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For Disclaimer and story warnings: See Chapter One.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed, I'm more touched than I can say by your kind comments. I hope you enjoy Chapter Six.

Chapter Six - The Day Can Always Get Worse.

Gawain was exhausted. The terrain under the trees was growing worse as he travelled south, and the areas of bushes and brambles grew denser around him. Some patches were so thick he was reluctantly forced to find another route. Any distance added to his journey was not welcome. One of these alternate paths had taken him under a small apple tree though; it was early in the autumn but some good sized fruit already hung from low branches. The Knight picked a few of the ones he could reach easily, but didn't dare stop for longer. Gawain ate the apples as he walked; the fruit was incredibly sour, but went a little way towards filling up the emptiness of hunger inside.

Despite the sustenance, Gawain found himself walking in a kind of dream state; feet moving automatically and thoughts far away in another land and time. All of a sudden he was pulled unceremoniously out of his stupor by a jerk on his hair; he looked up to find his matted braids caught fast in a large thorned bush. Without realising, he seemed to have wandered in an area of thick undergrowth; bracken, saplings, and of course, brambles. With an impatient growl he tugged his hair loose, for the barest heartbeat, he envied Dagonet and Bors for their clean shaven heads. But only very, very briefly. In his tribe, warriors of the seven gods did not cut their hair.

Gawain soon found his way obstructed again, as the thick bushes choked the forest floor and blocked every route. In frustration, he pulled the sword from his belt and hacked awkwardly at the impeding brambles. He didn't doubt that at full strength he would have been easily able to force a path through, but at the moment he was too exhausted. He thought about Dagonet and Bors again. What he wouldn't give to have the two big men here now, with similarly large axes. His arm ached, and each time he raised the sword, he felt a burn of pain in his side. The sword was heavy, but also surprisingly sharp, and just when he thought he wouldn't be able to do it, Gawain finally cut his way out of the thicket, leaving behind the brambles that snarled in his hair and cloak and stumbling into clearer forest.

Suddenly, and for no obvious reason, Gawain found himself lying on his back looking up at the sky. He lay there for a moment dizzy and confused before he realised, to his chagrin, that he must have fainted. He forced himself into a seated position with a groan, and turned his back against a tree trunk. He wasn't doing so well. Pain warred with exhaustion to leave him cold and trembling, head pounding and eyes burning and dry. He felt like Ector looked after a bad night at the tavern. Gawain felt an unwelcome warm trickle over his left hip too; the strain of lifting the sword had started his wound bleeding again. He would rest, he decided, but just for a moment or two, and then try and redress it.

Gawain lifted the sword, intending to place it within easy reach if he needed it, when suddenly, something about the blade made him take a closer look. The brambles had cleaned some of the blood from the weapon and now he saw it more closely... the Knight's heart plummeted. That sword. The sword he had picked up randomly on the battlefield, just by chance. The sword he should have recognised instantly, knew it better even than his own.

Excalibur. He stared at the beautiful weapon numbly, taking in the black handgrip entwined with silver thread, elaborate cross guard, its carved pommel and its perfect balance. Took in the swirling opalescent colours of the folded blade, and the strange symbols carved into it, words of an ancient text Gawain would never be able to understand even if he could read. Excalibur! The sword of Uther, forged in Britain by secret craftsmen, said to bear the magic of the ancient gods, and gift its bearer with strange powers. Arthur's most treasured possession. Like looking through clear water, a memory rose in his mind, of Arthur sitting on the steps at the Wall, cleaning the sword until it shone like lightning in the sunlight.

"Keep polishing that sword like that, Arthur, and there won't be much of the blade left," He had joked.

Arthur had smiled at him, eyes shining. "My Father came back from Heaven to gift me this sword, Gawain. I think it can take a little polish!"

Gawain had laughed, "My father was a shepherd. The most he ever gave me was fleas."

Gawain suddenly felt light-headed and had to close his eyes. Arthur would never leave Excalibur behind, the last reminder of his beloved father. Never, not if he had any other choice.

