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So, I was watching King Arthur with my parents last night (and suffering a lot of mocking about historical inaccuracies - it's just a story!) and at the end I was bemoaning the fact the Lancelot dies.
Me: I know he wasn't interested in Guinevere but they still didn't have to kill him!
My dad: He was far more interested in Arthur.
My father, who wouldn't get subtext if it hit him in the face with a wet fish! So there, it's virtually canon now... in my house, anyway.
Title: Stumbling Homewards
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Gratefully received, even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, for which I should imagine they’re profoundly grateful.
Summary: It can take the strangest occurrences to change your life (Tristan/Gawain).
A/N: For the Anniversary Challenge at kafanfic at yahoo.
The horse markets were one of the few things about Sarmatia that had stuck with Gawain throughout the fifteen – nearly sixteen, in the end – years he’d been gone. In many ways, they were all exactly as he remembered them, from the grating harmony of a dozen different tribal dialects against his ears to the crush of people and horses, the shouted bids and derisory comments about the quality of the horses, the traders and the other bidders.
His village hadn’t been all that far from the site of one of the major markets, and he’d travelled there with his father and uncles twice a year for as long as he could remember. Everything had seemed different then – bigger, taller, more exciting and frightening in a way that it no longer did. It was, as much as he hated to even think, not just smaller but small They’d spent several weeks in Londonium with Arthur and compared to that city, everything else just seemed… small.
Despite that, it was comforting in a way that nothing else seemed to be any more. Similar enough that he’d occasionally catch himself looking round for a familiar face, before remembering that even if this was the same market he’d used to attend, which it wasn’t, that had been sixteen years ago, and everyone would have changed.
Gawain sighed, shook himself back into action, and clicked his horse forward again. Galahad had heard from other travellers about a merchant with particularly good young mares for sale, and if they wanted to have good enough horses to do more that scratch a living at their own trading, that was what they needed.
They also needed someone who could bargain without resorting to spitting Latin curses at the traders when things didn’t go his way, and so Galahad was watching their only two other horses while Gawain went in search of the elusive trader and his quality mares.
A child ran close in front of Gawain’s horse, causing it to twitch back nervously. He soothed it automatically, wishing for the horse he’d been forced to leave behind in Britain, one that would charge without flinching into battle but had refused to set foot on the ship. He wondered for a moment if it mightn’t be easier to work his way through the market on foot, but he’d spent so long on a horse that it felt more natural than walking. That, and he was never going to find the dammed trader if he had to give up his height advantage to do so.
Gawain sighed and reined his horse round to the left, down an avenue he was fairly certain he had yet to try. The trader had to be somewhere, and Gawain was determined to find him. Mainly because he really didn’t fancy a whole night of Galahad’s sulking if he returned without the horses.
There was, as he’d hoped, a small paddock up ahead, with a sizeable crowd around it. Gawain moved a little closer, trying to catch sight of the trader. There was someone sitting on the fence, facing into the paddock, watching as a brown mare trotted in a neat circle. Something about that figure held Gawain’s eye – it was familiar, the posture, head tilted slightly to one side, hunched a little forward, inquisitive: it almost looked, in that moment, like –
‘Tristan.’ The name slipped out before Gawain was even aware of thinking it, but the moment it did, he was sure. He leant forward in the saddle, careless of the people moving aside with muttered curses, intent on catching sight of the figure again and seeing his face.
The crowd shifted, obscuring his view for a moment, and Gawain slipped from his horse. He could move faster through the press of bodies on foot, for all that it felt momentarily strange to be on eye level with everyone again. He pushed forward, getting closer to the paddock, and craned his neck, trying to see through the crowd. It was Tristan. It was. It had to be.
And then there was space before him, his hand landing on the fence post, his head twisting to see…
There was no-one there.
No Tristan, no person who looked fleetingly like him, just – no-one.
Gawain slumped against the fencing, his whole body weighted with disappointment. He’d been so sure… was still so sure. That had been Tristan, sitting on the fence, every angle screaming it. Even after everything, Gawain had never hallucinated Tristan. Dreamt of him, occasionally, heard his voice, more than once, but never, ever seen him.
‘Hey.’ The grip on his arm jerked Gawain upright, one hand scrabbling automatically for his sword even as he reminded himself that this was a Sarmatian horse market and not a British battlefield. The man who’d spoken half stepped back, raising his free hand in a conciliatory gesture. His other hand held the reins of Gawain’s horse. ‘I thought – someone’ll take him if you don’t watch him.’
‘Thanks,’ Gawain said, taking the reins. Then, because the man could’ve stolen his horse without him noticing and had instead returned it to him, he added, ‘thanks a lot,’ before swinging himself into the saddle and distractedly turning his horse back into the market, his eyes sweeping the crowds for that familiar figure.
***
The afternoon was fading towards evening as Gawain turned his horse onto the road back to his and Galahad’s campsite. It was fortunate that his horse seemed to know the way, needing little beyond an occasional twitch of the reins, as Gawain was too tired, too worn by disappointment, to concentrate on where he was going, and it would not be well to end up wandering lost in the wilderness.
He couldn’t shake the picture of Tristan sitting slightly hunched on the fence. There was no question now in his mind that it had been him, even less so after hours of searching for and failing to find him. Tristan had always known how to hide.
