SO SORRY for the unexpected hiatus! But I'm back now, with chapter 11 as a peace offering, so hope you can all forgive me and I haven't driven anyone away. I'll also be posting chapter 12 very soon to make up for my crapness!

Thanks again for all your reviews- they mean the world to me.

Hope you enjoy Chapter 11. Not long to go now!

Chapter Eleven – Blood in the Sky

Gawain walked in a dream.

There were trees and rocks and sky, and blood and burning fever-heat and hallucinations. Everything from his life all rolled into one.

He no longer knew where he was going, or what direction he should take. Perceval and Agravaine seemed to be happy enough to guide him though, either walking ahead for him to follow, or gently pulling at his sleeve when he seemed to falter.

"This way," said Agravaine. "South. Come on."

"Don't rush the boy," said Tor, who had also turned up. "He's not up to it."

"Shut up," Gawain had told them. "I don't have to listen to any criticism from dead people."

"You tell 'em, boy." said Dinaden.

"That goes for you, too."

A squirrel scampering up a tree made him jump, and Bors very nearly impaled it with his knife.

"Sorry," he grunted with a grin. "As well as not defeating a deadly squirrel attack, I didn't get me dinner either". After that, Bors put his knife away, but continued to be vigilant, walking ahead.

Ector and Kai and Lancelot walked behind him and on his right. Mostly they teased and joked, told lewd stories, funny stories, sad stories. Gawain had heard them all before of course, but they reminded him of home and safety, and he kept walking, even though it hurt.

Galahad was there too, on his left, with Dagonet. The elder man was silent, but his support was strong all the same. Once he nudged Gawain's elbow, and murmured, "Chew some more bark Gawain." He had done so, and only then realised that he had nearly been passing out on the pain.

Galahad, on the other hand, was not silent, keeping up a constant litany of praise and encouragement and wheedling, to keep going, don't stop, you-can-do-it. And Gawain found he did keep going, just because he couldn't bear to disappoint the young man.

Gawain didn't see Tristan, but he saw Yseult fly over head and knew the man was there, in the trees, watching his back. He felt safe.

And so Gawain stumbled on, unaware of his surroundings, unaware of the trees and the roots, and the sinking sun and evening mists, and just focussed on the Knights around him, the dead and the living, the hallucinations and the memories and let them guide him home.

Arthur walked slowly amongst the small mounds, the blood red light of the sunset sky glinted off the grave swords. He remembered Lancelot once telling him how the world would end when the wolves that chased the golden chariot across the sky every day, finally caught it and devoured the sun. With a sunset like tonight's, even he could almost believe it.

The little cemetery was peacefully silent, but that was not unusual. Normally, the graveyard was empty. The Christian Romans never went there at all unless commanded, and the Knights only went there on funerals, solstices or festivals for the dead that Arthur didn't understand. There was no-one there today. The wind was from the west too, so he could not even hear the noise of the town below.

Arthur studied each sword as he passed the mound in stood in, remembering the one who had once wielded it in his name, and whose earthly forms now slept in the earth beneath his feet. Agravaine. Dinaden. Gaheris and Pelleas, who had died on the same day. Lamorak. Erec. At last he reached the empty grave of Tor. You could not tell to look at that it housed no body; the Knights had piled the earth as high as if the man did indeed sleep beneath it, and his sword stood as proudly at the head as any other. Arthur sighed, and wondered where the Knight's bones now lay, and if Gawain's were near. Tonight, if they had found Gawain's sword, the Knights would hold the funerary rites for Gawain. They would roast an animal, a sheep or a goat, and make offerings to gods Arthur did not know. Fires would be lit, ritual words spoken over them that he did not understand and were never written down, and they would take turns in sitting vigil over a corpse that was not there. And then, they would bury all his possessions in that sad little cemetery, raise a mound above his grave and mark it with his sword. And then they would never go there again, until the next death.

His Knights were not Christian, they did not need or want to be interred in consecrated ground. But Arthur knew that without this, they could never enter the Kingdom of Heaven and it grieved him. One day, no matter how long they all survived this war, they would be parted forever, and Arthur would finally take a road down which even he could not lead them.

