that's where your bitch came from."
It took a great effort on Gawain's part to keep from slapping the old man across the face; as it was, Grav looked ready to restrain his older brother if it was called for. "I suppose so," Gawain said through gritted teeth.
"If you have a girl in Britain," Gaheris said slowly, "does that mean you're not staying here?"
Gawain took a deep breath. "No, I'm not."