Leaving Badon Hill – leaving Tristan – had been the hardest thing Gawain had ever done, and still a thousand times easier than the alternative. He’d never doubted the decision he would make, standing beside Galahad at that terrible, delirious, painful funeral, and the wedding that had followed. None of it had felt real, and the crowds of Woads cheering a man they’d spent fifteen years trying to kill, burying the last remnants of the Knights, had made it worse. He’d looked around, searching for something familiar and reassuring and knowing that he wouldn’t find it there any longer. Arthur was a king, looking as comfortable as if he’d always done it, and the commander they’d loved and followed for so long, even to the point of coming back, even after his little speech to Lancelot that they’d listened to and tried not to, was gone. Bors was surrounded by his family, and Galahad… Galahad had looked frighteningly at ease there. Gawain has wished for a moment for Tristan, who would have been as uncomfortable at the celebration as he was, and known he was leaving.
The only pause had, ironically, come from Galahad. Galahad, who’d wanted more than any of them to leave, had suddenly declared his intention to stay, to see Arthur become king.
It hadn’t exactly been a fight – Galahad was hard to fight with, because how did you argue with someone who went silent and refused to argue back – but it had been as bitter and painful as any fight could have been. It had ended in Gawain leaving with nothing but Arthur’s strained blessing, Bors’ gruff farewell and Galahad’s silent absence loud in his ears.
He hadn’t been all that surprised to wake up two day later and find Galahad sleeping next to him, but he’d more than made up for that in relief. The thought of leaving Britain alone had been so close to being enough to send him back.
Since then, they’d wandered aimlessly across Sarmatia, taking care only to avoid their own villages. It was unspoken, like so many things between them, that they didn’t want to go back – couldn’t yet face what they might find there.
And yet it seemed they’d end up going places they didn’t want to anyway. Many of the knights had been taken from villages near the larger horse markets, and it wouldn’t be possible to avoid them forever.
Hoping for a little longer, Gawain rounded the last curve between hillocks and trotted into their campsite, such as it was. Their two other horses nickered their greeting and Galahad rose, turning to Gawain as he dismounted.
The expression on his face flickered from welcoming to curious to suspicious like spray over waves. ‘Where are the horses?’
‘Horses?’ Gawain asked blankly. There were the horses – his brown, Galahad’s grey, which had accepted the ships much more readily than Gawain’s old horse, and the black they’d picked up for more money than they could really afford because it somehow reminded them both of Lancelot.
‘The horses – the mares you were going to buy. The reason you were all day at the horse fair while I was talking to passing rabbits,’ Galahad grumbled.
Then it made sense. The horses he’d been supposed to buy before he’d been distracted and everything else had been forgotten. And judging from Galahad’s glare, he was going to need a very good excuse. If only he had one. ‘I saw Tristan,’ he said.
‘You – what?’ Galahad’s glare froze halfway back to confusion and he stared uncomprehendingly at Gawain.
‘I saw Tristan,’ Gawain repeated, and almost instantly regretted it as Galahad’s expression crashed straight into pity.
‘Tristan? From – our Tristan?’
Gawain heard Lancelot’s voice in his head, sharp and sarcastic as always, but he ignored it. ‘Yes, our Tristan. At the market, watching the mares.’
‘Gawain…’ Galahad took a halting step closer, his twitching hands and hunched shoulders radiating discomfort. ‘Tristan’s… well… dead.’
‘I know.’ Gawain slumped abruptly to the ground, dropping his head into his hands. ‘It was him,’ he said, alarmed at the despair he heard in his own voice. ‘It was him.’
Next to him, Galahad shuffled for a long moment, then sat down. ‘How can it have been Tristan?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. You would be, if you’d seen him.’ And the more he thought about it, the more he was sure, enough to almost make himself believe Tristan had seen him as well. ‘I don’t know how he can be here, but he is.’
‘So did you speak to him?’ Every tribe, every Knight Gawain had ever spoken to, had tale of restless spirits wandering the land, and for many they’d been more than just tales. In the end, they’d been something like hope, the idea that those Knights who fell as slaves might be able to go home free.
‘No.’ Gawain paused, then added, ‘he disappeared.’
He didn’t need to look to know the change that had come over Galahad at those words. His friend had been close to being persuaded into believing him, or at least believing that there was some kind of spirit haunting the horse markets, but now…
‘Gawain...’ Now, the uncertain pity was back in his voice. ‘Look, it’s been a year, almost exactly…’
The thing they’d been dancing around, not saying but unable to ignore, for weeks now as the day crept closer. A year since Badon Hill and freedom and the last of the Knights being broken apart. An anniversary, of sorts, but not in the way they’d hoped and wished for.
‘I wasn’t seeing things,’ Gawain said firmly. ‘Whatever day it is, Tristan was there.’ And he sounded like a stubborn child. Worse, he sounded like Galahad. ‘So, did you catch the rabbits or just talk to them?’ he asked, looking up just in time to see Galahad start in surprise at the abrupt change of topic.
‘I caught two. You can try cooking them, since I don’t suppose you remembered to buy food either.’ Subject closed then, for the moment, though Galahad was clearly not happy about it, and Gawain resigned himself to an evening of mixed sulky comments and awkward, twitching silences.
Maybe it would have been better to have stayed at the market.
