Thanks to everyone who has commented so far! Sorry I haven't been replying to reviews, but I think the email alerts are still not working.

lizzy- The story will involve both Gawain and Galahad, so the first chapter was about Gawain leaving Britain towards Sarmatia and the second was about Galahad starting his return to Britain from Sarmatia. Hope that clears everything up!

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"---and I don't know how you can stand to sit on a horse for so long," Brome was complaining, "Are we stopping to rest soon? When will we lunch? Merciful goddess, I don't think I can bear this saddle any longer! I'm chafing! My buttox is in agony!"

"Oh, I can think of a bigger pain in the ass," Gawain muttered under his breath.

Gawain and Brome had crossed the channel from Britain and were presently journeying through the forests of what was now the outer edge of the Roman Empire. The trip probably could not be described thus far as a pleasant one. Brome had to be the single worst traveling companion Gawain had ever encountered. Not only did he speak relentlessly, but he whined! His voice dripped with melodrama, as words did not simply roll off his tongue, but instead reluctantly dragged themselves from his lips as if to throw themselves from a cliff and fall painfully onto Gawain's ears.

"Cruel fates, what have I done to offend thee!" Brome cried up at the sky, "I cannot go on!"

"Bloody hell, man," said an aggravated Gawain, "Do you ever shut up?"

"If you led such a miserable life as I, you would complain too," Brome reviled, "In fact, I doubt you could endure it as valorously as I."

"Perhaps your life seems miserable because you are so miserable," suggested Gawain, "I don't see what's so bad about it."

"Oh, what do you know!" Brome scoffed, "I was destined for greatness, destined to be the most renowned prophet in all the land, but here I am at eight and twenty years of age, having amounted to nothing and riding around with an uneducated barbarian to go save his dead friend's fiancée. Not that I expect pity from the likes of you, but any simpleton could see the grave misfortune that is my life."

"Eight and twenty?" repeated Gawain, "Aren't you a little young for a prophet anyway?"

Brome frowned. "Aren't you a little masculine to be wearing your hair like that?" he quipped.

Gawain rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. What was wrong with his hair? "I've always worn it this way," said Gawain defensively.

"Yes," replied Brome, "I know."

"Really? What else do you know about my past?" Gawain asked out of pure curiosity.

Brome smirked mischievously. "Your mother's name was Ida," he said, "She used to sing to you about fish in such a horrendous voice that you are still considerably afraid of the water. Honestly, who sings about fish in the first place? Despite all this, however, she was a fine woman and you loved her. Hence, you have always had the intention to return to Sarmatia to find a woman just like dear old mommy to wed, which perhaps explains this errand we're on. You're going to try to win this woman's heart, aren't you, you sly devil?"

Blood rushed to Gawain's face not only because this man knew the most intimate details of his history, but also because of the hasty conclusions he had drawn and their subsequent insinuations. Brome may have been right about certain details of his past, but the thought of pursuing the woman who was to have been Lancelot's had never once even crossed his mind. "You don't know what you're talking about," Gawain contended grudgingly, "I am doing this only to honor an old friendship---something I doubt you would understand."

"Perhaps not, perhaps not," said Brome, waving him off, "But I was right about the rest of it, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were right," replied Gawain, "about my mother's name being Ida."

Brome snickered with self-satisfaction. "People are always interested in themselves---always want you to tell them what they already know," he reproved, "You're right, people should already know their own past, but that doesn't stop them from asking about it as you have just done. They want to hear about themselves---that is, as long as what they hear is all sunshine and smiles." Brome let out a dejected sigh and continued, "Just once I'd like to hear someone ask me about my past. Nobody understands me. Nobody cares. Woe to anyone who suffers as I do."

But Gawain had stopped listening. He had become suddenly aware of a rustling in the forest behind them and the sound of approaching footsteps followed closely behind by galloping hooves. A second later, the blurred outline of a girl sprang forth from the trees and bounded over to where Gawain and Brome sat on their horses. Before Gawain knew what had happened, she had jumped on the back of his saddle and kicked his horse into a canter.

"Run! Go!" she shouted, and soon they were racing off down the trail with Brome trying hopelessly to keep up. Not too keen on having his horse hijacked, Gawain instinctively pulled on the reigns and reared the horse around. It was then that he noticed the Roman cavalry charging towards them.

"Oh," he gulped, "Bloody hell."

"You there!" shouted one of the Romans, "Stay where you are!"

Gawain felt the girl behind him clutching to his arm with her little hand. He jerked his head around and was about to eject her from the saddle with a few choice words, but her wide, almond-shaped eyes gazing up at him pleadingly stifled him.

"They're going to kill me," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

Gawain let out a sigh of resignation and turned back to see the Roman soldiers stampeding towards them. "I am Petronius Marinus of the Roman legion," called out the commander, "Hand over the girl."

The girl's grip tightened around Gawain's arm and for some reason, he could not help but feel sympathy for her. "I am a Sarmatian Knight under the command of Arthur Castus of Britain," Gawain called back to Petronius; then, thinking quickly, he continued, "I would like nothing better than to obey your order, but I'm afraid the girl is holding me hostage."

"She is?" remarked Brome in confusion.

"I am?" the girl blurted out, fortunately not loud enough for the others to hear.

Gawain cleared his throat, noticing the skeptical looks he was receiving from the Roman soldiers. "Yes," he stammered, "You cannot see it, but she is holding a dagger to my back. One wrong move and she will plunge it directly between my shoulder blades."