The Knight heard his pulse pounding in his ears. It made sense now. Yes, the Knights had fought and died together for nearly eleven years, and would never willing leave another, ever. Unless they were needed by the one person who mattered more to them all. There was only one conclusion for why Arthur had not stayed to look for Excalibur and for Gawain. He was too badly hurt to make that decision.

Fear and despair combined with exhaustion, and dragged Gawain down into sleep, Excalibur clutched tightly to him.

At the same moment, but many miles away, Arthur woke.

Everything hurt. He really hated waking up after being unconscious. There was always bad news of one kind or another.

He opened his eyes slightly, only to snap them shut again immediately after; the room was blindingly bright. The light burned sharp lightning bolts of pain into his skull but he tried to ignore it. Arthur swallowed back nausea and blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to being open once more. Slowly, the room about him swam into focus; he was in his own quarters at the Praetorium at Camboglanna, and it was day. Late afternoon, if the direction of the sun on the wall meant anything.

He rolled his head to one side, and saw a pitcher of water on the table by the bed, and a beaker. Arthur went to grasp the cup, only to be brought short as he realized his right arm was firmly immobilized. Thick bandages wrapped around a splint from knuckle to elbow, and the whole appendage was strapped firmly to his chest. He wiggled his fingers slightly and was rewarded by shooting pains down his arm. A bad break. He winced.

Just at that moment there was a noise outside, and Dagonet's head appeared around the door. He ducked back out and called "He's awake!", before quickly entering the room, accompanied by Bors and Cipio the fort medicus. Tristan followed them like a shadow.

"Arthur," Bors greeted him in Sarmatian. "How are you feeling?"

Dagonet silently handed him the beaker of water, and Arthur drank, gratefully, before handing it back.

"Like a Woad used me for an anvil..." Arthur groaned, and made a move to sit up.

"Stay still, Artorius," said Cipio, frowning, and elbowing Dagonet out of the way. "You've got a nasty concussion."

The man proceeded to hold a candle up to Arthur's eyes to check the pupils, leaving Arthur with bright after-images and an even worse headache, especially after the physician poked at the wound on Arthur's head. "You'll live," he announced, as though he had rather hoped it wouldn't be the case. "But don't blame me if you get blood poisons. He..." and the man indicated to Dagonet with a careless finger, "wouldn't let me use the bleeding cups."

"Bleeding cups?" said Arthur, feeling ill.

"I know," scowled the physician. "I told him it would be best. I don't think he understood. These barbarians...they probably think sacrificing chickens or something is as good a medical practice as letting out bad blood! Still, it's too late now. And the General wanted to speak with you when you woke up. You!"

He pointed at Tristan, and spoke slowly.

"Fetch General Arpagius. Do you understand? Arpagius...bring him here..."

Tristan gave the man a stare that would have crumbled a marble statue to dust.

"Lord save us," snarled the medicus, and stormed out, presumably to fetch the General himself. Arthur gave the Knights an apologetic look.

"Little git," said Bors with a shrug. "Here's a novel idea, we should get a medicus that actually knows something about healing."

"Give me a hand up," said Arthur, and the Knight helped him sit, carefully.

"You alright?" asked Tristan.

Arthur investigated the bandaged wound on his head. "I'll be alright. Thanks for interceding on behalf of my blood though," he gave Dagonet a rueful smile.

"You will be fine," assured the big man. "I thought you'd probably lost enough blood without him taking any more. You arm is properly set and splinted, and will heal well."

Arthur nodded his thanks again; grateful he could rely on his Knights, and then yawned suddenly.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"A day," said Bors. "'Bout time you showed a bit of life..."

'We were worried' was the unsaid statement.

Arthur groaned a little, and rubbed his head. "Good thing I've got a thick Roman skull, as Lancelot keeps telling me," he joked, weakly. None of the Knights laughed.

"Arthur," said Bors, uncharacteristically serious. "Arthur, listen. There's some stuff you need to know, before Arpagius gets here."

Arthur's aching brain suddenly absorbed his Knights' unhappy expressions and awkward postures. Something was wrong.

"What is it?" He asked uneasily. "Bors, please tell me you haven't all done something to piss off Arpagius, I really don't feel up to having to smooth any ruffled feathers...."