***
Gawain ran his hands over the leather of his saddle, then slowly down the straps and buckles, feeling for the loosening join he’d come upon earlier, tracking Galahad with his eyes. The other man had been getting progressively more jumpy as the evening had drawn on, never sitting still for more than a few minutes, hands twitching from one task to another, leaving each one unfinished, and Gawain was no longer certain that his encounter with Tristan was the sole cause of it.
He was content to wait for Tristan, had learnt to be long ago, because Tristan moved at his own speed, no matter how impatient you were. He’d already waited a year, he could be patient a little longer. No matter that phantoms and spirits were meant to appear, deliver their message and never return once they disappeared – they’d neither of them been wont to do things because they were expected.
Galahad rose again, moving towards their horses, and stumbled into a cooking pot, which clattered noisily across the campsite before rolling up against a tree.
‘What?’ Gawain demanded. His patience had always reached its limits fastest with Galahad.
The other man stilled and turned back to him, his expression almost guilty. ‘Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just – is there a reason you can’t sit still?’
Galahad shifted again, then retook his place by the fire. ‘There’s a girl’ – and why on earth that hadn’t already occurred to him was a mystery to Gawain – ‘and I said I’d meet her, tonight. She’s with one of the larger camps over the hill.’
‘Go, then.’ Gawain shrugged and returned his attention to the damnably hard to find tear. At least he’d have peace now for the rest of the evening.
After a long moment, the stillness on the other side of the fire caught him and he looked up, meeting Galahad’s gaze. ‘What?’ he asked again.
‘You could come with me. We could take the horses and –' He stopped, obviously catching Gawain’s incredulous expression. ‘For company, you don’t have to sleep with any of them.’
It had taken a lot of frustratingly circular conversations for them to get to the point where Galahad understood that, while Gawain might flirt – did flirt – with the women of the camps, that was as far as it was going to go. It had actually taken even longer for Gawain to acknowledge that Galahad threw women at him as a sign of concern and not because he’d been totally oblivious for twelve years.
‘I’m fine here. Better that fine.’ He smiled reassuringly at Galahad. ‘Go see your girl.’
‘Are you sure?’ Already half-rising, Galahad paused ‘You won’t -.’
‘Won’t what?’ Gawain asked, genuinely curious.
‘I don’t know. Start seeing things and run off and leave the horses.’ Galahad shrugged, but he was obviously serious.
Gawain couldn’t resist laughing at him, a little. He would have been even more amused if Galahad hadn’t just implied that he’d imagined Tristan and might in fact be going slightly crazy. ‘I promise I won’t leave the horses. Go, before she finds someone she likes better.’
‘Surely you jest.’ Galahad flashed his cockiest grin and swung himself into the saddle. ‘You really won’t come?’
Gawain rolled his eyes and flapped his hand in vague farewell. Galahad turned his horse and rode rapidly away.
Left in peace, Gawain finally tracked down the tear and started sewing. It was a job he’d always hated – getting the needle through the leather was difficult, verging on impossible, the needles almost always broke and anyway, the saddle would ever be as good as it had been. But the little money they had would have to go for horses, and essentials like food, and he couldn’t ride with a broken saddle.
The horses shifted on their tethers and Gawain glanced up. Nothing else was moving. It seemed he’d never lose the sense that there must be Woads just outside the firelight or just over the hill.
Back to his sewing, thrusting the needle through the toughest part of the leather. The saddle had been his for a long time, it was no wonder it was getting a bit worn. Not that that made having to fix it any more tolerable.
Something flickered on the edge of Gawain’s vision and he looked up again. Still nothing, and really, what would be sneaking around in the early evening in such an isolated spot?
He pulled the stitches tighter. Not too much further to go and he probably had just enough thread to tie a decent knot at the end, one that wouldn’t come unravelled at the most inopportune moment.
Gawain’s head went up again. He’d felt more than seen something, but prickling feelings up his spine were never good. His hand crept towards his sword but he pulled it back resolutely. ‘There’s no-one there,’ he told himself firmly. It was Galahad’s fault for chattering about malicious spirits and making him imagine things that didn’t exist.
He stuck his needle back into the saddle and it snapped. Gawain stared at it for a moment in disgust. Two stitches to go – two! He pulled the end of the thread through carefully, using what was left of the broken needle and looked around, searching for where he’d left his pack with extra needles.
Tristan was standing by their black horse, stroking the animal’s nose and watching Gawain.
Gawain froze, his mind emptying itself of thoughts frighteningly fast, his eyes meeting Tristan’s. He’d never wanted to be Lancelot, but in that moment he wished for the other man’s ease with words.
The silence dragged on, neither of them moving. Tristan looked exactly as he had always done, same dirty brown, tangled hair, same scars on his cheeks, same worn clothes and angular posture.
Gawain’s vision blurred for a moment, his eyes filling with tears that he told himself were from staring too long without blinking.
Which was so patently ridiculous that he said, ‘where have you been?’
It wasn’t the question he’d wanted to ask, or should have asked - it wasn’t even overly friendly or polite but… but it was Tristan, to speak to, after a year.
Tristan looked down for a moment, then back up. ‘I followed you,’ he said simply. ‘From Britain, across Sarmatia… this horse could be Lancelot.’
‘I know. Why are you – why today?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tristan shook his head. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Neither did I.’ Gawain half rose, then sank down again. ‘Sit down?’