"That's right!" the girl called out in affirmation, playing along with what Gawain had said, "So you all just turn around and go back where you came from or else I'll kill this man."

"Oh no, please," said Gawain, doing a rather poor imitation of concern, "I don't want to die."

Petronius Marinus stared at them in disbelief for a moment, but then his face turned to irritation. "You are all under arrest by the authority of the Emperor of Rome," he announced in a no-nonsense tone, motioning a few of his soldiers to come forward.

"Petronius Marinus, swindler and profiteer," reprimanded Brome, shaking his head in disappointment, "You have not learned your lesson, have you?"

"Who are you?" asked Petronius in befuddlement.

"Brome, talented past-teller at your service," he replied with a slight bow of his head, "but more importantly, I am someone who knows exactly what happened the last time you made a hasty arrest."

Petronius narrowed his eyes and studied him suspiciously. "Nice try," he said at last, feigning complete confidence, "but you know not of what you speak."

"Of course, of course. After all, how could I?" Brome remarked casually, "But it would be a shame if Marcus Octavius, your superior officer, had to yet again make a special trip to your post to clean up another mess."

Petronius was beginning to become unnerved. "The girl is a thief," he protested, "Marcus Octavius would---"

"Marcus Octavius has already given us orders," interrupted Gawain, falling into queue with Brome, "and we will take the girl into our custody."

"I thought she was holding you hostage?" spoke up one of the soldiers with a doubting eye.

"Oh, right," said Gawain and in a swift movement, pulled the girl in front of him in the saddle and held his sword to her throat, "I think we have that under control now."

"Hey!" she cried, squirming in his hold.

"Shh," he whispered so that only she could hear, "Just trust me."

"You---" said Petronius warily, "---will take her to Marcus Octavius?"

"I will take her to Marcus Octavius," Gawain confirmed.

"And the stolen item in question…?" Petronius persisted with uncertainty.

"Yes, yes," assured Gawain, "I will take care of it."

Petronius gave Gawain a scrutinizing look, still hesitant and unsure of trusting these strangers, but the fear of a second offense against Marcus Octavius left him with no other choice. He turned back authoritatively to his soldiers and said, "Come. Our business here is concluded."

Gawain nodded respectively to Petronius as he and the rest of his Roman cavalry retreated back down the path and disappeared into the distance.

"Ahem!" came the choked voice of the girl under his sword.

"Oh!" Gawain uttered apologetically, realizing he still had her by the throat, "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you."

Gawain assisted her down off his horse and gently returned her to the ground. It was his first chance to get a good look at her. She was short and plucky, but beautiful in her own way, with brown hair that was tied in a messy bundle at the top of her head. She smiled brightly, looking up at him with grateful eyes. "I owe my life to you, sir," she said, "Thank you."

"Not at all," replied Gawain, still soaking up her smile. He stared at her for a moment more, but then shook himself back to reality. "Well," he said with a slight nod of the head, "Farewell, then. Be safe, and try not to provoke anymore Roman officers."

With that he nudged his horse forward and he and Brome began to once again make their way down the trail, but the girl was not quite yet ready to leave their company. "Wait!" she called after them, scrambling to keep up with their pace, "Where are you going? I will accompany you. I know this forest better than anyone."

Gawain halted and turned back to her. "That's quite alright," he replied, "We have no need of a guide." He already had to put up with a manically depressed soothsayer; the last thing he needed was the distraction of a woman.

"But you saved my life," she insisted, "It is a matter of honor that I do what I can for you in return. I have lived in this forest all my life. I could be of great use to you."

Gawain fixed his eyes on her, contemplating her words. "What is your name?" he asked finally.

"Melon," she answered.

"Melon?" he repeated, not sure he had heard her correctly.

"Her father was a drunkard and her mother was a nitwit," chided Brome with a roll of his eyes, "What do you expect?"

"Hey!" Melon snapped back, "That's not very nice!"

"I don't make your past; I just read it," said Brome unsympathetically, "And believe me, I'd rather not even do that much. Of course, if it weren't for my brilliant insights concerning that cavalry leader earlier, you might be dead already, but I can neither read the future nor do I receive any gratitude for reading the past. Such is the depraved life I live!"

Melon stared blankly at him in bewilderment. "You'll have to excuse Brome," Gawain interjected contritely, "He is---well, he's quite inexplicable, actually."

"Only because you lack the vocabulary," Brome muttered bitterly under his breath.

"Anyways," continued Gawain, "I suppose it wouldn't matter too much if we added one more to our company."

Melon's face lit up. "Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed, "You will not be sorry. I will make good on my word and anything I can do to repay you for your service to me today, consider it done. Perhaps I may even be able to return the favor and save your life at some point."

Gawain smirked with amusement at the scrawny girl that stood before him. Somehow he found it extremely unlikely that she would be saving his life any time soon.

"You can not be serious," remarked Brome contemptuously, "One does not need my wisdom and perception to see that this girl is trouble. The Romans are after her and it will not take them long to realize we did not hand her over to Marcus Octavius. Any intentions on her part to come along with us are for her own sake and protection, not ours."

"You tell people's pasts, is that it?" Melon asked.

"I do," replied Brome with a dejected sigh.

"Then stop making conjectures about what I intend to do in the future," she reviled.

Brome, completely flustered and at a loss of words, let his mouth drop open. Gawain chuckled. "If you can keep that up," he said to Melon, "I'll beg you to come along."

Melon smiled at this, and the party of two travelers from thenceforth became three.