Tristan shook his head, braids swinging, and Arthur's heart sank. Tristan always seemed to be the one that gave out bad news. Somehow his diffident attitude, whatever the man really felt, made it easier to hear than platitudes.

"What do you remember about the battle?" The scout asked.

Arthur frowned. "We were to take General Arpagius north of the Wall; he wanted to see the extent of the Woad territory. They finally attacked us, and..."

Arthur paused, as the details finally came back to him, all in a rush. The cavalry charge towards the trees and the clash with the Woads. The whistle of Tristan's bow and the Knights' battle cries. A Woad swinging an axe at his leg, he sliced its head off, and looked up to see Gawain knocked from the saddle by the punch of an arrow, saw a giant Woad raise an axe and smash it down towards the fallen Knight's body. He remembered shouting out helplessly, and then the distraction cost him and a thrown dagger grazed his head and he had dropped from his horse, aware of no more.

"Gawain!" He cried. "Is he alright? I saw him fall, a Woad struck him..." He stopped, taking in the looks on the Knights' faces.

"Oh, God," he breathed. "He's dead?"

Tristan nodded.

"We're sorry, Arthur," said Dagonet. "He meant a lot, to all of us."

There was a roaring in Arthur's ears he didn't think had anything to do with his headache.

"Has someone organised the burial?" He asked numbly, unable to think anything beyond the practical.

If it was possible, the two cousins looked more stricken, and Tristan looked away.

"We..."started Bors, and anger and grief made him awkward. "We don't have his body, Arthur. Arpagius wouldn't let us search for him; you were injured and he ordered us back here."

Arthur swallowed slowly as the nightmare unfolded around him, and hunched forwards feeling sickened. Another Knight lost. Another failure in his duty. It was bad enough facing this loss the battle field, but hearing it now, days too late and while he felt ill and vulnerable was making everything worse.

"We're confined to the fort," added Tristan. "I wanted to go back today and find him, but he won't allow it." The scout spat out of the window in a way that made Arthur quite sure that threats, if not actual bodily harm, had been exchanged between the scout and Arpagius over that order. "It's not right."

There was silence, as if his loyal Knights expected him to pull a solution from the air. He couldn't fix this.

"It's not right. Of course," said Arthur faintly. "It's just...I'm sorry, this is hard. Gawain..."

He passed his uninjured hand over his blurring eyes. Lord, protect him on his journey. He was a good man, the best.

"We should go, and let you rest," said Dagonet, with quiet sympathy. "There's something else, though."

Arthur's heart plummeted. He didn't think he could take more of this. "Who?"

"Lancelot," said Bors, but quickly clarified at Arthur's expression. "He's not hurt. At least, not yet." He added darkly. "You need to get Arpagius to release him."

Arthur's head was swimming. "Release...Why?" he managed.

"Lancelot broke his nose," said Tristan calmly.

Of course he did, thought Arthur. What a very Lancelot thing to do, take a bad situation, and make it ten times worse.

"Wasn't his fault," said Bors, "Very nearly hit the man myself. He made us leave Gawain."

"You have to get him to let us go back," said Tristan again, intently. It was always damn near impossible to tell what the scout was thinking or feeling, but Arthur knew if Tristan had such a thing as friends, Gawain had been his closest, after Dagonet.

"I'll talk to him." Arthur promised, feeling as if the day could not possibly get any worse. Gawain...

They all heard the sound of footsteps and Arpagius's loud voice outside. The Knights stood up to leave; Arpagius wasn't the sort of man that would approve of soldiers hanging around in their Commander's quarters.

"Oh," said Arthur, casting about for a shred of comfort in that horrible day, and noticing the empty sword hanger on the wall. "Did someone get Excalibur for me?"

Once more, the Knights' expressions told him everything. Arthur groaned a little. Never say the day couldn't possibly get worse.

TBC.

I know I posted this a little early, but for some reason I just really hate this chapter and wanted to get passed it as fast as possible. Daft, I know. Next chapter's one of my favourites though, so that makes up for it :)

Next time round: Woods, Wolves and Woads. Exciting stuff...