Tristan hesitated for a moment. It struck Gawain that he’d never see Tristan hesitate before, over anything, and maybe he was as nervous and unsure as Gawain.
Tristan was sitting next to him, both of them staring at the fire, and yet Gawain hadn’t seen him move.
He considered for a long moment, then asked, ‘what happens now?’
Tristan turned to him, uncertainty sharp in his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think this is permanent.’
Gawain remembered the way he’d felt, seeing Tristan’s body on the battle field at Badon Hill – like falling from a great height into ice cold water – but this was worse. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tristan’s gaze flickered back to the horse. ‘Maybe he’s more Lancelot than you think.’
‘Tristan…’ Trailing into helplessness, his throat too tight for more.
‘Yeah.’ Bleak as a winter dawn.
Silence fell again, heavy with despair, and things that neither of them knew how to put into words. The fire crackled against the gathering darkness, and the horses shifted. Tristan turned a stick over and over in his hands, the sort of nervous movement that made Gawain’s thoughts slide to Galahad.
He shook himself firmly. This was Tristan – they’d never struggled for words and this was not the time to start. He just couldn’t find the right way to ask – could barely understand it himself.
‘I haven’t seen any of the others,’ Tristan said suddenly, without looking up. ‘I don’t know what happened to them.’
‘So… why you?’ Gawain asked.
‘I wanted to – I should have…’ Tristan turned pleading eyes to Gawain. ‘I missed you,’ he said quietly.
Gawain’s heart lurched and tightened painfully. ‘You didn’t have to leave,’ he said, the words coming out harsh with pain.
‘What would I have done?’ Tristan asked. ‘You were going to find a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed. Or would you have had me follow you and Galahad across Sarmatia?’
Gawain forbore from mentioning that that was exactly what Tristan had just said he’d done. ‘We wouldn’t have separated. We agreed – you, me, Galahad and –‘
‘And Lancelot,’ Tristan finished. ‘He would never have left Arthur. We all knew that.’
‘So you let that Saxon kill you – because of Lancelot?’ Gawain asked, stunned. He’d heard some odd things before, but never anything that odd.
Tristan shook his head. ‘Because of you. This is better.’ He dropped the stick and stood up, Gawain scrambling to his feet after him.
‘You can’t go – not yet. You haven’t – you didn’t –‘ explain, he wanted to say. Tell me why you sacrificed everything for –
‘Arthur still needs you,’ Tristan said. ‘There’s no-one left, now.’
‘He has Guinevere,’ Gawain pointed out, unable to quite keep the dislike from his voice. He’d never liked the Woads' princess, even before she’d led them all to what had seemed like certain death. Lancelot had been his friend, and she’d stolen his chance at freedom and ruined what had been left.
‘You would equate her with all of Arthur’s Knights?’ Tristan asked, his words faintly coloured with amusement. He took a step away, but Gawain’s hand on his wrist stopped him.
‘Don’t…’ and Gawain pulled Tristan to him, kissing him fiercely, his eyes sliding closed as Tristan’s hand twisted in his hair and Tristan’s mouth pressed against his.
Tried to lose himself in the kiss, in the feel of that familiar body against his, and not notice as gradually it wasn’t, until he opened his eyes to emptiness and dark.
***
Gawain heard Galahad coming long before he saw him – drunkenness did much for the volume of his singing, though woefully little for its tunefulness – but didn’t move. The fire had long since died to embers, despite years of practice at keeping fires burning all night, yet he didn’t feel cold.
Tristan was gone, of that he was sure, and there would be no more meetings. If he wanted answers, he would have to trust to Arthur’s heaven, and hope that both he and Tristan would be allowed in.
Somehow, for all that Arthur said his god was a forgiving one, it didn’t seem all that likely.
Gawain found it hard to believe that Tristan had wanted only to tell them they should return to Britain, the place he’d fled in grief and pain. And yet, why else? Tristan had never been one for emotional farewells or explanations, however deserved they might seem. But he’d stayed, for a year, followed them despite knowing that they might never notice him, appeared a year after his death – there had to be something, some significance…
He remembered Dagonet once telling an overly, irritatingly, inquisitive Lancelot, ‘sometimes you have to accept that you can’t know everything.’ It hadn’t shut Lancelot up, but Tristan had come and gone, and maybe this was one of those times when Gawain could never know why.
Galahad, fortunately, seemed to have realised that his singing might not be entirely welcome, as he rode into their campsite without musical accompaniment. Gawain heard the thud of his boots hitting the ground, then a sharp inhalation of surprise.
He looked up – and why did he seem to be spending so much time looking up at the unexpected lately – to see Galahad staring at him as though he’d just declared his intention to duel Arthur for Guinevere. Or, worse, Guinevere for Arthur. ‘What’s that?’ Galahad demanded.
‘What?’ Gawain asked, confused. Surely even in his drunken state, Galahad must recognise a saddle when he saw one.
‘That bird.’ Galahad’s point wavered slightly, but was still steady enough to direct Gawain’s attention to the patch of previously unoccupied log next to where he was sitting. ‘Is it Tristan’s?’
Gawain lowered his hand and the hawk stepped gracefully onto it, nibbling at his fingers in lieu of food. ‘Who else’s?’ he stroked his knuckle gently over the hawk’s head, the way he’d seen Tristan do, and smiled. ‘I think we should forget about the horse market,’ he said, not looking up. ‘I think we should go west.’