He thought about Gawain. His rock. It was no secret that Lancelot was one of Arthur's most favoured Knights. Their friendship was unbreakable; a meeting of passionate, determined minds. Lancelot stopped him slipping into complacency. Every order he gave, he knew Lancelot was watching, analysing. They fought, oh so often, as Lancelot's fiery intelligence met his own, but it meant he knew every decision was evaluated from all angles until it was right. Lancelot drove him to be better than he was. And Gawain? Gawain was the foundations on which he could build. Gawain never questioned, never argued, because Gawain would follow Arthur anywhere. Gawain did not demand Arthur justify himself, he just believed in him. The power of that faith and trust was more humbling to Arthur than any of Lancelot's best arguments.

The Pagan graveyard was not the most conventional place for Christian prayer, but when you lead a soldier's life, you soon learn to speak to God anywhere you can. Arthur knelt awkwardly, holding his splinted broken arm tightly to his chest, and lowered his head. Then he prayed for Gawain's soul, that he should somehow find peace, and one day make his way home. And that Arthur would somehow manage to go on without him.

When Arthur opened his eyes, full evening had fallen, and a low mist clung to the grass and lay dew drops on his cloak. He heard a distant shouting at the gates as the Knights were finally spotted from the Wall top, and he stiffly climbed to his feet, hoping against hope that they had been successful in finding Gawain's sword or body. He did not even notice he had no thought for Excalibur.

The willow bark had run out. Gawain thought his fever might be worse, but the world had simplified into one step after the other. He saw things in the evening mist; shapes and moving shadows. Hoards of Saxons, and Inish ghosts that had swirled up from fog around him, lifting swords or corpse lights, holding out freezing hands to touch his burning skin.

It was when he saw the dragon that Gawain realised he really was in trouble. The wyrm-beast was coiled across the road in front of him like the knotwork on a swordblade, and it starred at him with malevolent red eyes. He had paused then, heart racing, but he was not alone.

"Don't be afraid," Dagonet said, as if they were just children again and Gawain was scared of the fists of their first commander.

"It's just ghosts, Gawain," said Bors, holding him up. "Just pass them by."

"This way!" Agravaine had called from ahead, and Gawain made to follow the voice though he could not see. His legs didn't want to move, and the world seemed to tilt and slide around him, and suddenly, Gawain was on the floor, huddled and shaking.

"Gawain," said a quietly compelling voice, and he could not disobey, looking up with heavy eyes. All the Knights had vanished, except for one, silhouetted against the raw red moon and rising mists like a mighty standing stone.

"I don't think I can do this..." Gawain whispered. His head was spinning and he felt as if he was slowly burning alive.

"You can," said Arthur. "You must. Galahad needs you, Gawain. I need you. If you were gone, who would stop Lancelot and me from killing each other?"

Gawain huffed a painful laugh, and then hung his head, letting his hair swing forward as he just breathed.

"Come," said Arthur, kindly. "You are nearly home."

Home? Thought Gawain, muzzily. The village? Sarmatia?

He looked up, and saw the Wall. Somehow, unnoticed, he had left the forest behind and walked out into the open, and there it was. The mighty barrier stretched across the evening horizon like a great shadow, the tiny pinpricks of torchlight like fireflies in the darkness. Behind that wall was the Roman Empire. Order, power, civilisation. Dominion. And here to the north there was chaos, wildness, something primitive, dangerous and forlorn. And there he stood, poised between them both. A barbarian fighting on the frontier of a Roman world. A pagan who believed in a Christian.

Arthur stepped forward, and held out his hand to Gawain. The Knight looked up at him and wordlessly took it. Arthur smiled as he pulled Gawain up to his feet, and Gawain realised the other Knights were still there, standing around quietly watching.

Arthur turned and walked towards the Wall. There was no question of doing anything else; Gawain stepped forward, and followed him, the mist swirling about his feet, and the Knights fell into place around them.

The last push. The last few steps, and this would all be over. Somehow, they were the hardest steps he'd ever taken.

Gawain stumbled into something, and stopped, confused. He slowly opened his eyes. Stone, hewn into great blocks, towering up above him to block out the early stars, the battlement crenellations like the teeth of a giant. The Wall. He had made it. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone and nearly wept.

He had made it, but night had fallen. The gate was shut, the thick wooden doors sealed immovably unless one bore a signed pass. The guards wouldn't see him until morning, and he knew he wouldn't last until then. It was too late.

The little strength Gawain had gained was finally gone. He crumpled to the grass and lay on his back.

It was over. He had failed.

Something made him open his eyes, and he saw that the Knights, his hallucinations, had gathered round him and he looked up at the faces of his brothers.

"Sorry," he murmured.

Galahad knelt down beside him and said,

"Gawain?"

T.B.C! (very soon, I hope)...

Nienna~