Me: I know he wasn't interested in Guinevere but they still didn't have to kill him!
My dad: He was far more interested in Arthur.
My father, who wouldn't get subtext if it hit him in the face with a wet fish! So there, it's virtually canon now... in my house, anyway.
Title: Stumbling Homewards
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Gratefully received, even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, for which I should imagine they’re profoundly grateful.
Summary: It can take the strangest occurrences to change your life (Tristan/Gawain).
A/N: For the Anniversary Challenge at kafanfic at yahoo.
The horse markets were one of the few things about Sarmatia that had stuck with Gawain throughout the fifteen – nearly sixteen, in the end – years he’d been gone. In many ways, they were all exactly as he remembered them, from the grating harmony of a dozen different tribal dialects against his ears to the crush of people and horses, the shouted bids and derisory comments about the quality of the horses, the traders and the other bidders.
His village hadn’t been all that far from the site of one of the major markets, and he’d travelled there with his father and uncles twice a year for as long as he could remember. Everything had seemed different then – bigger, taller, more exciting and frightening in a way that it no longer did. It was, as much as he hated to even think, not just smaller but small They’d spent several weeks in Londonium with Arthur and compared to that city, everything else just seemed… small.
Despite that, it was comforting in a way that nothing else seemed to be any more. Similar enough that he’d occasionally catch himself looking round for a familiar face, before remembering that even if this was the same market he’d used to attend, which it wasn’t, that had been sixteen years ago, and everyone would have changed.
Gawain sighed, shook himself back into action, and clicked his horse forward again. Galahad had heard from other travellers about a merchant with particularly good young mares for sale, and if they wanted to have good enough horses to do more that scratch a living at their own trading, that was what they needed.
They also needed someone who could bargain without resorting to spitting Latin curses at the traders when things didn’t go his way, and so Galahad was watching their only two other horses while Gawain went in search of the elusive trader and his quality mares.
A child ran close in front of Gawain’s horse, causing it to twitch back nervously. He soothed it automatically, wishing for the horse he’d been forced to leave behind in Britain, one that would charge without flinching into battle but had refused to set foot on the ship. He wondered for a moment if it mightn’t be easier to work his way through the market on foot, but he’d spent so long on a horse that it felt more natural than walking. That, and he was never going to find the dammed trader if he had to give up his height advantage to do so.
Gawain sighed and reined his horse round to the left, down an avenue he was fairly certain he had yet to try. The trader had to be somewhere, and Gawain was determined to find him. Mainly because he really didn’t fancy a whole night of Galahad’s sulking if he returned without the horses.
There was, as he’d hoped, a small paddock up ahead, with a sizeable crowd around it. Gawain moved a little closer, trying to catch sight of the trader. There was someone sitting on the fence, facing into the paddock, watching as a brown mare trotted in a neat circle. Something about that figure held Gawain’s eye – it was familiar, the posture, head tilted slightly to one side, hunched a little forward, inquisitive: it almost looked, in that moment, like –
‘Tristan.’ The name slipped out before Gawain was even aware of thinking it, but the moment it did, he was sure. He leant forward in the saddle, careless of the people moving aside with muttered curses, intent on catching sight of the figure again and seeing his face.
The crowd shifted, obscuring his view for a moment, and Gawain slipped from his horse. He could move faster through the press of bodies on foot, for all that it felt momentarily strange to be on eye level with everyone again. He pushed forward, getting closer to the paddock, and craned his neck, trying to see through the crowd. It was Tristan. It was. It had to be.
And then there was space before him, his hand landing on the fence post, his head twisting to see…
There was no-one there.
No Tristan, no person who looked fleetingly like him, just – no-one.
Gawain slumped against the fencing, his whole body weighted with disappointment. He’d been so sure… was still so sure. That had been Tristan, sitting on the fence, every angle screaming it. Even after everything, Gawain had never hallucinated Tristan. Dreamt of him, occasionally, heard his voice, more than once, but never, ever seen him.
‘Hey.’ The grip on his arm jerked Gawain upright, one hand scrabbling automatically for his sword even as he reminded himself that this was a Sarmatian horse market and not a British battlefield. The man who’d spoken half stepped back, raising his free hand in a conciliatory gesture. His other hand held the reins of Gawain’s horse. ‘I thought – someone’ll take him if you don’t watch him.’
‘Thanks,’ Gawain said, taking the reins. Then, because the man could’ve stolen his horse without him noticing and had instead returned it to him, he added, ‘thanks a lot,’ before swinging himself into the saddle and distractedly turning his horse back into the market, his eyes sweeping the crowds for that familiar figure.
***
The afternoon was fading towards evening as Gawain turned his horse onto the road back to his and Galahad’s campsite. It was fortunate that his horse seemed to know the way, needing little beyond an occasional twitch of the reins, as Gawain was too tired, too worn by disappointment, to concentrate on where he was going, and it would not be well to end up wandering lost in the wilderness.
He couldn’t shake the picture of Tristan sitting slightly hunched on the fence. There was no question now in his mind that it had been him, even less so after hours of searching for and failing to find him. Tristan had always known how to hide.
Leaving Badon Hill – leaving Tristan – had been the hardest thing Gawain had ever done, and still a thousand times easier than the alternative. He’d never doubted the decision he would make, standing beside Galahad at that terrible, delirious, painful funeral, and the wedding that had followed. None of it had felt real, and the crowds of Woads cheering a man they’d spent fifteen years trying to kill, burying the last remnants of the Knights, had made it worse. He’d looked around, searching for something familiar and reassuring and knowing that he wouldn’t find it there any longer. Arthur was a king, looking as comfortable as if he’d always done it, and the commander they’d loved and followed for so long, even to the point of coming back, even after his little speech to Lancelot that they’d listened to and tried not to, was gone. Bors was surrounded by his family, and Galahad… Galahad had looked frighteningly at ease there. Gawain has wished for a moment for Tristan, who would have been as uncomfortable at the celebration as he was, and known he was leaving.
The only pause had, ironically, come from Galahad. Galahad, who’d wanted more than any of them to leave, had suddenly declared his intention to stay, to see Arthur become king.
It hadn’t exactly been a fight – Galahad was hard to fight with, because how did you argue with someone who went silent and refused to argue back – but it had been as bitter and painful as any fight could have been. It had ended in Gawain leaving with nothing but Arthur’s strained blessing, Bors’ gruff farewell and Galahad’s silent absence loud in his ears.
He hadn’t been all that surprised to wake up two day later and find Galahad sleeping next to him, but he’d more than made up for that in relief. The thought of leaving Britain alone had been so close to being enough to send him back.
Since then, they’d wandered aimlessly across Sarmatia, taking care only to avoid their own villages. It was unspoken, like so many things between them, that they didn’t want to go back – couldn’t yet face what they might find there.
And yet it seemed they’d end up going places they didn’t want to anyway. Many of the knights had been taken from villages near the larger horse markets, and it wouldn’t be possible to avoid them forever.
Hoping for a little longer, Gawain rounded the last curve between hillocks and trotted into their campsite, such as it was. Their two other horses nickered their greeting and Galahad rose, turning to Gawain as he dismounted.
The expression on his face flickered from welcoming to curious to suspicious like spray over waves. ‘Where are the horses?’
‘Horses?’ Gawain asked blankly. There were the horses – his brown, Galahad’s grey, which had accepted the ships much more readily than Gawain’s old horse, and the black they’d picked up for more money than they could really afford because it somehow reminded them both of Lancelot.
‘The horses – the mares you were going to buy. The reason you were all day at the horse fair while I was talking to passing rabbits,’ Galahad grumbled.
Then it made sense. The horses he’d been supposed to buy before he’d been distracted and everything else had been forgotten. And judging from Galahad’s glare, he was going to need a very good excuse. If only he had one. ‘I saw Tristan,’ he said.
‘You – what?’ Galahad’s glare froze halfway back to confusion and he stared uncomprehendingly at Gawain.
‘I saw Tristan,’ Gawain repeated, and almost instantly regretted it as Galahad’s expression crashed straight into pity.
‘Tristan? From – our Tristan?’
Gawain heard Lancelot’s voice in his head, sharp and sarcastic as always, but he ignored it. ‘Yes, our Tristan. At the market, watching the mares.’
‘Gawain…’ Galahad took a halting step closer, his twitching hands and hunched shoulders radiating discomfort. ‘Tristan’s… well… dead.’
‘I know.’ Gawain slumped abruptly to the ground, dropping his head into his hands. ‘It was him,’ he said, alarmed at the despair he heard in his own voice. ‘It was him.’
Next to him, Galahad shuffled for a long moment, then sat down. ‘How can it have been Tristan?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. You would be, if you’d seen him.’ And the more he thought about it, the more he was sure, enough to almost make himself believe Tristan had seen him as well. ‘I don’t know how he can be here, but he is.’
‘So did you speak to him?’ Every tribe, every Knight Gawain had ever spoken to, had tale of restless spirits wandering the land, and for many they’d been more than just tales. In the end, they’d been something like hope, the idea that those Knights who fell as slaves might be able to go home free.
‘No.’ Gawain paused, then added, ‘he disappeared.’
He didn’t need to look to know the change that had come over Galahad at those words. His friend had been close to being persuaded into believing him, or at least believing that there was some kind of spirit haunting the horse markets, but now…
‘Gawain...’ Now, the uncertain pity was back in his voice. ‘Look, it’s been a year, almost exactly…’
The thing they’d been dancing around, not saying but unable to ignore, for weeks now as the day crept closer. A year since Badon Hill and freedom and the last of the Knights being broken apart. An anniversary, of sorts, but not in the way they’d hoped and wished for.
‘I wasn’t seeing things,’ Gawain said firmly. ‘Whatever day it is, Tristan was there.’ And he sounded like a stubborn child. Worse, he sounded like Galahad. ‘So, did you catch the rabbits or just talk to them?’ he asked, looking up just in time to see Galahad start in surprise at the abrupt change of topic.
‘I caught two. You can try cooking them, since I don’t suppose you remembered to buy food either.’ Subject closed then, for the moment, though Galahad was clearly not happy about it, and Gawain resigned himself to an evening of mixed sulky comments and awkward, twitching silences.
Maybe it would have been better to have stayed at the market.
***
Gawain ran his hands over the leather of his saddle, then slowly down the straps and buckles, feeling for the loosening join he’d come upon earlier, tracking Galahad with his eyes. The other man had been getting progressively more jumpy as the evening had drawn on, never sitting still for more than a few minutes, hands twitching from one task to another, leaving each one unfinished, and Gawain was no longer certain that his encounter with Tristan was the sole cause of it.
He was content to wait for Tristan, had learnt to be long ago, because Tristan moved at his own speed, no matter how impatient you were. He’d already waited a year, he could be patient a little longer. No matter that phantoms and spirits were meant to appear, deliver their message and never return once they disappeared – they’d neither of them been wont to do things because they were expected.
Galahad rose again, moving towards their horses, and stumbled into a cooking pot, which clattered noisily across the campsite before rolling up against a tree.
‘What?’ Gawain demanded. His patience had always reached its limits fastest with Galahad.
The other man stilled and turned back to him, his expression almost guilty. ‘Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just – is there a reason you can’t sit still?’
Galahad shifted again, then retook his place by the fire. ‘There’s a girl’ – and why on earth that hadn’t already occurred to him was a mystery to Gawain – ‘and I said I’d meet her, tonight. She’s with one of the larger camps over the hill.’
‘Go, then.’ Gawain shrugged and returned his attention to the damnably hard to find tear. At least he’d have peace now for the rest of the evening.
After a long moment, the stillness on the other side of the fire caught him and he looked up, meeting Galahad’s gaze. ‘What?’ he asked again.
‘You could come with me. We could take the horses and –' He stopped, obviously catching Gawain’s incredulous expression. ‘For company, you don’t have to sleep with any of them.’
It had taken a lot of frustratingly circular conversations for them to get to the point where Galahad understood that, while Gawain might flirt – did flirt – with the women of the camps, that was as far as it was going to go. It had actually taken even longer for Gawain to acknowledge that Galahad threw women at him as a sign of concern and not because he’d been totally oblivious for twelve years.
‘I’m fine here. Better that fine.’ He smiled reassuringly at Galahad. ‘Go see your girl.’
‘Are you sure?’ Already half-rising, Galahad paused ‘You won’t -.’
‘Won’t what?’ Gawain asked, genuinely curious.
‘I don’t know. Start seeing things and run off and leave the horses.’ Galahad shrugged, but he was obviously serious.
Gawain couldn’t resist laughing at him, a little. He would have been even more amused if Galahad hadn’t just implied that he’d imagined Tristan and might in fact be going slightly crazy. ‘I promise I won’t leave the horses. Go, before she finds someone she likes better.’
‘Surely you jest.’ Galahad flashed his cockiest grin and swung himself into the saddle. ‘You really won’t come?’
Gawain rolled his eyes and flapped his hand in vague farewell. Galahad turned his horse and rode rapidly away.
Left in peace, Gawain finally tracked down the tear and started sewing. It was a job he’d always hated – getting the needle through the leather was difficult, verging on impossible, the needles almost always broke and anyway, the saddle would ever be as good as it had been. But the little money they had would have to go for horses, and essentials like food, and he couldn’t ride with a broken saddle.
The horses shifted on their tethers and Gawain glanced up. Nothing else was moving. It seemed he’d never lose the sense that there must be Woads just outside the firelight or just over the hill.
Back to his sewing, thrusting the needle through the toughest part of the leather. The saddle had been his for a long time, it was no wonder it was getting a bit worn. Not that that made having to fix it any more tolerable.
Something flickered on the edge of Gawain’s vision and he looked up again. Still nothing, and really, what would be sneaking around in the early evening in such an isolated spot?
He pulled the stitches tighter. Not too much further to go and he probably had just enough thread to tie a decent knot at the end, one that wouldn’t come unravelled at the most inopportune moment.
Gawain’s head went up again. He’d felt more than seen something, but prickling feelings up his spine were never good. His hand crept towards his sword but he pulled it back resolutely. ‘There’s no-one there,’ he told himself firmly. It was Galahad’s fault for chattering about malicious spirits and making him imagine things that didn’t exist.
He stuck his needle back into the saddle and it snapped. Gawain stared at it for a moment in disgust. Two stitches to go – two! He pulled the end of the thread through carefully, using what was left of the broken needle and looked around, searching for where he’d left his pack with extra needles.
Tristan was standing by their black horse, stroking the animal’s nose and watching Gawain.
Gawain froze, his mind emptying itself of thoughts frighteningly fast, his eyes meeting Tristan’s. He’d never wanted to be Lancelot, but in that moment he wished for the other man’s ease with words.
The silence dragged on, neither of them moving. Tristan looked exactly as he had always done, same dirty brown, tangled hair, same scars on his cheeks, same worn clothes and angular posture.
Gawain’s vision blurred for a moment, his eyes filling with tears that he told himself were from staring too long without blinking.
Which was so patently ridiculous that he said, ‘where have you been?’
It wasn’t the question he’d wanted to ask, or should have asked - it wasn’t even overly friendly or polite but… but it was Tristan, to speak to, after a year.
Tristan looked down for a moment, then back up. ‘I followed you,’ he said simply. ‘From Britain, across Sarmatia… this horse could be Lancelot.’
‘I know. Why are you – why today?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tristan shook his head. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Neither did I.’ Gawain half rose, then sank down again. ‘Sit down?’
Tristan hesitated for a moment. It struck Gawain that he’d never see Tristan hesitate before, over anything, and maybe he was as nervous and unsure as Gawain.
Tristan was sitting next to him, both of them staring at the fire, and yet Gawain hadn’t seen him move.
He considered for a long moment, then asked, ‘what happens now?’
Tristan turned to him, uncertainty sharp in his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think this is permanent.’
Gawain remembered the way he’d felt, seeing Tristan’s body on the battle field at Badon Hill – like falling from a great height into ice cold water – but this was worse. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tristan’s gaze flickered back to the horse. ‘Maybe he’s more Lancelot than you think.’
‘Tristan…’ Trailing into helplessness, his throat too tight for more.
‘Yeah.’ Bleak as a winter dawn.
Silence fell again, heavy with despair, and things that neither of them knew how to put into words. The fire crackled against the gathering darkness, and the horses shifted. Tristan turned a stick over and over in his hands, the sort of nervous movement that made Gawain’s thoughts slide to Galahad.
He shook himself firmly. This was Tristan – they’d never struggled for words and this was not the time to start. He just couldn’t find the right way to ask – could barely understand it himself.
‘I haven’t seen any of the others,’ Tristan said suddenly, without looking up. ‘I don’t know what happened to them.’
‘So… why you?’ Gawain asked.
‘I wanted to – I should have…’ Tristan turned pleading eyes to Gawain. ‘I missed you,’ he said quietly.
Gawain’s heart lurched and tightened painfully. ‘You didn’t have to leave,’ he said, the words coming out harsh with pain.
‘What would I have done?’ Tristan asked. ‘You were going to find a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed. Or would you have had me follow you and Galahad across Sarmatia?’
Gawain forbore from mentioning that that was exactly what Tristan had just said he’d done. ‘We wouldn’t have separated. We agreed – you, me, Galahad and –‘
‘And Lancelot,’ Tristan finished. ‘He would never have left Arthur. We all knew that.’
‘So you let that Saxon kill you – because of Lancelot?’ Gawain asked, stunned. He’d heard some odd things before, but never anything that odd.
Tristan shook his head. ‘Because of you. This is better.’ He dropped the stick and stood up, Gawain scrambling to his feet after him.
‘You can’t go – not yet. You haven’t – you didn’t –‘ explain, he wanted to say. Tell me why you sacrificed everything for –
‘Arthur still needs you,’ Tristan said. ‘There’s no-one left, now.’
‘He has Guinevere,’ Gawain pointed out, unable to quite keep the dislike from his voice. He’d never liked the Woads' princess, even before she’d led them all to what had seemed like certain death. Lancelot had been his friend, and she’d stolen his chance at freedom and ruined what had been left.
‘You would equate her with all of Arthur’s Knights?’ Tristan asked, his words faintly coloured with amusement. He took a step away, but Gawain’s hand on his wrist stopped him.
‘Don’t…’ and Gawain pulled Tristan to him, kissing him fiercely, his eyes sliding closed as Tristan’s hand twisted in his hair and Tristan’s mouth pressed against his.
Tried to lose himself in the kiss, in the feel of that familiar body against his, and not notice as gradually it wasn’t, until he opened his eyes to emptiness and dark.
***
Gawain heard Galahad coming long before he saw him – drunkenness did much for the volume of his singing, though woefully little for its tunefulness – but didn’t move. The fire had long since died to embers, despite years of practice at keeping fires burning all night, yet he didn’t feel cold.
Tristan was gone, of that he was sure, and there would be no more meetings. If he wanted answers, he would have to trust to Arthur’s heaven, and hope that both he and Tristan would be allowed in.
Somehow, for all that Arthur said his god was a forgiving one, it didn’t seem all that likely.
Gawain found it hard to believe that Tristan had wanted only to tell them they should return to Britain, the place he’d fled in grief and pain. And yet, why else? Tristan had never been one for emotional farewells or explanations, however deserved they might seem. But he’d stayed, for a year, followed them despite knowing that they might never notice him, appeared a year after his death – there had to be something, some significance…
He remembered Dagonet once telling an overly, irritatingly, inquisitive Lancelot, ‘sometimes you have to accept that you can’t know everything.’ It hadn’t shut Lancelot up, but Tristan had come and gone, and maybe this was one of those times when Gawain could never know why.
Galahad, fortunately, seemed to have realised that his singing might not be entirely welcome, as he rode into their campsite without musical accompaniment. Gawain heard the thud of his boots hitting the ground, then a sharp inhalation of surprise.
He looked up – and why did he seem to be spending so much time looking up at the unexpected lately – to see Galahad staring at him as though he’d just declared his intention to duel Arthur for Guinevere. Or, worse, Guinevere for Arthur. ‘What’s that?’ Galahad demanded.
‘What?’ Gawain asked, confused. Surely even in his drunken state, Galahad must recognise a saddle when he saw one.
‘That bird.’ Galahad’s point wavered slightly, but was still steady enough to direct Gawain’s attention to the patch of previously unoccupied log next to where he was sitting. ‘Is it Tristan’s?’
Gawain lowered his hand and the hawk stepped gracefully onto it, nibbling at his fingers in lieu of food. ‘Who else’s?’ he stroked his knuckle gently over the hawk’s head, the way he’d seen Tristan do, and smiled. ‘I think we should forget about the horse market,’ he said, not looking up. ‘I think we should go west.’
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Tissues please!
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